Scarlett #4
“Too many clothes, Scar,” he murmurs, his voice low and cruel. “But I’m not taking them off for you. If you want me this badly, you’ll give me a show.”
Heat floods my face. “No.” It’s weak, a lie we both hear break in my throat.
He leans back in the chair, spreading his thighs, his eyes molten as they rake down my body. “Then I’ll just keep touching you through every damn layer until you’re screaming for me to tear them off. Your choice.”
His hand snakes back between my thighs, pressing hard over the damp spot in my panties, his thumb circling lazily. I jolt forward, my hands trembling, shame cracking me open.
“Please…” I whisper.
“Please what?” His tone sharpens. “Please take them off? Please watch me while you strip? Please make me lose my fucking mind while you dance on my cock, Scar?”
My hands move before my mouth answers. Tugging the hem of my shirt up, I peel it off slow, trembling, my stomach tightening with humiliation. His gaze devours me, hungry, greedy, cruelly entertained.
“That’s it,” he says, voice dark silk. “Arms up, baby. Let me see every inch.”
I obey, shame dripping off me like sweat, until the shirt falls and I’m bare-chested, my nipples hard under his stare. His fingers keep teasing my clit through soaked lace, slow, unhurried.
“Now climb up,” he orders, leaning back even further. “Show me how you grind. Make me believe you want it more than air.”
My knees shake as I swing a leg over him, straddling his lap. His cock is hard against me even through denim, and my body betrays me with a sobbing moan as I press down.
“Good girl,” he growls, his lips brushing my ear. “Now dance for me. One piece at a time.”
His voice is a razor at my throat. “Take your time. Make me watch.”
My hands shake as I peel my top over my head, the straps catching on my elbows. I feel his stare crawling over every inch of skin I reveal, but he doesn’t touch — just sits back, wide-legged in the chair like a king waiting to be worshipped.
“Slower,” he orders when I fumble with the clasp of my bra. His tone forces me to drag it out, fingers trembling until the straps slip and the lace falls, leaving me bare under his gaze. My nipples tighten in the chill, but it’s not the cold that makes me shiver — it’s him.
I climb onto his thighs, straddling him, my knees sinking into the chair cushion. His hands stay on the armrests, fists clenched white. He won’t touch me, not yet. He wants me to break myself.
“Move.”
I grind down tentatively, the rough denim of his jeans catching my panties, sparking heat against me. His head tips back with a groan that makes me clench, but when I try to stop, he snaps his gaze to mine.
“Don’t you dare stop, Scar. Dance for me. Show me what you’d do if the entire world wasn’t watching.”
Tears sting my lashes, humiliation burning my chest, but I obey. My hips circle, slow and filthy, dragging myself over the thick ridge beneath his zipper. Every pass makes me wetter, shame slicking my thighs, and he feels it. I know he does because his jaw tightens like it’s breaking.
“That’s it. Use me. Make yourself cum on my lap like the dirty little fantasy you told me about.”
I sob into his shoulder, still grinding, my hair sticking to my wet cheeks. His breath ghosts hot against my ear.
“Touch yourself while you do it.”
I hesitate, mortified, but his hand snaps out, gripping my wrist, guiding it down until my fingers slide over my own soaking pussy through lace. The contact nearly undoes me. He doesn’t let go — he makes me touch myself harder while his cock throbs beneath me, trapped in denim.
The humiliation is unbearable. The pleasure is worse. My thighs shake, my breath breaking into sobs, and he whispers against my mouth, sweet and cruel:
“Cry for me. Break for me. Make a mess all over me, Scar. I want every filthy inch of this dance burned into your shame.”
His knees are steel beneath me, unyielding, spreading me wider as if he’s already claimed the shape of me.
My thighs tremble, not from weakness but from the way his eyes pin me—lazy, hungry, cruel.
The music in my head is only the pounding of my own pulse, each beat louder as I roll my hips slowly, grinding down on him like it costs me something.
Kai doesn’t move. He sits back, shoulders loose, mouth curled in the kind of smirk that knows he owns me just by waiting me out. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, fingers tapping out a rhythm that dares me to keep going, to humiliate myself further.
“Slower, Scar,” he drawls, the words warm and poisonous all at once. “Make me feel every inch of how desperate you are.”
My skin burns as I slide my hands up my own body, tugging at the straps of my top, peeling it down in a shaky show that makes my breath stutter. The cold air kisses my chest, but his stare sears hotter, heavier, and I swear I can’t breathe without his permission.
When I rock forward, brushing against him, the friction makes me bite my lip until it stings. His thighs tense under me, but still he doesn’t touch. He won’t. That’s the game. I’m the one moving, undressing, dragging myself over him like an offering while he watches, wickedly patient.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark silk. “My good little sister, putting on a show no one else will ever see. Filthy girl. Keep moving.”
Shame makes my eyes sting, but I obey—because the way his jaw ticks, the way his breathing sharpens when my hips roll just right, that’s the reward. That’s the leash and the choke chain all at once.
The chair creaks under me as I grind slower, harder, dragging myself over the thick ridge of him through his jeans. Every movement feels obscene in the quiet, a low friction moan catching in my throat no matter how hard I try to swallow it back.
Kai leans forward just enough for his breath to brush my cheek, not touching, not even close enough to ease the ache burning me up from the inside. His smile is razor sharp.
“Don’t look away,” he whispers, and I force my eyes back to his, heat searing straight through me as I move.
My hands shake as I slide them higher, tugging my top all the way off, leaving me bare beneath his stare. I hate the way my nipples harden under his gaze, hate the way my body betrays me, but it only makes his smirk deepen.
“Slower,” he says again, softer now, crueller. His voice drips over me like honey laced with venom. “Make me feel it, Scar. Make me see it.”
So I drag my hips in a slow circle, then another, pressing myself down as if I can brand him through his clothes, shame prickling every inch of my skin. My breath turns ragged, thighs burning, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.
“You hear that?” he murmurs, tilting his head, listening to the wet sound of me grinding on him. “That’s you, Scar. That’s what you sound like when you beg without words.”
Tears sting my lashes as I keep moving, because he’s right—I am begging. Every roll of my hips, every tremor in my hands, every shaky gasp is a plea I can’t take back.
And still he won’t touch me. Still, he just sits there, smirking, letting me destroy myself in his lap.
I try to pull away just enough to breathe, but his hand is already at the small of my back, not pressing me down—just resting there like a brand. It’s the threat in the weight of it, the way he doesn’t even need to hold me for my body to obey.
I rock harder. Slow. Obscene. The denim of his jeans is damp with me now, friction biting and feeding the fire between my thighs. My chest heaves as I arch and slide, and the shame coils tighter in my gut until it’s almost dizzying.
“Take it off.” His voice is velvet over steel.
My hands hesitate at the clasp of my bra.
He cocks a brow, smirk cruel and patient.
I undo it, straps sliding down my arms, nipples aching in the cool air.
His gaze lingers there long enough to make my stomach flip, but he doesn’t touch, doesn’t lean in.
Just watches like he’s the king of something dark and I’m performing for him.
“That’s it. Keep going, Scar.” His words are low, hungry, but still cruel. “Rub yourself all over me. Pretend it’s enough.”
It isn’t. It will never be enough. My thighs quiver as I drag myself down harder, spreading slick across rough denim. The sound of it makes me want to vanish into the floor.
“Look at you,” he whispers, leaning so close his mouth almost brushes my ear. “Grinding yourself raw on me like a little whore. And I haven’t even touched you.”
The tears come hot, sliding down my face as I move faster, humiliation and need crashing together until I can’t tell where one ends, and the other begins.
“Say it,” he breathes. “Say you like it.”
My voice cracks on the confession, shame spilling with it. “I like it.”
“Louder.”
“I—” My hips buck helplessly. “I like it.”
His laugh is low, dark, satisfied. He leans back, spreads his legs wider beneath me, letting me ride him deeper. My whole body trembles as I obey, every drag hotter, filthier, wetter.
And still he doesn’t touch. Still, he keeps me there, writhing and crying on his lap, until I feel like I’ll split apart from the ache.
One second I’m grinding myself raw on the hard ridge of him, tears slipping down my cheeks because I can’t stop humiliating myself like this—because he told me to—because I want him to see me break.
The next his hands are on me.
Kai snaps like a storm, fingers bruising my hips as he yanks me down hard, shoving me against him so rough the chair slams back against the wall. My gasp cracks into a sob, my body jerking at the violent shock of finally being touched after all his cruel waiting.
“Enough,” he growls against my ear, voice ragged, dangerous, like he’s as wrecked as I am. “You think you can tease me? Make me sit here and watch you lose your mind while I do nothing? Not a chance, Scar. You don’t get to play with me—I play with you.”
His mouth finds my throat, biting, sucking, branding me with every filthy promise he’s ever whispered. His hips surge up hard into me, grinding so deep my cry tears itself free, half pain, half desperate pleasure.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, shoving me down again, grinding me until I feel split in two. “Say it. Say you’re mine or I’ll ruin you right here, right now, until you can’t even crawl away from me.”
I choke on the words, on the tears, on the heat that won’t let me breathe. My nails dig into his shoulders, my body arching even as shame floods me.
And all I can think is—this is what I wanted. This is what I feared.