Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
"Keep reciting, Scarletta."
But before I can continue, before I can form another word, I feel it—smooth plastic pressing against my opening, teasing for just a heartbeat before it slides inside me. Not just the pen, though. His finger too. One thick digit alongside the hard barrel of the pen, stretching me, filling me in a way that's so utterly wrong it short-circuits my brain.
The dual penetration makes me gasp—the clinical smoothness of the plastic contrasted with the warm, slightly rough texture of his skin. Two distinctly different sensations occupying the same intimate space.
My eyes slam shut on instinct, my body trying to retreat somewhere inside itself where this isn't happening, where I'm not being penetrated with office supplies while reciting my own filthy fantasies.
But that's cowardice. That's hiding.
I force my eyes back open. Force myself to see the scene in the mirror—my legs spread, his hand between my thighs, his expression of cool clinical interest as he watches my face for every micro-expression of response.
"Scarletta?" His voice is patient but firm. Waiting. The pen and his finger remain perfectly still inside me, a constant presence I can't ignore or forget. "You stopped. Keep reciting."
"Then he pushes the pen up—" The words come out as a strangled squeak because he's moving now, not just moving but fingering me. Not the gentle exploration I'd expected but actual fucking—his finger and the pen working in tandem, pumping in and out of me with purpose and intensity. Hard. Rough. The kind of rhythm that makes my thighs shake and my breath catch in my throat.
Then… something happens here. Something I wasn't prepared for. Something my body does entirely without my permission.
I'm coming.
Not the gentle build I'm used to when I touch myself alone in my apartment. Not the slow climb toward release that I can control, can edge away from, can decide when to tip over into.
This is hard. Harder than anything I've ever experienced before in my entire life. A detonation that starts where his finger and that goddamn pen are working inside me and radiates outward in concentric waves of sensation so intense my vision actually whites out at the edges.
I can't see. Can't hear anything except the roaring in my ears and the sounds coming out of my own mouth—high, desperate noises I don't recognize, whimpers, and gasps, and something that might be Master or might just be incoherent begging.
Can't function.
My hips are jerking against his hand, chasing more of that unbearable pleasure even as it threatens to shatter me into pieces. My fingers have lost their grip on my thighs entirely, hands scrabbling uselessly at the leather padding beneath me. Everything in my body has narrowed to a single point of overwhelming sensation.
I'm dimly aware that I'm making a spectacle of myself. Coming undone in front of him, on his hand, penetrated by office supplies while mirrors show my degradation from every angle.
But I can't stop it.
Can't control it.
Can't do anything but feel.
Chapter 14
Caleb
The sight of Scarletta losing control is so utterly mesmerizing, so viscerally captivating, that I can't tear my eyes away from her for even a fraction of a second. She's writhing beneath my touch, her body twisting and arching against the bed, those gorgeous legs of hers trembling and shaking from the force of her orgasm.
The muscles in her thighs are quivering, taut and flexed, and I can feel the aftershocks rippling through her core where my finger and the pen are still buried deep inside her slick heat.
Her knees slam together with desperate force, thighs clenching tight as her feet slip free from the stirrups entirely, heels sliding against the leather padding of the table. I don't stop fingering her—I absolutely refuse to stop, not now, not when she's this far gone.
I continue the relentless rhythm inside her, curling and stroking against that perfect spot that makes her entire body shake, even as her legs try instinctively to close against the overwhelming sensation.
My mind is working on two levels simultaneously—one part completely absorbed in the exquisite sight before me, the other part already analyzing, calculating, mentally reconfiguring this entire scene for next time.
I'm mentally kicking myself for not restraining her properly. Next time I'll use cuffs on her wrists and ankles, locked tight so she can't escape what I'm giving her. A spreader bar between her knees to keep those gorgeous thighs forced wide open, to maintain her in that vulnerable position no matter how intense it gets, no matter how desperately she wants to close her legs against the onslaught.
But then again... perhaps this wild, unrestrained display is even better precisely because of her freedom, because of her ability to move and writhe and lose control completely.
I keep going, keep pumping inside her with deliberate, measured strokes. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of the playroom, mixing with her ragged breathing and broken whimpers. She crests—I know she crests, I can recognize the exact moment when it happens, the way her entire body goes rigid and then suddenly relaxes, that telltale loosening of tension that signals the peak has passed.