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)
She struggles in my grip, trying to push herself up and out of my lap, her body suddenly rigid with adrenaline-fueled panic. But I hold her absolutely still, my arm like iron across her waist, my hand firm and unyielding in her hair. My voice drops lower, darker, brooking no disobedience. "Do not move."
She freezes—not from obedience, but from shock. Her breathing comes harder now, shallow and quick, her pupils dilating as fear crashes into the post-orgasmic haze still softening her edges. "What does that mean?" she demands, her voice rising, cracking slightly. "The time before—have you been… spying on me?"
"Of course I have." The confession rolls off my tongue smooth and easy, like discussing the weather. "I put cameras in your apartment six months ago."
I watch the words hit her. Watch them process. Watch her face shift from confusion to horror to something sharper, more dangerous.
"I've read all your stories, ScarletSins." I let the username sit between us, deliberate and heavy. "I've watched you write them too. Fingering yourself during that scene in 'Bend Me Over'—you know the one, where Marcus bends Isla over the desk and fucks her while she's trying to finish her essay. You got so wet writing that scene you had to stop three times to make yourself come."
Her mouth opens, but no sound emerges. She's gone pale beneath the flush of exertion, her eyes wide and glassy.
I keep going, my voice dropping lower, more intimate. "The way you humped your pillow every day for a week when you wrote 'Two at a Time.' Every single day, Scarletta. Sometimes twice. You'd finish a chapter, post it, then read the comments while grinding against that sad little pillow like it could give you what you actually needed."
"Stop," she whispers, the word barely audible.
"Do you crave two at a time, Scarletta?" I tilt my head, considering her with clinical interest even as my cock throbs against the wet fabric of my boxers. "Two cocks filling you up, stretching you, using you? Is that what gets you off when you write those scenes? Imagining being so thoroughly fucked that you can't even think straight?"
She's shaking now—not from pleasure anymore, but from rage mixed with terror. Her hands push against my chest, weak and ineffectual. "Let me go."
"I'm afraid sharing is out of the question," I continue, ignoring her pathetic attempts to escape my grip. "But I'd be more than happy to stuff your ass with my cock while fucking your pussy with a dildo. Would that satisfy the fantasy? Would that be enough to scratch that particular itch you've been writing about for years?"
Something snaps in her.
She wrenches herself sideways with sudden, desperate strength—the kind that only comes from pure adrenaline and survival instinct. Her small body twists in my grip, slippery with sweat and her own release, and she manages to slip free. She hits the floor hard, stumbling, her legs still weak and unsteady from the orgasms I just wrung out of her.
But she doesn't fall.
She runs.
Laughter erupts from my chest before I can stop it—deep and genuine and utterly delighted. The sound fills the playroom, bouncing off the concrete walls and padded panels, echoing back at us in a way that probably sounds absolutely fucking unhinged.
I don't care.
This is perfect. This is exactly what I wanted without even knowing I wanted it.
"That's it!" I call after her, my voice ringing with dark amusement. "Run, little slut! Run!"
She pivots, her eyes wild and desperate, scanning the playroom for an exit. Her gaze lands on the sliding glass door at the far end first—the one that leads to the small outdoor patio area, currently buried under two feet of Wyoming snow.
She sprints toward it.
I don't chase her yet. I just stand there, watching, my chest heaving with laughter and exertion and something darker, more primal. My cock is rock-hard now, straining against my soaked slacks, and the sight of her naked body running from me—thighs still glistening with her own come, ass bouncing with each frantic step—is the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed.
She reaches the sliding door and grabs the handle, yanking hard.
It doesn't move.
She yanks again, harder this time, her whole body throwing itself into the effort. The door remains firmly locked, the mechanism controlled by a keypad she doesn't have the code for.
"No, no, no," she gasps, her voice rising in pitch. She pounds on the glass with her fists, as if that might somehow make it open. As if the freezing wilderness on the other side would be preferable to staying in here with me.
I start walking toward her. Not running. Not rushing. Just moving with slow, measured steps that eat up the distance between us with predatory inevitability.
She hears me coming.
Her head whips around, and when she sees me approaching—sees the deliberate, unhurried pace of my advance—pure terror floods her features. She abandons the door and darts sideways, running along the wall, putting the bondage table between us.