Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
She nods, more tears. Some hiccuping sobs. They ride down her cheeks, soaking into my hands that are still holding her face.
I shift my grip to her shoulders and turn her slowly toward me. Both hands cupping her jaw now. My thumbs brush away the tears still streaming down her cheeks.
The platform isn't designed for two people standing this close. We're sixty feet up and I'm repositioning her weight while she's crying and vulnerable and not thinking clearly about where her feet are.
If she panics, if she jerks away from me, if I miscalculate the angle—we both go over.
The net will catch us. Probably. If we don't get tangled in vines first or slam into a branch hard enough to crack ribs.
I do it anyway.
I need her looking at me when I fix this.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Her lips are trembling.
Beautiful.
I lean down and kiss her.
Soft. Controlled. Nothing like the rough claiming I've been doing to her body for the past hour.
Just my mouth on hers. Gentle pressure. My lips moving against hers with deliberate tenderness.
She makes this shocked little sound against my lips. Like she can't process that I'm capable of kissing her like this after everything else.
Her lips are warm. Soft. They taste like salt.
I like it.
Not as much as having my fingers buried in her pussy while she begs. Not as much as watching it clench around nothing while she's denied release.
But I like it more than I expected to.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are still wet but they're focused on me now instead of spiraling inward with fear.
Good.
"You're my good little slut," I tell her. Quiet. Steady. "And you're going to walk across that plank because I'm asking you to."
She shakes her head, crying harder now.
"Scarletta," I say, my voice softer than I ever thought it could be. "Come on. You're not gonna let six feet stop this day, are you? You're not gonna let six fucking feet keep you from experiencing my amazing cock again, are you?"
She snickers. Looks up. Meets my eyes.
I brush my thumbs across her cheekbones, wiping away the fresh tears that keep falling. Her eyes are locked on mine now, searching for something she doesn't know how to name.
"You've written this scene five times," I tell her. The words come out quieter than I intended. "At least."
Her brow furrows. Confusion cutting through the fear.
I should stop talking. Should turn her around and make her walk the plank and get this station over with. But my mouth keeps moving anyway.
"In Breaking Point, Natasha had to cross a ravine on a fallen log while her kidnapper watched from the opposite side. You wrote: 'I picture the fall. Picture my body broken on the rocks below, but his voice keeps pulling me forward—not commanding, just certain I would not fail him. Certain that I could do it.'"
Scarletta's eyes widen. Her lips part.
I'm not finished.
"In The Ledge, Kira had to climb up a fire escape to prove she trusted Leo. You wrote: 'Fear is trying to convince me I'm going to die, but his hands on my hips tell a different story—one where I'm already safe.'"
Her breathing has changed. Shallower now. Not from panic anymore.
"In Running from the Rangers, Simone jumped off a bridge holding hands with Justin because he told her the river would save them. You wrote: 'The terror is real, but so is the certainty in his eyes. He'd never let me break.'"
I watch her face as recognition floods through her. She knows these stories. Obviously. She wrote every word.
But hearing me recite them back to her—exact sentences she typed months or years ago in the safety of her apartment—that's different.
That's proof I've consumed every single thing she's ever created.
"In Trust Fall, Elena had to stand on the edge of a rooftop while blindfolded and wait for him to tell her when to step back. You wrote: 'I can'tsee the drop, but I can feel it pulling at me like gravity has intentions. His voice is the only thing tethering me to solid ground.'"
My thumbs are still moving across her cheeks. Wiping away tears that have slowed to a trickle now.
Her mouth opens like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
"And in Depths of Despair, Claire had to walk a makeshift bridge between two buildings to escape her captors while her master encouraged from below. You wrote: 'Every step feels like dying, but I take them anyway because losing him is worse than losing my own life.'"
I stop talking.
The silence between us feels heavier than it should. Like I've revealed something I didn't plan to give her.
Scarletta stares at me. Her eyes are still wet but they're not crying anymore. Just wide and stunned and searching my face for an explanation I'm not sure how to provide.