Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
He'd hike up that black sundress, discover she's wearing nothing underneath and he'd finger her, right there in public.
She'd moan his name. Beg him to fuck her.
Please, Ryan. I need you. I need your cock inside me.
He'd turn her around, bend her over the hood of his truck, and slide into her dripping wet pussy in one brutal thrust.
She'd gasp, arch her back, push her ass against him for more.
Harder. Please. Fuck me harder.
And Ryan would oblige, wouldn't he? Big strong gym owner, all that testosterone and athletic stamina. He'd pound into her like she was his personal fuck toy, one hand fisted in her new platinum hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
She'd come screaming his name.
Then he'd pull out, flip her around, make her kneel, and shove his cock down her throat until she choked on it, tears streaming down her face, mascara running—
I stop pacing.
My cock is rock hard.
I'm standing in the middle of my office, imagining another man fucking the woman I'm obsessed with, and I'm aroused.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to breathe through the arousal, to think rationally about what's happening to me.
Nothing. There's nothing wrong with me. I've done this before—stood in the control room and watched the attendants work her body with their skilled, indifferent hands, watched her writhe and beg and come apart for them while I stroked myself through my pants.
I've reviewed those recordings a dozen times since, jerked off to the memory of her spread out like an offering, three sets of hands mapping every inch of her skin while she trembled and moaned. I've replayed the moment she shattered, the way she screamed and arched off that table, and I've come so hard I saw stars.
This is just another iteration of the same theme. Just a voyeuristic fantasy. Nothing more than that. Completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
Probably not… it's almost certainly a sickness. Some deep-rooted perversion I inherited from my father, coded into my DNA like a genetic curse I can't escape.
I'm aroused by sick things. Depraved scenarios that would make most men recoil in disgust. The darker the fantasy, the harder I get—that's always been my burden, my shame, the proof that my mother was right when she looked at me with those hollow eyes and said you're just like him before stepping off that balcony.
That's why Scarletta hates me now. Why she ran. Why she rebuilt herself into someone who dates yoga instructors and gym owners, men with uncomplicated desires and healthy relationships with sex.
She's not scared of me. I don't think that's it. Fear would be simpler—I could work with fear, negotiate around it, prove myself safe despite the darkness. But what I saw in her eyes during those final moments on the island wasn't terror.
It was revulsion.
I just… repulse her. The real me, the one she glimpsed when I showed her what I'm truly capable of, what I truly want—she finds me disgusting. And maybe she's right. Maybe that's the only sane response to a man like me.
She wants men like this Ryan now—gym owners with uncomplicated desires and straightforward lives.
Men who fuck in bright bedrooms with the lights on, who think "adventurous" means trying a new position or maybe some light hair-pulling.
Men whose darkness extends to watching rough porn occasionally, not to the intricate psychological labyrinths I construct in my mind.
Men who have big cocks and know how to use them competently, satisfactorily, without needing the complex power dynamics that fuel my every sexual thought.
Men whose kink tolerance peaks at fuzzy handcuffs from a novelty shop, not canes meant to scar.
Normal men. Healthy men. Men who don't carry their father's violence in their blood like a hereditary disease.
I'm not normal and I'm not going to apologize for it.
Not to Scarletta, not to the world, not even to the conscience that occasionally surfaces in the small hours before dawn.
The world needs men like me. Men who operate in the shadows where polite society refuses to look. Men who understand that true evil—the kind that traffics children, that destroys innocence for profit, that hides behind philanthropy and political connections—that kind of evil doesn't respond to strongly worded condemnations or legal proceedings that take years while more victims accumulate.
Men who are willing to become monsters to hunt monsters are necessary.
Men who keep the truly evil, the truly horrific predators like Volk in check when the systems designed to stop them fail over, and over, and over again, essential.
I'm practically a fucking superhero, if you think about it objectively. Dexter with better taste and a higher body count of people who actually deserved it.
What the world doesn't need… is another fucking gym owner.
I could make it look like an accident.
Gyms are dangerous places. Heavy equipment, faulty cables, catastrophic mechanical failures that crush windpipes or snap spines.