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)
The material gives way with surprising ease, splitting from waistband to crotch in one violent motion that sends a shock of adrenaline straight through my system.
Cool air hits my exposed skin as the ruined fabric falls away on either side, leaving me bare and exposed, except for the thin strip of my underwear—which is so soaked through it's practically transparent anyway.
He doesn't bother with those either. Just hooks two fingers under the elastic at my hip and tears, the delicate lace giving way like tissue paper. Then the other side. The ruined underwear joins my destroyed leggings, nothing but scraps of fabric pooling uselessly around my hips.
I should protest. Should say something about how those leggings cost seventy dollars and I just bought them last week. Should care that he's destroying my clothes with the same casual brutality he used on my carefully constructed walls.
But I don't.
I can't.
Oh god.
My pussy is completely visible now—swollen, glistening, still dripping from the orgasm I had standing up barely two minutes ago. The humiliation of being on display like this should make me want to close my legs, cover myself, hide.
Instead, I'm so wet I can feel it leaking down between my cheeks, pooling on the table beneath me.
Ryan notices. Of course he notices.
"Jesus Christ, Scarletta." His voice comes out strangled, reverent, like he's discovered something holy and profane at the same time. "Look at you."
I can't look. I refuse to look. If I turn my head toward the massive mirror positioned deliberately to capture every angle, I'll see exactly what he sees—my body spread obscenely wide, my pussy exposed and desperate, my face flushed with shame and arousal I can't separate anymore.
Don't look. Don't you fucking dare look.
But I do.
I turn my head.
And there I am—platinum blonde hair tangled from his grip, sports bra still covering my breasts, legs locked wide in stirrups, hidden behind tattered leggings. But what's between them, open, bare, and dripping.
I look like a pornographic medical diagram. Like one of my own characters. Like every shameful fantasy I've ever written and immediately deleted before anyone could see.
This is who you are.
The thought hits me with the same brutal clarity as the orgasm did.
Not the woman who pretends to be normal. Not the writer who hides behind anonymous usernames. Not the girl who ghosts men before the third date because letting them get close means they might discover what she really wants.
This.
This is who I am.
Ryan's hands go to his waistband, shoving his joggers down just enough to free his cock—thick and hard and exactly as intimidating as I suspected when I was obsessing over the constant bulge he walked around with.
He doesn't bother undressing completely. Doesn't waste time with foreplay, or preparation, or asking if I'm ready.
He just positions himself between my spread legs, one hand wrapped around his cock, pumping slowly while his eyes stay locked on my exposed pussy with a hunger so raw it makes my breath catch.
He's massive.
Thick, and long, and not even fully hard yet—still swelling in his fist as he stares at me like I'm the first meal he's seen after weeks of starvation.
The head is flushed dark, precum already beading at the tip, and watching him stroke himself while studying every glistening fold between my legs, sends another vicious pulse of arousal straight through my core.
Oh god. Oh fuck.
I should be scared. Should be calculating whether something that size will even fit inside me after seven months of nothing. Should be doing the responsible thing and asking about condoms or at least slowing this down enough to think.
But I don't.
I can't.
Because I'm dying for this—dying to feel something real, and brutal, and overwhelming enough to drown out every careful, controlled moment I've endured since leaving Story Island.
Ryan's other hand comes down to my hip, gripping hard enough that I know there'll be finger-shaped bruises tomorrow. He angles himself, positioning the thick head of his cock at my entrance—not gently testing, not easing in slowly—just lining himself up like he's preparing to claim what he's already decided belongs to him.
Then he jams into me.
No warning. No gradual stretch. Just one brutal thrust that splits me open around his thickness and makes me cry out—a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the walls of this hidden room.
Pain.
It hits me first—searing, and immediate, and so intense my entire body locks up around the intrusion. He's too big. Too thick. My body hasn't been used like this in months and it's fighting the invasion even as my pussy floods with more wetness, trying desperately to accommodate him.
But underneath the pain—woven through it like a thread of gold in dark fabric—is something else.
Delicious.
The word surfaces in my mind unbidden, shocking in its accuracy.
This hurts. This is exactly what I need. This is everything I've been craving without knowing how to ask for it.