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)
His mouth falls open.
"I'm not interested in being circulated on some porn site for the general public."
He laughs. It's small, but genuine. "You little fucking fiend. You've done this before."
I shrug. Feeling pretty bold. "Not this specifically, but… yeah. I get paid sometimes. And let me tell you, ten grand is an insult. Also—" I put up a hand before he can counter again, "I don't need the money."
Again, he's stunned. "You… you don't need the money. What are you saying, Scarletta? You'll do this for free?"
"Depends on what 'this' is."
Ryan steps closer, taking my face in his hands, tilting my head up and forcing me to look him in the eye. "I like to dominate. Do you like to submit?"
I'm dying to submit. But I don't say that, obviously. We're negotiating limits. "Only to professionals."
He laughs again. Absolutely delighted. "Well, I've heard that before. How can I be sure that you understand what will happen?" He moves one hand down my jaw, and begins playing with my lip. "How do I know you won't chicken out?"
He pushes a finger inside my mouth. Placing it firmly on my tongue.
I let him.
Then I answer with his finger in my mouth. It comes out warbled and weird. "I'll show you." But that's the point. This is a humiliation play. Making me talk around his probing finger is meant to degrade me.
It's clever, I'll give him that.
And hot. I like it.
He pushes his finger deeper towards the back of my throat—not quite enough to gag me but enough to press against that sensitive spot that makes my eyes water—and something inside me just... snaps.
It's not gradual. It's not gentle. It's a sudden, violent rupture of control.
Maybe it's the seven months without sex. Maybe it's the months before that of white-knuckled masturbation sessions I haven't allowed myself since leaving the island. Maybe it's the accumulated weight of every suppressed impulse, every stifled fantasy, every orgasm I've denied myself because letting go meant remembering what it felt like when Caleb made me come apart.
Whatever it is, the arousal doesn't build—it detonates.
One second I'm standing there with his finger lodged in my mouth, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, of negotiation, of control over this situation.
The next second, a jolt of pure, concentrated pleasure slams through my body with such violent intensity that my knees buckle.
My eyes slam shut—not a slow flutter but a hard, involuntary clench as the sensation crashes over me in waves too powerful to process. A moan tears out of my throat, muffled and obscene around his finger, and my head tips back without my permission, exposing the vulnerable line of my throat as the orgasm rips through me like lightning striking dry kindling.
It's over in seconds—sharp, brutal, utterly devastating.
And then the realization hits me with almost the same force as the climax itself.
I just... came.
From a finger in my mouth. From being degraded. From this.
The shock of it leaves me frozen, trembling, barely breathing as the aftershocks pulse through my core and my brain scrambles to catch up with what my body just did without asking permission.
"What the fuck just happened?" Ryan's voice comes out hoarse, ragged—each word scraping through the same breathless hitch that's shredding my own composure. "What the fuck did you just do?"
The question hangs between us like a lit fuse, crackling with the same electric charge that's still coursing through my veins, and I can see it written all over his face—the shock, the hunger, the dawning realization that whatever boundary we just crossed, there's no going back now.
I close my eyes and hold still for a breathless second—pulse hammering, cheeks flushed—forcing myself to gather the scattered pieces of what just happened. My mind swims in the after effects of the orgasm as I try to anchor myself back into the moment instead of dissolving entirely.
Then, slowly—deliberately—I pry my eyes open and lock onto his gaze.
His finger is still lodged against my tongue, thick and intrusive, forcing my jaw wide. I don't pull away. I lean into it. Let him feel the vibration of my voice around the digit pinning my mouth open.
"I jus' came," I whisper—garbled, slurred, utterly shameless.
"You little fiend." He looks at me for a moment, moving his finger inside my mouth. Then hurriedly says, "May I check you?"
The question hits me like a second climax I wasn't prepared for, and my entire body clenches reflexively—knees threatening to buckle, core spasming around nothing, breath stuttering out in a broken gasp.
The sheer audacity of him asking sends another vicious pulse of arousal through me before I can even attempt to wrestle it down.
Oh god.
I'm going to come again. Right here. Just from words.
That's how desperately starved I am. I fight to keep myself upright, coherent, functional.
His finger is still pressed flat against my tongue, pinning my mouth open like he owns it—owns me—and maybe that's what finally tips me over the edge. The sheer weight of that control. The casual, unflinching dominance radiating off him in waves.