Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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I force myself to breathe. To focus. To answer him.

"Yes," I manage—barely more than a whisper, slurred and messy and trembling with the effort of holding myself together. "Yes. Please."

Immediately, his hand abandons my mouth and plunges into my leggings—no warning, no hesitation, no gentle exploration. Just a direct, ruthless invasion that makes me jolt like I've been electrified.

His fingers slide between my folds with obscene ease, finding me soaked through, drenched to the point of absurdity, and the wet sound of his touch moving through all that arousal is mortifying. My entire body flushes hot with shame even as another vicious pulse of want rolls through me.

Then he laughs.

Not a chuckle. Not a dark huff of amusement.

A real laugh—deep, genuine, delighted—and it reverberates through the narrow space between us like thunder.

"You fucking whore," he says, voice rich with astonishment and something darker, something hungry. "You actually came. Jesus Christ, Scarletta. You're so fucking wet I could⁠—"

He cuts himself off, apparently too fascinated by his discovery to finish the thought. His fingers swirl lazily through the mess between my legs, exploring the evidence of my humiliation with the clinical thoroughness of someone cataloging a particularly interesting specimen.

Circling my entrance. Dragging upward to flick lightly over my oversensitive clit—making me gasp and flinch—then sliding back down through the slick heat again.

He's playing in it.

Savoring it.

Making sure I feel every second of his examination.

Then, just as abruptly as he invaded, he withdraws—pulling his hand free with another obscene wet sound that makes my face burn even hotter.

I'm moaning, unable to hide my disappointment.

He brings his glistening fingers up to my face—holding them deliberately in my line of sight so I can see the evidence of what my body did, what it betrayed—and watches my expression with dark, unhurried fascination as he traces them across my skin.

Starting at my left temple.

Dragging down over my eyelid with excruciating slowness, forcing it closed beneath the warm, humiliating wetness.

Then smearing my own slick arousal down my cheek in a slow, deliberate stripe that feels like a brand.

Marking me.

Claiming ownership of my shame.

Making absolutely certain I understand exactly what I am—what I've become—under his touch.

The scent hits me immediately. Musky, and undeniable, and mine. My stomach twists with mortification even as another traitorous pulse of heat flares low in my belly, responding to the degradation like it's exactly what I've been craving all along.

I can't look away from him.

Can't close my other eye.

Can't do anything but stare up at his face while he paints me with proof of my own desperation, his expression so darkly satisfied I almost come again.

"Can I fuck you, Scarletta?" he breathes. "Right now. No pretenses. No performance. No proof of concept bullshit."

I swallow hard. Then… before the yes is even out of my mouth, he's got me by the hair. Fisting it. Holding me locked in his grip.

I gasp, a jolt of fear… then… arousal. Pure arousal. "Yes," I say. "Fuck me."

The words barely clear my lips before he's moving—yanking me forward by my hair with enough force to make my scalp sting, guiding me toward the modified table with the stirrups like I'm a thing that needs directing instead of a person who can walk.

I stumble. Catch myself. Let him maneuver me exactly where he wants me.

My body is screaming yes louder than any rational thought trying to surface. Seven months. Seven months without this—without someone taking control, without the weight of surrender settling over me like a drug I've been white-knuckling my way through withdrawal from.

Ryan spins me around so my back is to the table, still holding my hair in that brutal grip that makes my pussy clench reflexively. His other hand goes to my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he lifts me—not gently, not carefully—and drops me onto the padded surface.

The stirrups loom on either side of me like a promise.

"Legs up," he commands, his voice rough and authoritative in a way that bypasses every defense mechanism I've carefully constructed over the past seven months.

I obey without thinking. Automatic. Muscle memory from a different life, a different version of myself who knew exactly what she craved and stopped apologizing for it.

My feet slide into the stirrups, and Ryan immediately adjusts them—pulling, spreading, locking my ankles into position so my legs are splayed wide and completely exposed. Vulnerable in a way that should terrify me but instead sends another vicious pulse of arousal straight to my core.

He steps back. Studies me.

And I realize with a sudden, disorienting clarity that I'm still fully clothed. Sports bra. Leggings. Sneakers now trapped in professional-grade stirrups.

This isn't the slow, sensual undressing I've written about a thousand times. This is something rawer. More desperate.

This is exactly what you need.

Ryan's fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings—not gently testing, not asking permission—and he rips. Not pulls them down, not slides them off with careful consideration. He tears them. Right down the center seam between my legs, the sound of splitting lycra obscenely loud in the quiet room.


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