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 hand wraps around his cock—slick with my arousal—and he aims at my stomach as he comes.
Hot ropes of come paint my skin. Thick, and white, and obscene across my exposed stomach. Hitting the underside of my sports bra. Spattering across my ribs and chest.
One particularly strong pulse arcs higher—landing on my chin.
Oh god.
I'm marked. Completely. Undeniably.
Still trembling from my orgasm, still locked in the stirrups with my legs spread wide, covered in his release like some kind of depraved art installation.
I just lie there, chest heaving, pussy still clenching around nothing, his come cooling on my skin as my brain slowly comes back online.
Ryan recovers first. His breathing evening out while mine still comes in ragged gasps. He leans forward, one hand bracing against the table beside my head, and kisses me. Not brutal this time. Gentle and tender.
When he pulls back, there's a wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Dirtiest little fucking button ever," he murmurs against my lips.
The nickname is cute. I like it. I like… him.
We stay like that for a long moment—him leaning over me, both of us catching our breath, the evidence of what we just did cooling between us.
Then Ryan straightens, adjusting his joggers and pulling them back up over his hips like what just happened was casual. Normal. Something that happens in the back room of his gym every day.
Maybe it does.
Don't think about that.
He walks to a cabinet against the far wall—the kind meant for supplies or equipment—and opens it. Inside, instead of weights or resistance bands, there's merchandise. Iron River Fitness t-shirts and shorts in various sizes, all neatly folded and organized.
He selects a black t-shirt and matching bike shorts, glances at me still spread open on the table, then returns to me with an offering. His satisfaction barely disguised as apology. "Sorry about your clothes," he says, reaching for the stirrup releases.
I'm not.
The restraints pop open and my legs drop—heavy, trembling, completely useless. I don't trust myself to stand yet. Don't trust my body to do anything except continue lying here like a used, thoroughly fucked disaster.
But I sit up so I can change. Ryan watches as I peel off my sports bra—also splattered with his cum—and pull the fresh shirt over my head.
I shimmy into the bike shorts next, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated as sensation slowly returns to my limbs.
When I'm finally decent—or as decent as someone can be after getting fucked raw on an examination table—Ryan leans in again.
This kiss is different. Slower. More deliberate.
Like he's tasting me. Memorizing me.
"Come back tomorrow morning," he murmurs against my lips. "Five AM. We'll go another round." He pulls back from the kiss just enough to meet my eyes. "This time I'll be prepared."
I cannot contain my smile.
He kisses me one more time—quick and claiming—then straightens and walks toward the door.
He doesn't look back. Doesn't wait to see if I need help getting off the table or finding my way out.
Just leaves.
Savor this. Remember every second. You're finally getting what you've been dying for.
So I do…
Because this man is exactly what I need.
No, he's more than that.
Ryan Adamson is exactly what I want.
Chapter 12
Caleb
Three kills stand out in my memory.
Three kills that remind me exactly what I am.
Three memories that still get me so hard, there's no fucking way I can't jerk off when I think about them.
Case number 5. The twenty-three year old tech billionaire. Venture capital golden boy with a seed-stage portfolio worth nine figures.
Thirty-seven women in six months.
He didn't rape them. Didn't need to. Money bought consent until it didn't, and then his hands were around their throats while he fucked them and they stopped breathing.
I found him in Dubai. Extradited him through channels that don't officially exist.
Chained his hands to his feet—proper hog-tie configuration, stainless steel, no slack. Positioned him so his cock was right there. Close enough to taste if he bent far enough.
"Two hours," I told him. "Suck your own dick for two hours, and I'll consider letting you live."
He cried. Begged. Tried to negotiate.
I waited.
He wrapped his lips around his own cock after fifteen minutes of crying like a baby. Desperation makes men flexible in ways anatomy shouldn't allow. I remember the exact way his spine curved. The groans and whimpers from the strain to keep the tip of his dick in his mouth.
I pull out my cock, it's already thick and pulsing. Can't help it. Just the memory makes my hand wrap around my shaft, pre-come already slicking the head when I swipe my thumb over it.
I jerked off that day too. Pumping my fist up and down my shaft while I watched him work. His technique was terrible—all teeth and panic—but he managed. For thirty-seven minutes he managed.
Then I walked over and sawed through the base of his cock with a hunting knife.