Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
The unmasked man caresses my cheek, paying attention to nothing but me. "You can do this, Scarletta," he whispers softly. "What happened when your mother found your story?"
I want to stop here. I want to pack up all my feelings and put them in a suitcase, then I want to lock that suitcase up and hide it under the bed.
But that's what I always do. And the thing no one tells you about packing your suitcase like that is… you have to take it with you, no matter where you go.
So instead… I find the courage to keep going. "She told me that good women don't think about sex, don't fantasize about being controlled, don't dream about being taken, and used, and owned. And I believed her. I believed that the darkness inside me was proof that something was fundamentally broken, that I was damaged goods, that no one would ever want me if they knew what I really was."
His hand cups my face, warm and steady.
"So I hid. I created ScarletSins and wrote all the things I couldn't say out loud, and for a while that was enough. I could pretend to be brave online while being invisible in real life. I could explore my darkness through fiction while maintaining the illusion that the real me was normal, and acceptable, and not a complete freak."
I'm shaking now, full-body tremors that have nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
"The cross was amazing," I manage. "It was everything I've ever written about and more. The pain and the pleasure and the feeling of being completely at your mercy, completely out of control. It was exactly what I've been fantasizing about for years."
I force myself to meet his eyes.
"And that's the problem. It was too good. So good that my brain couldn't reconcile how much I was enjoying it with everything I've been taught about what enjoying something like that means. The shame was eating me alive even while I was coming, and the only way my mind could handle it was to shut down completely. To black out. To escape into unconsciousness so I wouldn't have to face what I was feeling."
The admission hangs between us, raw and ugly and more honest than anything I've ever said to another human being.
"I was going to lose time again," I whisper. "Like I did at Christmas. Because my shame was too big to hold, and disappearing was easier than admitting how much I wanted everything you were doing to me. And I didn't want to do that. I don't want to watch myself experiencing your expert domination. I want to live it. I want to remember everything."
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on my cheek, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he shifts slightly, adjusting his hold on me so I'm cradled more securely against his chest.
"You're beautiful," he says, and his voice is different now, softer somehow, like he's telling me something important instead of just offering a compliment. "Your face, the way your expressions change when you're processing something. Your body, the way it responds to my touch, the way your skin flushes, and your nipples harden, and your pussy gets wet when I'm barely touching you. Your tits, perfect handfuls that fit in my palms like they were made for me."
He pauses, and when he continues, his voice is even quieter.
"But the sexiest thing about you right now isn't any of that. The sexiest thing about you is that you just did the hardest thing a person can do. You looked inside yourself, found something ugly, and shameful, and terrifying, and you told me about it anyway. That takes more courage than anything I made you do on that cross."
I stare up at him, not quite believing what I'm hearing.
"I know what it feels like," he says. "The shame. The sense that something inside you is fundamentally different from everyone else, fundamentally wrong. I grew up dreaming about delivering justice to people who escaped consequences. Not fantasy justice, not courtroom justice, but real justice. Permanent justice."
My brain registers what he's actually saying beneath the careful euphemisms.
He's talking about killing people.
He's talking about the way he killed Derek, tortured him for hours before dismembering and burning his body, because Derek raped me during a power exchange relationship and walked away without consequences.
I should be horrified.
I should be screaming, fighting to get away from this confessed murderer who's holding me in his lap like I'm something precious.
But I find myself leaning closer instead, pressing my ear against his chest to hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
He senses that I'm listening, really listening, the way he listened to me. And something in his posture shifts, like he's been waiting for permission to tell me this, like my attention has unlocked something he's been holding back.