Doesn’t touch me again.
Just leaves me on the bed—naked, ruined, throbbing—my body screaming for something I know I’ll never get unless I break for him completely.
Hook
Ileave her there, trembling and soaked, her thighs still quivering from the denial I carved into her like a signature across her skin.
But I don’t get far down the corridor.
Two steps down the hallway and I’m already unbuttoning my cuffs with jerky movements, dragging the sleeves of my shirt up my forearms like the fabric is choking me, constricting my airways. My blood’s too hot, running molten through my veins. My skin too tight, stretched over a frame that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
I can still taste her—sweet, defiant, desperate—coating my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and it’s not enough, will never be enough.
It’s never enough with her.
I press my hand to the wall, breathing through the pulse that beats behind my cock like a war drum, trying to regain some semblance of control.
I should let her sit in that ruin I’ve created. Should let her stew in it, let it ferment into something darker. That was the plan. That was the whole fucking point of this exercise.
But she’s in there—panting, undone, wrecked—and my body is fighting me like I’ve denied myself the climax instead of her.
I did deny myself because punishing her punishes me too, a masochism I never intended.
And I fucking liked it, revelled in the pain.
The monitor flickers in the hallway, one of many mounted at strategic intervals. One of many, all angled differently to capture every possible view. I told them I needed every angle when I had the system installed. Told them she wasn’t safe without surveillance. Told them she was volatile, dangerous, unstable—a risk to herself.
The truth?
I needed to watch her break from every angle possible, needed to catalogue each fracture.
There she is now on the screen, curled up in the sheets she tried to burn down with her body heat. Her face is flushed, streaked with frustrated tears she tried to swallow back down. Her thighs are pressed together tight, rocking faintly like she’s still chasing the release even without me there. Still ruined. Still aching.
God, she’s beautiful when she’s suffering, when pain and need blur together.
I palm my cock through my trousers without finesse. No control. Just pressure. Relief. Anything to take the edge off.
But it’s not enough. She’s not enough. Not yet. Not until she begs without pride getting in the way. Not until she sobs when I leave instead of when I deny her. Not until she wants me more than she wants freedom, more than she wants her own name.
I slam the heel of my hand into the wall with controlled violence.
Once.
Twice.
Cracks spiderweb out from the plaster like punishment made visible, like evidence of the loss of control she induces.
She’s doing this to me. That little pink-lipped rage doll I plucked from the gutter, from the system that chewed her up. That venom-tongued, rage-eyed girl who was supposed to be a weekend indulgence—not an addiction, not this consuming obsession. Not a fucking need that’s rewriting my neural pathways.
“Fuck.”
I twist away from the screen, can’t look at her anymore.
Can’t look away.
The obsession is a sickness in my bones, spreading through marrow. My skin doesn’t feel like mine unless she’s reacting to me, unless I can see the proof of my effect. Screaming for me. Crying because of me.
I don’t want her love—that saccharine weakness.
