I sit in my office, the bourbon on my desk untouched, and monitors casting a cold blue glow across the glass walls. My attention is locked on one screen. One face. One problem.
Violet Cole.
The party footage flickers on the largest monitor, replaying for what feels like the hundredth time. The living room is pure chaos—bodies tangled and desperate, pleasure thick in the air, the kind of decadence people pretend they didn’t enjoy. But she stood apart from all of it. Still. Quiet. Watching like she was cataloging every breath.
Her eyes didn’t glaze over. They sharpened.
Her lips parted—not innocent or shocked—curious. And that curiosity? That hunger? It hit like a punch to the sternum.
She didn’t know what she was doing to herself. Or to me.
A flush crept up her throat. Her fingers tightened on her glass. And the moment she pressed her thighs together, the smallest shift—a tell I know better than any man alive—
I feel it again. Low. Immediate. Violent.
I switch to another angle with a flick of my wrist. The hallway.
There she is, stumblingout of the room—flushed, breathless, and overwhelmed in a way she would never admit.
And then I’m there.
On screen. In the shadows. Closing the distance she thought she needed.
I hit play.
I lean back in my chair as the darkened room appears, the door slamming shut behind us in perfect, and unforgivable silence.
As the scene plays out I see it—the moment her body betrays her.
Her dress rides up, my hands forcing it higher, exposing her thick, creamy thighs, and her trembling form.
The cameras don’t have sound—something I fully intend to fix—but I don’t need it. I remember every gasp. Every shiver. The way her thighs clenched around my hand like she was begging without saying the words.
I inhale through my nose, sharp and slow, and drag my gaze back to the screen.
My cock throbs against my zipper, and I push my chair back slightly undoing the button of my slacks with one hand.
On screen, my fingers tease her, barely a touch before I dip lower. I watch as she shudders, her head falling back against my shoulder, and lips parting in silent surrender.
I push my pants down just enough, my hand slipping beneath the waistband of my briefs, and wrapping around my already aching length.
The way she moved against my hand. The way she fought, just for a moment, that last shred of defiance before I shattered it.
My grip tightens as I watch myself thrust my fingers inside her, my other hand gripping her hip, and keeping her locked against me.
She broke so beautifully.
I stroke myself slowly, my breath coming heavier as I watch the way her body responded, the way she rocked into my touch, and how she let me unravel her in the dark.
I remember how tight she was around my fingers, the way her body clenched when she came.
My jaw locks as pleasure coils low in my stomach, my movements matching the rhythm I had set for her earlier. I watch her body tremble on screen, the way she gasped, her panting.
My teeth clench, my body tensing as I chase the high. My strokes quicken, my grip firmer, and the sight of her unraveling pushes me closer.
And then, just like earlier, I shove her over the edge.
She comes apart in my hands on the screen—her thighs shaking, and her head goes back. And I follow, pleasure snapping through me, my breath ragged as I spill over my hand.
