I fuck myself hard, hips rolling, eyes still covered, body unraveling fast. Every thrust drives the toy deeper, the vibrations striking raw, sensitive nerves. And still I chase it, relentlessly—fuck, I chase it hard.
Every sound I make is his. Every filthy thought, every slick drag of silicone, every whispered plea—it’s all for him.
“My Wolf,” I gasp, the name punching out of me as I rock harder, faster, lost to the pace I’ve set. “Fuck, please.”
I imagine him behind me, watching, whispering filth in my ear. I imagine his hands gripping my hips, forcing me to take more. To take everything.
My thighs quake, and my stomach coils. My pussy clenchesaround the toy as the orgasm hits violently. I bite the pillow to muffle the scream, riding it out in jerky thrusts until I can’t move anymore.
The vibrator slips from my hand. I don’t care. I lie there wrecked, trembling, sweat-slick and flushed, heart jackhammering in my chest.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the blindfold still wrapped around my eyes. I can’t move. Don’t want to. I float in the wreckage, soaked in my release.
When I reach up, my fingers are clumsy. I push the blindfold away and blink into the shadows.
Everything is quiet.
I rise on shaky legs and make my way to the mirror. I barely recognize the woman staring back—messy hair, flushed skin, lips swollen from biting.
Then I see it—the necklace. The delicate gold chain fastened around my throat. I touch the pendant, flipping it over.
The letter is there—B—to rest against my skin, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. Our secret.
A breath shudders from my chest, shaky and quiet.
“I’m yours, My Wolf.”
I don’t know his name or his face. But I know this: he owns me.
Let him come for me.
I’m ready.
Chapter 17
Bastien Montclaire
Restoringcars is better than therapy—at least here, I know what’s broken.
Grit snarls from the garage speakers. I tighten the bolt under the hood of the ‘67 Stingray, my wrist slick with sweat and grease. My hands move with muscle memory—checking the timing belt, aligning the crankshaft pulley, wiping down the chrome valve covers.
The car gleams beneath the fluorescent lights. It’s black, sleek, and hungry—a beast with its throat bared, waiting to be fed fire.
This isn’t restoration. It’s a ritual.
For her.
Aimee.
She used to talk about this model as if it had a soul. Like it could fuck you better than a man. Her favorite car. We never rode in one together, but I speak to her now through steel and piston, through every polished fender and reassembled engine block.
The socket wrench is halfway to my hand when my burner buzzes, cutting through the stillness. I wipe my palm on an old rag, eyes locked on the screen.
One photo.
One message.
Thought you’d like to see how good the necklace looks on me in the daylight.
