“Fuck,” I groan, my thighs tensing and my entire body feeling alive in the moment.
I gasp, clutching Claw with my free hand, riding out the orgasm as my hot, thick cum shoots up onto my stomach, my hips continuing to buck and writhe and I get everything I can out of this release.
Wow.
Wow.
Wow. That was intense…
Panting, I roll over, snuggling under the covers, turning my back to the camera and away from the watching eye.
My mind clears in the afterglow, sharp and focused.
And suddenly, a plan hatches.
If he's watching, if that look in his eyes means what I think... I canusethis.
I can play the Little, the submissive.
I will draw him in, make him drop his guard.
I’ll pretend to break, to need him.
Then I’ll strike when he's vulnerable, like a true Galkin.
“What time is it?” I ask myself, my eyes barely open.
Sunlight filters through the opaque windowpanes in soft, golden bands across the bedroom floor.
I wake slowly, the kind of slow where your body feels heavy and content, like it’s been wrapped in warm velvet all night.
No nightmares.
No jerking awake in a cold sweat.
Just deep, dreamless sleep—the first real rest I’ve had since this all started.
I stretch under the covers, toes pointing, arms arching overhead, and a small, secret smile curls my lips.
Last night replays in lazy fragments: the camera in the corner, the rush of being watched, the way my body shattered harder because of it.
God, if that’s the kind of orgasm that buys me eight solid hours of sleep, maybe I should make self-love a nightly ritual while I’m stuck here.
Captive with benefits? It could be worse, I guess.
The thought is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh out loud.
Claw is tucked against my side, one fuzzy paw draped over my stomach like he’s claiming me. I press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Morning, buddy,” I whisper. “We survived another night.”
My bladder eventually wins the argument with laziness. I roll out of bed, still in the pale-blue pajamas, hair a tangled mess, and pad barefoot into the hallway with Claw hooked under one arm. The penthouse smells faintly of coffee already: dark, rich, expensive. Ivan’s awake, of course. The man probably doesn’t sleep.
He’s at the kitchen table, broad shoulders hunched over his phone. The second my bare feet hit the cool marble, he snapsthe screen dark and slides the device into his pocket in one smooth motion.
Too fast. Too deliberate. Another tell.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
