I'm supposed to keep going. He wants more. He wants the full thought, the complete confession, every ugly detail of my internal monologue.
"I thought I'm not perfect. I'm—I don't shower enough. I don't work. I live in blanket forts. I?—"
Oh god, this is humiliating.
"I write erotica instead of paying rent. I'm two years behind on laundry. I eat cereal for dinner and sometimes I don't eat at all because I forget when I'm writing and?—"
I'm spiraling. I can hear it. The self-flagellation, the litany of failures, the desperate need to prove to him that he's wrong about me so he can leave before I get attached.
Before I ruin this like I ruin everything.
"And?" His voice is still calm. Patient. "What else did you think?"
What else?
I thought?—
Fuck.
"I thought it felt invasive. The way you see me. It felt... almost mean."
The confession hangs in the air between us.
Almost mean.
Jesus, Scarletta. You just told a dominant stranger who bought you at auction that hisseeing youfeels mean. Great strategy. Really excellent communication skills. This is definitely how you keep someone interested.
His hand moves.
Lower.
I stop breathing.
His fingers slide through my folds—no warning, no teasing—and I cry out. Actuallycry outlike some kind of?—
"You're dripping."
Two words. Factual. Devastating.
I am. I know I am. I can feel it running down my thighs and it's shameful and obvious and?—
"Your body doesn't think I'm mean, Scarletta. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
His fingers circle my clit. Once. Twice. Light pressure. Barely anything.
I whimper.
Actual whimpering. Like a dog.
Editorial note: You sound pathetic. Youarepathetic.
"But your mind—" His fingers press harder. "Your mind wants to protect you. It wants to convince you that being seen is dangerous. That wanting this makes you broken."
How does he?—
"Doesn't it?"
His question cuts through everything. All my defenses. All my careful pretending.
