Chapter 14
Caleb
The sight of Scarletta losing control is so utterly mesmerizing, so viscerally captivating, that I can't tear my eyes away from her for even a fraction of a second. She's writhing beneath my touch, her body twisting and arching against the bed, those gorgeous legs of hers trembling and shaking from the force of her orgasm.
The muscles in her thighs are quivering, taut and flexed, and I can feel the aftershocks rippling through her core where my finger and the pen are still buried deep inside her slick heat.
Her knees slam together with desperate force, thighs clenching tight as her feet slip free from the stirrups entirely, heels sliding against the leather padding of the table. I don't stop fingering her—I absolutely refuse to stop, not now, not when she's this far gone.
I continue the relentless rhythm inside her, curling and stroking against that perfect spot that makes her entire body shake, even as her legs try instinctively to close against the overwhelming sensation.
My mind is working on two levels simultaneously—one part completely absorbed in the exquisite sight before me, the otherpart already analyzing, calculating, mentally reconfiguring this entire scene for next time.
I'm mentally kicking myself for not restraining her properly. Next time I'll use cuffs on her wrists and ankles, locked tight so she can't escape what I'm giving her. A spreader bar between her knees to keep those gorgeous thighs forced wide open, to maintain her in that vulnerable position no matter how intense it gets, no matter how desperately she wants to close her legs against the onslaught.
But then again... perhaps this wild, unrestrained display is even better preciselybecauseof her freedom, because of her ability to move and writhe and lose control completely.
I keep going, keep pumping inside her with deliberate, measured strokes. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of the playroom, mixing with her ragged breathing and broken whimpers. She crests—I know she crests, I can recognize the exact moment when it happens, the way her entire body goes rigid and then suddenly relaxes, that telltale loosening of tension that signals the peak has passed.
But in the next instant, before she can even catch her breath, she's coming undone all over again.
A second orgasm crashes through her, harder than the first.
After watching her for six long months—watching her in the privacy of her studio apartment, watching her masturbate at least once a day, sometimes three or four times if she's writing something she's really into, something particularly dark or depraved that turns her on—I genuinely thought I'd seen everything.
I thought I'd catalogued every possible variation, every subtle difference in how this woman could climax. I'd watched her use her fingers, watched her grind against pillows, watched her bite her lip to stay quiet even though she was completely alone.
But she's never, ever done this before.
She's never come so hard that her entire body shook like this, never lost control so completely that she couldn't even form words.
I pump my finer and pen into her again, harder this time, curling deep and pressing with deliberate precision. I lean into the motion, using my body weight, shifting my position so I can wedge myself properly between her spread thighs. My shoulder presses against the inside of her left knee, keeping her legs forced wide apart even as her muscles tremble and try instinctively to close, to protect herself from the overwhelming intensity of what I'm doing to her.
She squirts.
Clear liquid suddenly gushes from her pussy in a hot, forceful stream. It coats my suit, my arms, some of it hist my face. The warmth of it unmistakable even through the haze of adrenaline.
More fluid pulses out of her with each continued thrust of my fingers. The sensation is shocking—visceral in a way I hadn't fully anticipated, even though I'd been deliberately working toward this exact response.
She's screaming now—broken, gasping syllables torn from her throat without thought or control. "Oh, God. Oh, my God. Oh! Oh!" The words tumble out in rapid succession, her voice cracking on each one, pitching higher with every wave of sensation that crashes through her.
There's no coherence left, no filter between what she's feeling and what she's expressing. Just raw, unfiltered reaction—primal and desperate and completely genuine.
Her hips buck violently against my hand, her body arching so sharply off the table, I have to quickly grab her leg to prevent her from rolling off.
I don't stop.
I keep my finger and the pen buried deep inside her, maintaining that relentless pressure against her G-spot even as her inner walls clench and pulse around me.
I place my other hand firm on her lower belly, pressing down with steady, unyielding force. I can feel everything from this position—every contraction, every spasm, every desperate flutter of muscles that have been pushed far beyond anything she's ever experienced before.
More fluid spurts from her pussy in hot, irregular bursts. It's not the controlled, sustained stream from before, but these sudden, violent pulses that seem to sync with her broken cries. Each one soaks me further, drenching my suit. The heat of it registers somewhere in the back of my mind, but I'm too focused on her—on the way her body is responding, the way she's completely lost to this—to care about the mess.
"That's it," I murmur, my voice rough and low, barely audible over her cries. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."
I'm going to replay this exact moment—her body arching, her pussy gushing, those broken sounds tearing from her throat—in my mind every single time I jerk off for the rest of my fucking life.
She surrenders completely, her voice breaking into a slow, low moan that reverberates through her entire frame. It's the sound of utter exhaustion, of a body and mind pushed past every conceivable limit. The moan deepens into something guttural, almost primal—spent, wrecked, emptied of everything she had left to give.
