Then, without warning, the moaning fractures into something else entirely.
Crying. Long, wrenching sobs that shake her entire body. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks, cutting hot tracks through the sheen of sweat that covers her skin. Her face crumples, and the sounds coming from her throat are raw,unfiltered—the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.
I withdraw my fingers slowly, carefully, feeling the aftershocks still rippling through her inner walls as I slide free. Moving around to the side of the exam table, I don't hesitate. I scoop her up in my arms, lifting her trembling, boneless form against my chest as though she weighs nothing. She curls into me immediately, instinctively, her small hands grasping desperately at my wet coat, fingers digging in like she's afraid I might let go.
I carry her over to the nearby couch—a low, leather piece positioned specifically for aftercare—and settle down with her cradled against me. Her body molds to mine, tucking perfectly into the curve of my chest and lap, her face pressed against my shoulder as she continues to sob.
"You're such a good girl," I murmur, my voice dropping low and soft, smoothing over her like a balm. I stroke her hair with deliberate, soothing motions, my fingers combing through the damp, tangled strands. "You came so beautifully. You gave me everything, didn't you? You got your wet heat all over me—covered me completely in your scent."
She cries harder at my words, her sobs intensifying, her shoulders shaking violently against me.
I shush her gently, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. The tenderness of the gesture surprises even me—it's not calculated, not part of the script I've been running in my head. It's just... instinct. A need to comfort her, to bring her back from wherever she's gone.
But my fucking god.
When a woman explodes all over you like that—drenches you in her hot heat, covers you so completely in her release that you can feel it soaking through every layer of fabric, feel it cooling onyour skin—it does something to you. She responded to my finger and a pen.
Not even my cock.
I haven't even touched her with my cock yet, and this is what she gave me.
This is the kind of surrender she's capable of.
I continue petting her hair, smoothing it back from her tear-streaked face, my palm sliding down the damp length of it with slow, repetitive strokes. Her whole body is slick with sweat, and her own come, and tears, glistening in the low light, and I fucking love it.
I love the evidence of what just happened written all over her skin, love the way she smells—sex and salt and something uniquely her.
I love the way she's clinging to me now, like I'm the only solid thing in the world.
"You're mine," I whisper against her temple, my voice rough and low, stripped of its usual control. The words aren't a question. They're not a request. They're just truth—raw and absolute. "This just proves it. What you just did for me... what your body just gave me without me even asking..."
I press my lips to her hairline, breathing her in—sweat and sex and something darker, more primal. She's still trembling, little aftershocks running through her like electrical currents, and I can feel every single one of them where she's plastered against my chest.
"You couldn't fake that if you tried," I murmur, my hand still stroking, still soothing. "You couldn't hold that back. You're supposed to be mine for twenty-four hours, but your body just proved that this is forever. You belong to me already."
She goes still, finally. Completely spent. But then I feel it—the way she burrows her head deeper into my chest, turning herface away, pressing herself against me not in surrender but in retreat.
Hiding.
Oh. Oh, no. Absolutely fucking not. She does not get to hide from this. Not from what just happened. Not from what her body just proved.
"Look at me," I command, my voice cutting through the post-orgasmic haze with the sharp edge of authority.
She shakes her head against my chest, still breathing heavily, ragged and uneven. Refusing.
"Scarletta." I let her name roll off my tongue like a warning, dark and deliberate. "Either you look me in the eyes right now, or I will pry them open with an eye speculum. Don't make me do that, you beautiful little slut. I don'twantto hurt you—not like that—but if you earn it, I'll be forced to balance the scales."
The words slip out without thought, unplanned and raw, pulled from somewhere deep and instinctive. The threat hangs between us, unexpected even to me.
A beat of silence. Then her eyes snap to mine—wide, shocked, darkened with lingering pleasure and something sharper. Her voice comes out low and gravelly, roughened by screaming. "What?"
Perfect. There she is.
I stroke her hair again, gentler now, and I smile beneath the ski mask, satisfaction radiating off me. "There she is. See? I knew you could follow directions." My voice drops into a purr, warm and approving. "That's a very good girl, Scarletta. You squirted your release all over me. I'm absolutely soaking wet."
"Oh, god," she moans, and I watch the embarrassment flood her face—cheeks flushing darker, eyes squeezing shut again as if she can erase what just happened by refusing to see it.
"Don't look away, Scarletta," I murmur, my tone warm with admiration even as my hand tightens possessively in her hair—not painful, just firm enough to keep her exactly where I want her. "This is a beautiful gift. Have you ever squirted before? I've never seen you do it, but perhaps you have. In the days before me, when you thought no one was watching."
