The image pushes me over.
I bend forward, groaning as my orgasm slams through me. Come shoots across the hardwood floor in thick ropes. My cock jerks in my fist, spilling everywhere—the floor, my hand, my thigh.
I don't stop stroking. I milk every pulse, every aftershock, my whole body shuddering through it.
When it finally passes, I'm bent over, panting.
Come pools on the floor beneath me.
I don't feel ashamed.
I just breathe.
This is managed.
I know what I am. I know what arouses me.
I know the sickness lives inside me
I understand I can't kill it.
But I can point it at the right targets.
I can make it serve justice instead of chaos.
I can control when, and where, and how it manifests.
That's the difference between me and the men I kill.
They hurt the innocent.
I don't.
So… the logic holds.
It has to hold.
Because if it doesn't—if the auction wasn't consent, if the maze wasn't her fantasy, if I'm not the controlled dominant who gives her what she needs?—
Then what the fuck am I?
I standin the kitchen of the log mansion, coffee steeping inside the French press as I stare at the three monitors mounted above the breakfast bar.
It's been six months since Scarletta got out of my limo on Valentine's Day.
Six months is plenty of time to process.
Plenty of time to recover.
The perfect distance to understand what we are.
What she needs.
The doubts from earlier are gone now. My orgasm cleared them out like smoke through an open window. My head is sharp again. Sharp and focused.
I know what I'm doing.
The coffee finishes. I press the plunger down slowly, watching the grounds sink. Pour it black into a ceramic mug and take a sip.
