Then she turns.
Presses her back against the brick wall.
Just stands there.
Waiting.
I stroke my cock slowly, deliberately, letting her watch.
Her chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths. Her pupils are blown wide. Her hands flatten against the brick on either side of her hips—not pushing off, not trying to leave.
Just bracing.
"Six months," I say conversationally, still stroking. "Six months of watching you pretend."
Her jaw tightens.
"Watching you run every morning like you're training for something. Watching you sit in that coffee shop staring at blank documents. Watching you go on dates with boring men who couldn't fuck you the way you need if their lives depended on it."
"Fuck you," she whispers.
"You will," I agree. "But not yet."
I step closer.
Close enough that the head of my cock nearly brushes her stomach through that pretty yellow sundress she's wearing. Fabric so thin I can see the outline of her hip bones beneath it. Summer dress that screamswholesomeandnormalanddefinitely not the kind of girl who writes rape fantasies in her spare time.
She doesn't move away.
Her breathing picks up. Shallow, rapid. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"How'd you like Marty?" I ask, genuinely curious. My hand keeps moving on my cock. "Was he the kind of safe man you were looking for?"
Her eyes flick down to my hand. Back up to my face. Defiant.
"Did he meet your expectations?" I tilt my head, studying her flushed cheeks. "Did you imagine what it would feel like, pretty slut? His nice, respectful cock inside you? The way he'd probably ask permission before every single thing he did to your body?"
"Stop," she whispers.
But she's not looking at my eyes when she says it. She's watching my hand stroke my cock. Watching precum leak from the tip.
"Do you still masturbate?" I ask casually. "Or did you give that up too when you decided to play normal?"
Something flashes across her face. Shame, maybe. Or anger at being seen.
"You already know I don't," she says flatly. "You've been watching me."
I shake my head slowly. "Not in your apartment. I understand limits, Scarletta. You destroyed the cameras. I respected that boundary."
She actually laughs. A sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the space between us. "Limits?" She stares at me like I've said something genuinely hilarious. "Limits? You're standing in an alley jerking off in front of me and you want credit for respecting boundaries?"
Fair point.
I press my cock against her stomach. Just the head at first. Light pressure. Enough that she feels it through the thin fabric.
A wet spot blooms on the yellow cotton. Clear fluid soaking into the dress. Marking her.
"Why don't you masturbate anymore?" I ask quietly. "What happened?"
