Ivy should be mortified. She should pull away, tell him this is too much, she can't?—
But her hips are grinding against his hand, chasing the pressure, desperate for more.
I stop running.
My chest heaves, my pulse thundering in my ears, and I press my hands against my knees, trying to catch my breath.
The fantasy isn't working.
It should be working. Ivy's exactly the kind of protagonist I've always loved writing—awkward, ashamed, desperate to surrender to someone who sees through her performance. Logan's the perfect dominant—confident, controlling, obsessed with breaking down her walls.
The sex club scene is hot. I know it's hot. I can feel the architecture of the arousal, the way the layers should stack—public humiliation, forced confession, the terror of being watched mixing with the desperate need to be seen.
I understand the mechanics.
My pussy doesn't care.
I straighten up and look around. I'm about three miles into the Greenbelt now, near the section where the trail curves away from the river and into a thicker stretch of trees. There's a cluster of large boulders just off the path, partially hidden by scrub brush and cottonwood saplings.
Semi-private.
I could duck behind them. Pull my shorts to the side. Try to finish what Ivy and Logan started.
The thought sends absolutely nothing through my body.
No heat. No clench. No wetness spreading between my thighs.
Just the same dull, empty ache that's been living inside me for six months.
I close my eyes and let myself imagine it—just for a second. Just to see if maybe…
It comes to me immediately.
The memory, the scene, the arousal…
Caleb standing over a motionless heap of dead flesh, his fist working up and down the length of his massive, hard cock with brutal, punishing strokes. His jaw is locked tight and his eyes are fixed on the corpse at his feet—watching his come explode in thick, obscene ropes across the still-warm body of the Russian intruder he just beat to death.
The visual is so visceral I can hear the wet sound of his sticky hand slapping against his flesh, can see the tendons standing out in his forearm as he grips himself harder.
His breathing comes in controlled, measured pants, not from exertion but from something darker, more primal.
His face is a mask of cold satisfaction—not pleasure exactly, but the fulfilled look of a man who's taken exactly what he wanted, consequences be damned.
I can practically smell the blood. Almost see the way his come glistens against the body at his feet.
His gaze is so intense, alike he's memorizing every detail. Cataloging the exact way his seed marks his victory.
There's no remorse in his expression, no horror at what he's done—only a terrible, perfect focus.
My clit pulses.
Once.
Sharp and undeniable.
"Fuck," I whisper.
No.
