The words won't stop this time. They're flying through my head like they used to—back when writing felt like breathing instead of drowning. Ivy and Logan. The sex club. The bench. The crowd.
I dreamt about them last night.
Actual dreams. Not the blank nothing I've been swimming through for six months. Not the dissociative fog where I wake up and can't remember if I slept or just stopped existing for eight hours.
Real, vivid, filthy dreams.
I close my eyes. Slip my fingers between my legs.
I'm already wet.
Jesus Christ.
I haven't been wet like this since?—
No. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about him.
Just Ivy and Logan. Just the story.
Inside Logan's sex club,Ivy is bent over a bench facing a crowd of people. Most of them are naked—like completely naked.Hard cocks everywhere. Tits everywhere. Glistening pussies. Bodies pressed together, watching, waiting.
They're eagerly awaiting Ivy's scene debut.
She knows there are mirrors positioned behind her. Angled perfectly so the people in front can see what Logan is going to do. Can watch his fingers spread her open. Can see how wet she is. How her pussy clenches around nothing, desperate and needy and?—
Logan steps behind her. His hand slides up her inner thigh.
Except it's notLogan anymore.
It's Caleb.
I don't even try to stop it. Don't pretend I'm still writing fiction.
I'm in Ivy's position now. Bent over that bench. Spread wide. Mirrors behind me reflecting everything for the crowd to see.
And Caleb's fingers—those expert, ruthless fingers that know exactly how to make me fall apart—slide through my wetness.
"Look at you," his voice echoes in my head. Low. Commanding. "Dripping for all these strangers to see."
My actual fingers circle my clit. Clumsy compared to his. Desperate compared to his control.
But God, I'm so wet.
"Such a good little slut," Caleb whispers in my fantasy. His finger pushes inside me. Just one. Slow. "Putting on a show. Letting everyone watch what a filthy whore you are."
I arch on my bed. Push two fingers inside myself.
The crowd in my head is watching. Stroking themselves. Getting off on watching Caleb finger-fuck me in front of them.
"Please—" I hear myself beg in the fantasy. "Please, Master?—"
The orgasm hits me like a physical blow.
I'm writhing. Making sounds I don't recognize—high, desperate, obscene noises that bounce off these expensive high ceilings and fill my sterile apartment with proof of exactly what I am.
A broken girl who can only come when she imagines the man who stalked her.
The man who killed someone in front of her.
