The orgasm hits like a physical blow. I grunt, hips jerking up as I spill all over my hand, my shirt, my desk. Thick ropes of come painting my stomach while the fantasy plays out its brutal conclusion behind my closed eyes.
I keep stroking through the aftershocks, milking every drop while I imagine Scarletta finding out what I've done. The horror in her eyes. The knowledge that I'd kill anyone who tried to take her from me.
Finally spent, I slump back in my chair, cock still twitching, come cooling on my skin.
I don't feel shame.
I don't feel remorse.
I feelsatisfied.
This is who I am. What I am. A man who gets hard imagining elaborate torture scenarios. A man who comes thinking about murder, and mutilation, and making people suffer for the crime of existing near what belongs to him.
I'm not going to apologize for it.
I'm not going to change, either.
This.
Is who.
I am.
Chapter 7
Scarletta
My new closet isinsane.
Like, objectively ridiculous for someone who spent most of her adult life living in blanket forts and wearing her dead dad's hoodie for a week straight without showering.
But here I am, standing in front of it like I'm admiring art or something, staring at all my Vegas purchases hanging in perfect color-coordinated rows. The image consultant taught me that—organize by color family, then by occasion. Casual to formal. Light to dark.
I actuallydidit when I got home.
Unpacked everything immediately instead of leaving the suitcases on the floor for three weeks like I normally would. Hung every dress. Folded every shirt. Arranged my new shoes on the bottom rack like I'm some kind of functioning adult who has their shit together.
The Golden Goose sneakers next to the Balenciagas. Combat boots lined up with the heeled booties. My statement LBD hanging next to the vintage leather jacket like they're a power couple.
It's givinggirl who plans outfits the night beforeenergy.
It's givingperson who owns a lint roller and uses itvibes.
Honestly? It's givingnot me at all.
But I kind of... love it?
I reach out and touch the sleeve of the leather jacket. A statement piece I paid real money for instead of scrolling past longingly on Pinterest before closing the tab and eating Lucky Charms standing over the sink.
My platinum hair catches in the closet's LED strip lighting and I barely recognize my own reflection in the full-length mirror.
Trophy wife hair. Designer clothes. Abs I never noticed before.
Who thefuckam I?
I stare at my reflection and the answer slams into me with unexpected force.
I'm Scarletta fucking Desmond.
