My feet slide into the stirrups, and Ryan immediately adjusts them—pulling, spreading, locking my ankles into position so my legs are splayed wide and completely exposed. Vulnerable in a way that should terrify me but instead sends another vicious pulse of arousal straight to my core.
He steps back. Studies me.
And I realize with a sudden, disorienting clarity that I'm still fully clothed. Sports bra. Leggings. Sneakers now trapped in professional-grade stirrups.
This isn't the slow, sensual undressing I've written about a thousand times. This is something rawer. More desperate.
This is exactly what you need.
Ryan's fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings—not gently testing, not asking permission—and herips. Not pulls them down, not slides them off with careful consideration. He tears them. Right down the center seam between my legs, the sound of splitting lycra obscenely loud in the quiet room.
The material gives way with surprising ease, splitting from waistband to crotch in one violent motion that sends a shock of adrenaline straight through my system.
Cool air hits my exposed skin as the ruined fabric falls away on either side, leaving me bare and exposed, except for the thin strip of my underwear—which is so soaked through it's practically transparent anyway.
He doesn't bother with those either. Just hooks two fingers under the elastic at my hip andtears, the delicate lace givingway like tissue paper. Then the other side. The ruined underwear joins my destroyed leggings, nothing but scraps of fabric pooling uselessly around my hips.
I should protest. Should say something about how those leggings cost seventy dollars and I just bought them last week. Should care that he's destroying my clothes with the same casual brutality he used on my carefully constructed walls.
But I don't.
I can't.
Oh god.
My pussy is completely visible now—swollen, glistening, still dripping from the orgasm I had standing up barely two minutes ago. The humiliation of being on display like this should make me want to close my legs, cover myself,hide.
Instead, I'm so wet I can feel it leaking down between my cheeks, pooling on the table beneath me.
Ryan notices. Of course he notices.
"Jesus Christ, Scarletta." His voice comes out strangled, reverent, like he's discovered something holy and profane at the same time. "Look at you."
I can't look. I refuse to look. If I turn my head toward the massive mirror positioned deliberately to capture every angle, I'll see exactly what he sees—my body spread obscenely wide, my pussy exposed and desperate, my face flushed with shame and arousal I can't separate anymore.
Don't look. Don't you fucking dare look.
But I do.
I turn my head.
And there I am—platinum blonde hair tangled from his grip, sports bra still covering my breasts, legs locked wide in stirrups, hidden behind tattered leggings. But what's between them, open, bare, and dripping.
I look like a pornographic medical diagram. Like one of my own characters. Like every shameful fantasy I've ever written and immediately deleted before anyone could see.
This is who you are.
The thought hits me with the same brutal clarity as the orgasm did.
Not the woman who pretends to be normal. Not the writer who hides behind anonymous usernames. Not the girl who ghosts men before the third date because letting them get close means they might discover what she really wants.
This.
This is who I am.
Ryan's hands go to his waistband, shoving his joggers down just enough to free his cock—thick and hard and exactly as intimidating as I suspected when I was obsessing over the constant bulge he walked around with.
He doesn't bother undressing completely. Doesn't waste time with foreplay, or preparation, or asking if I'm ready.
