But I don't.
I wait.
Because she is mistaken if she thinks this is over.
It's not over.
It will never be over.
Scarletta Mae Desmond is mine.
Just thinking these words—my good little slut—is enough to make my cock stiffen again, blood rushing south like my body doesn't give a fuck about dignity or restraint. I don't even hesitate. I reach down, wrap my fingers around my still-sticky shaft, and start stroking again. Slow at first, savoring it. Building.
I never get tired of this. Never get tired of jerking off to her, to the memory of what I've done, to the bodies I've left behind and the way power feels when it's absolute. I could go all day and night if I've got the right fantasy fueling me.
And Scarletta—my beautiful, broken,mineScarletta—is that fantasy.
Everything about her makes me hard these days. Including the way she thinks she can replace me with someone safe, someonenormal, someone who doesn't see her the way I do.
The way she's in that shower right now, washing Ryan's sweat off her skin, and has no idea I'm sitting here watching her door. Waiting. Hard.
The water stops.
I tense—muscles coiling, breath catching—but I don't stop stroking. My hand keeps moving, slow and deliberate, while I wait.Waiting, waiting,waitingfor her to emerge. My cock throbs in my fist, aching, demanding, and I lean forward slightly, eyes fixed on that bathroom door like it's the only thing in the world that matters.
The door opens.
She steps out wearing nothing but a towel, hair dripping wet, skin flushed pink from the heat. And there's this stupid, blissful smile on her face—the kind of smile that tells me everything I need to know. She's still riding the high of whatever the fuck Ryan gave her.
Still thinking abouthim.
She looks up.
Her eyes land on me.
The smile vanishes.
Shescreams. "What the fuck! Oh, my fucking god, are you serious right now? You broke in—you'rejerking off? What the actual fuck, Caleb! I told you to leave me the fuck alone!"
I stay absolutely still.
Except for my hand. It pumps harder. Faster. My grip tightens, and I don't look away from her face—not for a second. I want her to see me. I want her to know exactly what she does to me, what she'salwaysdone to me.
"Well?" She yells, voice cracking with fury and something else—something that sounds like panic. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I'm here for you, Scarletta." My voice comes out low, steady, like I'm explaining something simple to a child. "Why else would I be here?"
"You need to leave. Right now!" She points to the door with one shaking hand while the other clutches her towel like it's armor. "Now!"
"You fucked him, didn't you?"
"What?" Her face flushes—and I'm not talking about the lingering heat from the shower. I'm talking bright, burning red. Guilt, and indignation, and something else all tangled together.
"Youfuckedhim."
"My sex life is none of your business!"
"Did he spread you out on his desk? Did you let him slide his cock into your pussy while you moaned like a good girl?" I keep stroking, grip tightening as I watch her face change. "Did he make you come, baby? Did he pump you full while you told him how good it felt?"
