Page 40 of Carved Obsession

Moving fast, I find the master bedroom and walk past a few clothes scattered on the floor by an antique wardrobe that catches my eye. Other garments are thrown over its cracked-open door, and a bra hangs by its strap on the corner. Her four-poster wooden bed is unmade, and a pair of deep-red lace panties are casually thrown at the foot. This is definitely her bedroom.

I’m relieved to see a smoke detector fitted on the ceiling, similar enough to the one in my pocket, which doubles as a camera. Grabbing the chair from the vanity table, I climb up and make quick work of disconnecting the device before replacing it with mine. I check the feed, confirming it’s all working, then climb down and put the chair back in its place in front of the vanity.

Yet another spot in this house that looks . . . interesting.

Right at the back, on a small ledge under the mirror, is a row of antique-looking vials. They’ve been tucked behind the expected makeup, brushes, and other beauty stuff. While the sizes vary from short and round to tall and thin, they all have one thing in common—the tiniest bit of liquid at the bottom.

Various oddities are dotted between the vials, like what looks like a dinosaur claw, a small painted bowl with tiny bones in it, and a white taxidermy mouse with a flower in his paw that looks almost...cute.

Stepping back, I shake my head, suppressing the need to look around for more clues about this woman.

The shower stops. The glass door swings open with a slight creak, and I can’t trust myself to stay.

Not because I’ll kill her, but because I’ll find too many hedonistic ways to break her.

Chapter 11

Carter

The cold spray of the shower hits like frigid hale, but I have to put out this heat that has filled me with such fiery vengeance. I drove like a madman back home, speeding with all the windows down, hoping that the gushes of air would do the job.

They didn’t.

This shower is not doing a better job.

Maybe . . .

Oh no, that’s a bad fucking idea.

But maybe . . .

I could fight fire with fire.

I shake my head at this fucking idea, because I know it’s both good and terrible. It could backfire. It could become addicting.

Stepping out of the spray, I grab my phone and prop it on the four-foot-high divider wall before I walk back in. I’m not a fan of glass cages, so I had to have an open shower, with only this partial wall dividing it from the rest of the bathroom.

I open the spy-cam app, pulse speeding as I wait for Scarlet’s bedroom to pop on screen. The image slams into my chest like a wild blaze, shooting straight to my cock. It’s the only part of me that’s moving. Throbbing. I refuse to move, especially blink.

Because this sinful woman is spread bare in the middle of her bed, fingers sunk deep inside her pussy, back arched, and features strained with euphoria.

And I have a front-row seat to this show.

“That’s it, kitten, fuck that pussy raw.”

I turn the volume up, and my bathroom fills with her moans and soft cries. She sounds disheveled and desperate, begging for more.

For deeper gratification. For that stretch that brings a taste of pain.

I fist my cock, bracing myself against the wall as I watch her, pumping myself until my movements turn harsh. Borderline desperate. I tighten my grip around the piercings, hissing through satisfying pain, my knees threatening to buckle with the onslaught of pleasure. Harder and faster, I run my hand over my length, eyes trained on the woman who is not so slowly turning my life upside down.

“Aah, fuck!” she curses, reaching to the side with her free hand.

My attention is stuck on the arc of her curves—the gentle swells of her breasts, the sinuous lines of her luscious thighs, and the tantalizing glimpse of her pussy, partially hidden beneath the movement of her hand.

I flinch as my phone vibrates loudly on the tiles, and a text pops up at the top of my screen.

Electric heat blooms behind my ribs, and I lean in to make sure it’s definitely Scarlet’s name there. I swipe down enough for the reply box to show up without opening the app. I don’t want to miss a whimper or a squirm.