Page 28 of Scarlet Thorns

He’s close now, his strokes becoming erratic, his hips thrusting forward involuntarily into his fist. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the air conditioning, and his jaw clenches with the effort of control. I can see the muscles in his thighs trembling with restraint.

I curl my fingers inside myself, finding that perfect spot that makes my back arch. My thumb finds my clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen bud as my fingers work inside me. The wet sounds of my fingers moving in and out of my pussy fill the room, mixing with our harsh breathing.

The intensity in his eyes breaks me. My orgasm crashes through me, my pussy clamping down hard on my fingers as waves of pleasure tear through my core. I arch off the chair, my free hand gripping the velvet as I finger myself through the climax, my walls pulsing rhythmically around my digits. It’sviolent and beautiful and exactly what I need— release from everything that’s been building inside me.

My cries of pleasure push him over the edge. His head falls back, throat working as he pumps his length with desperate strokes. When he comes, it’s with a deep groan that I feel in my bones, thick spurts of cum painting his taut belly. The sight of his release triggers another smaller climax in me, my oversensitive pussy fluttering around my still-moving fingers.

The sight of him losing control because of me sends aftershocks through my sensitized body. I’ve never felt so powerful, so desired, so completely alive.

We sit in the aftermath, breathing heavy, eyes locked across the space between us. The air crackles with satisfaction and something deeper— connection that transcends the physical, understanding that goes beyond words.

He moves then, standing and crossing to where I sit boneless in my chair. His approach is slow, unthreatening, but predatory in a way that makes my pulse spike again.

When he reaches me, he leans down and presses his lips to my forehead— soft, sweet, achingly tender. The kiss burns through me like a brand, claiming something I didn’t know I was offering.

His finger traces down my spine, just one gentle touch that leaves fire in its wake. I close my eyes, trying to memorize this moment— the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body, the way he makes me feel beautiful instead of broken.

When I open my eyes again, he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the echoes of what just happened. My body still hums with satisfaction, with the memory of his hands on himself while watching me fall apart.

I don’t know his name.

I’ll never know his name.

But I know how it feels to be desired completely, to have someone see my pleasure as sacred instead of inconvenient. I know what it’s like to exist in a space where I’m just a woman sharing intimacy with a man who thinks I’m perfect as I am.

And God help me, I want to see him again.

Chapter Eleven

Ilona

The cool night air hits my face as I step out of The Scarlet Fox, and I feel like I’m floating.

My skin still hums with electricity from TMG’s touch. The memory of his hands, his voice, the intensity of our connection sends warmth spiraling through my chest.

For the first time in months, I feel alive. Powerful. Like myself again.

My phone buzzes insistently from my purse as I walk toward the parking area, but I ignore it. Whatever crisis needs my attention can wait. Right now, I want to hold onto this feeling— this sense of being desired, heard, valued. TMG gave me something tonight that I’d forgotten I deserved.

The phone buzzes again. And again. Twelve missed calls when I finally check the screen, all from Stanley.

Not tonight,I think, sliding the phone back into my purse. Whatever he wants to fight about, whatever new accusation he’s manufactured, I don’t have the energy or the desire to engage. The contrast between how TMG treated me— with reverence, with attention, with genuine care— and how Stanley has been treating me feels stark and undeniable.

I’m done pretending that’s acceptable.

The parking lot is dimly lit, pools of yellow light from overhead lamps casting long shadows between the cars. My heels click against asphalt as I approach my Honda, keys already in hand. The night feels full of possibility instead of threat, my body still humming with the afterglow.

Then I see him.

Stanley leans against my car like he owns it, arms crossed over his chest in a pose designed to intimidate. His perfectly styled hair catches the lamplight, and his expression is dark with the kind of controlled rage I’ve learned to recognize as dangerous. My stomach drops as the fantasy bubble of the evening pops like soap film.

“So you’re coming here now,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “The Scarlet Fox.”

Shit.