Chapter 6. Realisation

His words landed like a slap.

I was still there — in that thick, clinging fog that wouldn’t let go, where there was no up or down, only heat and someone else’s smell soaked into my skin, my hair, my lungs. And his voice — calm, almost bored — yanked me out of it the way you’d haul someone out of water by the hair. Sharp. Painful. And suddenly I was cold.

I remembered the deal.

Fifteen minutes. He’d said fifteen minutes. If my knickers stayed dry, he’d stop. A stupid, humiliating bet I’d agreed to, because saying no would have taken strength, and I hadn’t any left. And there was Grey, too. His eyes. His whisper: Submit. As if submitting were easy. As if it cost nothing.

I’d lost.

The word surfaced in my head and lodged there like a splinter. Lost. Not to him — to myself. To my body, which never listened to me when it came to this. To my fingers, which had reached for the elastic of their own accord. To my tongue, which already knew his taste and wanted more.

I hated myself. Him. Grey. But most of all I hated how good it had felt. That the body I’d thought was mine for twenty years had betrayed me so easily, so willingly, so greedily. Had given itself over to someone else’s smell. Someone else’s voice. Someone else’s hands. Without even putting up a fight.

You’re a slut, something said in my head. The voice was mine. And not mine. Too low, too calm, too pleased. A proper little slut. Standing here soaking wet, and already gagging for more. What for? So you can come for the enemy while your boyfriend sits on a chain and watches?

I flinched. Not from the cold. From the truth.

My body wasn’t listening. My body was burning. Between my legs it was hot and slick, and I felt it in every cell, every nerve, every thought that tried to run — and couldn’t.

He’d said he had five minutes left. Five minutes in hand. Which meant I’d soaked through in under ten. Less than ten minutes. Even with Grey I’d never got this turned on, this fast. Even our first night, when he was a wolf and licked me on the kitchen floor, I hadn’t dripped like this — not this much, not this openly, not this shamefully. And now I was standing in front of a man who kept my boyfriend on a chain, and I was dripping. Dribbling down the inside of my thigh. Dripping so hard I could feel it through the fabric of my knickers — sticky, hot, heavy.

“Stand up,” Dan said.

I didn’t get the chance to move. He hooked his hands under my arms and lifted me off my knees — easily, as if I weighed nothing, as if there were no bones in me, no muscle, no stubbornness. I stood before him, swaying. My legs shook. My knees wouldn’t hold. And he looked at me — sly, pleased, like a cat that’s finished toying with the mouse and is now deciding: eat it now, or have a bit more fun first.

“Right, let’s have a look at you,” he smirked, and winked. “I’ve still got five minutes.”

His hand slid between my legs.

I didn’t have time to pull away. To squeeze my thighs shut. Even to breathe in. His fingers were already tracing the wet fabric, pressing it into me — slowly, confidently, feeling out every fold, every treacherous clench of muscle, every rush of blood that answered his touch. The fabric was soaked through — not just damp, but drenched, heavy. His fingers glided over it easily, almost frictionless, and the sound of it — wet, obscene — made my ears burn.

I shuddered. My body arched towards his hand of its own accord — as if it had been waiting for exactly that. A short, stifled moan broke out of my chest. I didn’t manage to swallow it. Didn’t manage to turn it into a cough. Didn’t manage to pretend it wasn’t me.

He heard. Of course he heard.

Hear yourself moaning? That same low, almost tender voice inside. Hear how much you’re loving it? This is your punishment. This is humiliation. And you’re already melting. Already dripping. Already ready.

He laughed softly. Quietly. Almost gently.

“Well now...” He raised his fingers to his face, breathed in, eyes closed. “It seems someone lost very hard indeed. You smell delicious as it is, Alexandra. But your want smells even better.”

He licked his fingers slowly. Without taking his eyes off me. Savouring it. As if tasting an expensive wine and deciding whether the bottle was worth the money.

“I wonder what you taste like.”

And he sank to his knees.

I watched him drop lower. Watched his eyes — bright, blue, predatory — come level with my chest. Watched him lean in. Watched his teeth close over my nipple through the fabric of my T-shirt — not painful, but sharp, enough to make my knees tremble, enough to send a spasm through the pit of my belly. I moaned again. I wasn’t really trying to hold it in any more. Holding it in was too hard. Too late. Too pointless.

Again, the inner voice whispered, almost relishing it. Moaning again. He hasn’t even been inside you and you’re already falling apart. What would Grey say if he could read your mind right now?