Page 89 of Game Over

The water swirls around my thighs, cold and unrelenting. My body trembles, but not just from fear. Something else stirs inside me—a hot, unwelcome rush of arousal that mingles with my terror.

I close my eyes, ashamed. This broken part of me that I’ve never understood, never wanted. Ever since I was eleven and my uncle would sneak into my room at night, whispering that I needed to be quiet, that it was our secret. The fear became tangled with other sensations my young mind couldn’t process. Then, however, I felt dirty; like no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get his filth off me. There wasn’t a choice; no safeword would save me.

The water reaches my waist now. My body responds to the danger, nipples hardening. My breath comes in short gasps that aren’t entirely from panic.

This is why masked men on TikTok always captivate me. Why GhostDaddy’s videos made me squirm in my seat. In my darkest fantasies, it was always a faceless intruder breaking through my window, pinning me down, and taking what he wanted while I struggled helplessly.

Water rises to my ribcage, cold waves occasionally splashing higher.

The water climbs to my chest, panic swelling with each frigid wave. My lungs constrict as salt spray hits my face. I can’t move, can’t escape. The tide rises relentlessly, threatening to drown me inch by inch.

“RYKER!” I scream one last time, voice breaking.

A shadow moves beneath the surface.

Suddenly, he rises from the water before me like some primal sea god, water cascading down his tattooed chest. His eyes lock onto mine—hungry, possessive.

Before I can speak, his hands are on me. The contrast between the icy water and his burning touch shocks my system. His fingers dig into my hips, lifting me slightly against my restraints.

“I heard you calling,” he growls, his voice barely human.

In one brutal thrust, he’s inside me. No warning, no preparation. My body, treacherous as ever, is already slick and ready for him.

“Fuck!” The word tears from my throat.

The pain and pleasure collide into something cosmic and overwhelming. My head falls back against the post as he pounds into me, the tide washing around us, his heat scorching me from the inside out.

“You think you’re afraid of the waves?” His voice like sandpaper against my ear. “You should be afraid of how fucking wet you get for me.”

The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, obliterating thought, language, and identity. Nothing exists but the point where we connect, where fear transforms into ecstasy.

“That’s it. Show me what a dirty little slut you are for me,” he hisses, his rhythm never faltering. “Drowning in pleasure while tied to a fucking post in the ocean.”

The world fragments into white-hot shards. My consciousness slips away for a second, or maybe an eternity, as I succumb completely to the pleasure. I come back to his voice in my ear, filthier than the darkest corners of my fantasies.

“I own every inch of this cunt. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

The water slaps against us, cold and unforgiving, but between my legs I’m burning. My wrists strain against the restraints. The contrast of sensations—the biting cold of the rising tide, the scorching heat where our bodies connect—makes everything more intense.

“Eyes on me,” he demands.

My eyes flutter open to find his face inches from mine, his gaze boring into me with such intensity I can barely breathe.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he growls, his thrusts slowing to an agonizing pace.

The words catch in my throat. Part of me wants to fight, to deny him this, but another part—the part that’s been awakening since he took me—craves to give him what he wants.

“You,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the crashing waves.

His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. “Louder.”

“You! I belong to you!” The words tear from my throat, half-scream, half-sob.

Tears stream down my face, mixing with the salt spray. I’m crying not from pain or fear but from release—the release of surrendering to what I’ve fought against my entire life.

Ryker’s rhythm changes, becoming more frantic. His breathing is harsh against my neck. The tide rises higher, water now lapping at my shoulders. I should be terrified of drowning, but all I can focus on is the building pressure inside me, threatening to shatter me completely.

“That’s it, Mischief,” he pants, using his nickname for me. His fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. “Give it all to me.”

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