Page 132 of Controlled Burn
Let them see the real her.
Let the camera catch it all.
The turnout room was a box of halogen glow and shadow. Gear hung like empty skins. The camera in the corner blinked red—steady, mechanical, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Recording. Waiting.
She paused in the doorway, feeling her pulse sync to that blink. Not fear. Anticipation. Power sharpening to a fine, vicious edge.
Jake was already there, shifting from foot to foot. Too eager. Too flushed. He reeked of nerves and Axe.
He opened his mouth.
“Don’t talk.” Her voice landed like a slap. Final. Iron-wrapped.
The camera blinked.
She walked forward, boots deliberate, until his back hit the gear rack with a metallic clunk. Her palm pressed his chest. Hard.
“On your knees.”
He blinked. Tried to laugh. “You gonna—?”
Shove. He hit the floor with a grunt.
“On. Your. Knees.”
This time, he obeyed.
Her fingers fisted in his hair, dragging his face up until his eyes met hers. The red light burned above them, catching every twitch.
“You don’t touch me. You don’t speak. You do exactly what I say.”
Jake’s throat worked. He nodded.
“Good.”
She hooked a thigh over his shoulder and pulled her shorts aside. No performance. No seduction. Just exposure.
“Eat.”
His tongue was sloppy. Greedy. Too fast. Too shallow. She corrected him with a grind of her hips, a fist in his hair, and a low, disappointed hum that made him flinch like a scolded dog.
“Slower.”
“Higher.”
“No teeth.”
Every command chipped at him. Every correction sanded down the smirk, the bravado.
He tried once—just once—to slide a hand to her thigh. She grabbed his wrist, twisted, and slammed it back to the floor.
“Hands down,” she snapped.
His eyes widened. Obedient.
Good.
