Page 90 of Controlled Burn
Her body still ached from the night before—from Dean. The ache wasn't gentle. It was raw.
Her thighs burned where he'd held her open, forced her to take it. Her throat was sore from the pressure of his grip. Even her jaw ached, like she'd been biting down on the need to scream.
In the shower that morning, she'd tried to scrub him off. Failed.
The water traced over her collarbone, catching on a bruise. She pressed into it, sharp, letting the pain root her back in her body.
But it wasn't just pain. It was heat.
Between her legs, she was slick and swollen, the ghost of his touch making her thighs clench. Every time she moved, she felt it—an echo of his fingers, his voice in her ear: You like being used. You like being wrecked.
And she did. God help her, she did.
That shame followed her through the day, sliding up her spine, humming in her veins. She avoided his gaze. Avoided everyone. Let the silence hang like smoke.
That night, long after lights-out, she slipped into her bunkroom and locked the door behind her.
She didn't turn on the light. Didn't need to see herself to know what she was doing.
The vent overhead buzzed. She thought she saw something—just for a second—a glint. A reflection.
Then it vanished.
The air was warm. Too warm. Thick with the scent of sleep and sweat. She pulled her shirt over her head, shoved her pants down, slid beneath the scratchy blanket, and let it fall away from her legs.
She was already wet. Already desperate. Already ashamed.
Her hand found her clit like it belonged there. Like it always had.
She pictured him—voice sharp, mouth cruel, eyes burning like sin. Dean Maddox. Her captain. Her sickness.
He was behind her in the fantasy, hand tangled in her hair, forcing her forward. Forcing her open. Spitting on her cunt. Calling her filthy.
She pressed her fingers harder, breath catching in her throat.
You're mine, rookie. Mine to break.
She was grinding against her own palm now, eyes squeezed shut, thighs shaking. The mattress creaked under her, quiet but not silent. She didn't care.
She needed this. Needed him. Needed to feel it again, even if it was only in her skin.
She pictured his hand closing around her throat. His belt pulling tight around her wrists. His breath on her ear: Good girl. Say you want it.
She whimpered, slapped her hand over her mouth, and came like something wild. A flood. A rupture. Her legs trembled. Her heart cracked open.
And still—still—it wasn't enough.
She kept going. Slower now. Shame curled in her chest like smoke.
When the second orgasm hit, it wasn't pleasure.
It was grief.
She collapsed into the pillow, body wrecked, fingers shaking, thighs sticky and hot.
She whispered his name.
Not because she forgave him. Because some fucked-up part of her still wanted to be broken again.
