Page 94 of Controlled Burn
Dean’s grip tightened, just enough to make her gasp. “You loved it. Didn’t you? Being split open. Being stuffed so full you couldn’t breathe. You wanted it. Needed it.”
She made a broken sound, a whimper caught between denial and plea.
He shoved his hand down the front of her shorts, fingers sliding through wet, throbbing heat. “You’re soaked,” he snarled. “God, you’re dripping. All I can think about is them—stretchingyou, using you, coming inside you, filling both your holes while you screamed for more. Did you scream for them, Talia? Did you scream my name?”
She bit her lip, but the flashbacks made her weak—Jake’s cock splitting her, Ryan’s fingers knotted in her hair, the weight of both men as they pinned her down, the way her body took all of it, the humiliation so sharp it twisted into pleasure.
He ground the heel of his palm against her clit, thumb cruel, his breathing harsh against her cheek. “You belong to me,” he growled. “You always fucking did. Even when they fucked you, filmed you, stuffed your cunt and your ass and made you their whore—inside, you were still mine.”
Talia shook—helpless against the onslaught of sensation, of words, of memory. She was caught in it, body aching for more, hating herself, loving it. She felt Jake’s cock in her, Ryan’s voice telling her to open up, the way she’d come with both of them inside her, the way she’d thought about Dean watching.
Dean fucked her with his fingers, rough and relentless, shoving two deep, then three, working her open like he was trying to erase every trace of them from her body. “Did they fuck your ass too, Talia? Did you take them both at once, greedy little slut? Did you come around them? Did you wish it was me?”
Her answer was a sob, her body clenching, hips rocking into his hand—chasing the pain, the stretch, the shame.
“You’re filthy,” he spat. “You love it. Being filled, being ruined, being watched. You want me to watch, don’t you? You want everyone to see what a good little whore you are.”
The orgasm that took her was violent, shattering—pleasure and shame twisting until she thought she’d break apart. She saw flashes behind her eyes—Dean’s jaw tight with jealousy, Jake’s smirk, Ryan’s guilt, the weight of all their bodies, her mouth open and begging.
Dean held her through it, never letting up, never looking away.
He pulled his slick fingers out and shoved them against her lips. “Open,” he ordered.
She opened. Sucked. Swallowed, tears stinging her eyes and shame burning across her skin. Her body was still trembling, wet and raw and used.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice ruined, thumb stroking the pulse in her throat. “You take what you’re given, don’t you? You always do.”
He let her go. Her legs gave out, and she crumpled against the wall, chest heaving, legs shaking, every part of her body burning—claimed, branded, destroyed.
Dean turned away, hands shaking, cock aching so bad it hurt to move. He paused at her door, looking back just once. The sight of her, wrecked and spent, would be tattooed on his brain forever.
For one brutal second, the weight of what he’d done hit him like a backdraft—violent, choking. She hadn’t said yes. Hadn’t asked. He hadn’t even tried to give her a choice. He saw her on the floor, shaking, lips slick with her own arousal and his command. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like rot. Like something inside him had snapped and could never be put back together.
He’d never get her out of his system. Not after seeing her destroyed. Not after knowing she’d let anyone—everyone—have her body.
And God help him, he wanted to be the one to fill her next. To split her open, fuck her ass and cunt at the same time, leave her ruined for anyone else.
Even if it killed him.
Chapter 35
The Watcher Escalates
Talia
The apartment door clicked shut behind Dean. Talia was left trembling, ruined and alone—still tasting the salt of his skin, the shame of his words. The walls of her bedroom felt too small, the air heavy and sharp. For a long time, she didn’t move, just slid down until her back hit the floorboards, knees pulled to her chest.
There was no comfort in solitude. No peace. Only the afterimage of his touch—possessive, bruising, necessary. She hated him for it. Hated herself more for needing it, for chasing the ache in her thighs and the raw scrape in her throat.
Morning came slowly and ugly. She dressed in silence, layering on her uniform and clipping her hair back like armor.When she stepped into the station, the harsh ceiling lights and scuffed tiles felt alien. Everyone moved through their routines: checking hoses, pouring off brand coffee, and pretending not to watch her. The taste of last night lingered on her lips—shameful, hungry, unforgettable.
She didn’t see Dean in the kitchen. Didn’t look for him, either. Every nerve in her body felt exposed, buzzing with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his jealousy. She tried to bury it. Failed.
Instead, she went to her locker—knuckles white, stomach hollowed out with dread.
And there it was.
The envelope.
