Page 27 of Scarlet Thorns
The tears come without permission, but I don’t try to hide them. Not here. Not with him.
“And now… I’m broken in ways that can’t be fixed.” The words carry the weight of every fear I’ve had since walking out of that doctor’s office. That I’m damaged goods. That no one will want me now. That my body has betrayed me in the most fundamental way possible.
He leans forward slightly, those pale eyes never leaving my face. When he speaks, his voice is rough, weighted with absolute conviction.
“You are not broken.”
Four words. Simple. Absolute. They hit me like lightning, stealing my breath and sending heat through my chest.
The certainty in his voice makes me want to believe him. Makes me want to crawl into his lap and let him convince me with his hands and mouth that I’m still desirable, still whole, still worth wanting.
My gaze drops to the towel around his waist, to the impressive bulge there. He wants me. Even knowing about my diagnosis, my uncertain future— he still wants me.
“Is that…?” I gesture toward his erection, warmth spreading across my skin. “Because of me?” I feel my cheeks flame, but I can’t help asking.
His response is wordless— just a slight nod and the barest hint of a dangerous smile. He doesn’t try to hide or adjust himself, doesn’t apologize for his body’s response. He just owns it, owns the desire crackling between us.
I can’t look away. Can’t breathe. Can’t think beyond the magnetic pull drawing me toward him like gravity.
He stands slowly, deliberately, every movement controlled and predatory. His hands move to the towel’s edge, fingers working the knot with casual confidence.
“Wait,” I breathe, but I don’t mean it. I need this. Need to see him, need to remember what desire feels like when it’s not clouded by pain or medical terminology.
The terry cloth falls to the floor.
My mouth goes dry. He’s godlike. Tall and lean and powerfully built, his cock standing proud and thick. Tattoos cover his torso like a roadmap of violence and survival— Russian script across his ribs, geometric patterns down his arms, something that might be prison markings on his knuckles. Scars interrupt the ink in places, pale against bronze skin, telling stories of fights he’s survived.
This is a body that’s seen war. That’s taken damage and kept going. That’s strong enough to survive anything.
He wraps his hand around his length, stroking slowly, eyes locked on mine. The sight sends molten heat pooling between my thighs.
“Touch yourself,” he commands softly.
My breath catches. “I can’t—”
A slight shake of his head. His eyes say everything. “You can. Show me.”
The unspoken words unlock something primal inside me, something that’s been buried under months of pain and insecurity. My hand drifts to the belt of my robe, fingers trembling as I work the knot loose.
The silk falls open, exposing my breasts to the candlelight. I’m not wearing anything underneath— hadn’t planned this, but my body knew what it needed before my mind caught up.
His eyes darken to slate as they rake over my bare skin, pupils dilating with hunger that makes me feel powerful despite everything. He increases the pace of his strokes, and I can see moisture beading at the swollen head of his cock, pre-cum glistening in the candlelight.
I part my legs without being asked, the cool air hitting my already slick flesh. I’m soaked, my arousal coating my inner thighs; I’ve been wet since the moment he walked through that door. My fingers find my center, sliding through the wetness before circling my swollen clit with gentle pressure that makes my back arch off the velvet.
What the hell are you doing, Ilona?
Have you gone insane?
It’s too late to turn back. A low growl escapes his throat at the sight of my glistening pussy spread before him, the sound vibrating through me and making my walls clench around nothing.
We watch each other, breathing heavy, movements synchronized. There’s something deeply intimate about this— more intimate than anything with Stanley ever was. We’re stripped bare in every way that matters, vulnerable and honest and completely present.
My fingers slide lower, parting my slick folds before pushing two fingers deep inside myself. I’m so wet they slide ineffortlessly, my inner walls gripping them as his grip tightens on his thick shaft. The sensation makes me whimper, hips rolling against my own touch as I work myself open. I’m lost in the heat building between us, in the way he’s watching me fuck myself with my fingers.
His breathing becomes labored, his hand working his length from base to tip with increasing urgency. The thick vein running along the underside of his cock throbs with each stroke, and I can see how his heavy balls tighten as he watches me pleasure myself. The sight of him losing control pushes me higher, closer to the edge I’ve been circling.
My free hand finds my breast, rolling the hardened nipple between my fingers as I pump my other hand in and out of my pussy with increasing urgency. I add a third finger, stretching myself as I imagine what it would feel like to have his thick cock filling me instead. The dual sensations make me cry out, sharp and desperate, my juices flowing freely over my working fingers.
