Page 105 of Moth to a Flame

Ever since that fucker Tripp, I’ve been working with our legal team and one of Beverly’s development team on solutions for making sure our users are safe.

Nothing I ever do will be foolproof. There will always be the one subscriber who’ll go unnoticed, who’ll have his record expunged for whatever reason. Who’ll claim he’s into X when in fact he has a hard-on for shoving bleach into women’s mouths. He might not even be as bold as Tripp to state it. He’ll just do it.

Doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to protect the safe space I created.

This won’t be an easy fix. Until we have a protocol set in place and a new security feature up and running, I do random checks like I had the night I stumbled onto Regan’s profile.

Deep inside, I’m not too thrilled about it. The first couple of times I browsed through messages and profiles, I ordered Regan to sit next to me. She didn’t need this proof that I wouldn’t betray her, but I did. I had to show her I was not searching for something better. That I have the best thing right here with me.

She said she trusted me before I went through that first search. She hasn’t stopped.

But it’s time I let other people do it.

The women’s profiles are now vetted by two rising stars on one of Beverly’s teams. They both signed new NDAs. Both heard the underlying threat in my voice over our video conference telling them they’d be really fucking sorry if any of our users’ information leaked out.

They’ve been doing a great job since, targeting the predators who abuse this safe space.

An attack as brutal and as violent as the one that Regan went through should never, ever happen to anyone else—unless his name is Lester Burkes.

I’ll do everything in my power so that my platform rejects these monsters.

Without disturbing her, I climb out of bed, pull on my sweats, and head to the den. Take a seat in one of the armchairs where I search for any users who raise red flags.

Three hours have gone by and thank fuck, nothing.

Problem is, I’m still no closer to being tired. Don’t even yawn.

I have Lester on my mind. His parole hearing is weighing down on me more than I’d like to admit. Just the mention of his name in my head, and my pulse rages between my ears. My muscles flex, and my blood runs hot in my veins.

He caught her. He violated her. Hetookfrom her.

So much.

The urge to abuse him in every vile way known to man festers beneath my skin.

Murder. Murder. Murder.

I need him to be pardoned. I need this fucker out of prison. Have his heart in my fist and squeeze slowly until I bleed him dry.

“Fuck this.” I’m out of the chair, heading to the doors leading to the beach.

Sitting in my comfortable home while he’s not here clearly isn’t helping. Doing something I hate, that could be a short-term fix for me.

The repulsive texture of the sand, knowing is ruins my sweatpants, that could lift this heavy weight off my chest.

This time, unlike the others though, I don’t resent my obsession.

There’s nothing wrong with my feelings for Regan.

What’s wrong is I can’t do anything about it at the moment, and it’s killing me from the inside.

Maybe if I turned down the intensity a notch, I could breathe again. Be a better man for her.

It might. Then I’d go back to bed, shove myself all the way into Regan’s sweet pussy, balls fucking deep. Fall asleep like that.

Inside my woman. My one and only me.

Fuck, I love her.

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