Page 14 of Whispers of Ruin

“Another.”

Julian smirks, that playful glint in his eyes tinged with something more—hope. He knows the only way I have been able to get close to him lately is with enough alcohol in my system to drown out the hesitation. So, he pours me another. Then a third. The air between us starts to feel lighter, the weight of his gaze less excruciating.

“You know, we’ve got just enough time for a little treat… Come on baby, it’s been so long.”

With a deliberate motion, he unbuckles his belt and drags down his zipper, the tension in his pants finally easing as he exposes exactly what he expects—what he demands—from me.

My phone vibrates, a sharp jolt against my leg. I steal a quick glance—just enough to catch the message.

What? But how?

Panic grips me as my eyes dart frantically around the limousine. It is simply impossible—there is no way he could know what I am doing right now. Unless… Maybe it is just a coincidence. A mind game. A bluff.

Fine. Let’s find out.

Without breaking eye contact with Julian, I slide my hand over the hard length straining against his pants and begin to stroke, testing fate itself. His head falls back as a deep, satisfied groan escapes his lips.

Ironically, there is no unease—none of the usual discomfort that creeps in the shadows of our intimacy. Instead, a fierce determination takes hold of me, a competitive fire that refuses to be extinguished.

Oh, so you think you’re watching me? You want me to believe that? Watch this.

Straightaway, I take him as far as I can, blowing his cock with overflowing energy.

“Fuck, babe—what the hell? That feels so fucking good. Don’t stop. Like ever.”

I don’t plan to. Not until my phone vibrates again. Not until he begs me to.

I devour him with desperate hunger, my tongue tracing every inch as if I have been starving for days—as if tomorrow is the end of the world and this is my last chance to taste anything at all.

I realize that my arousal nearly rivals what I felt in the library. Forgotten sensations surge, igniting a compulsion that refuses to be tamed. I need more. I needhimto answer me. I know that is what will push my desire past the point of no return. I crave the danger, to chase the adrenaline until it makes me tremble, driving me to the orgasm—until I shatter from the sheer thrill of it.

Just the memory of yesterday is enough to send my hand slipping between my legs, impatient to quell the unbearable ache surging. I almost never wear underwear, allowing my fingers to claim me as effortlessly as a blade sinking into silk—merciless, inevitable, and utterly intoxicating.

The deeper I suck him, the more desperate my fingers become, chasing a pleasure that borders on madness. His touch, once teasing, turns brutal—pulling my hair in a ruthless fist, forcing my head down despite the strain, despite the resistance that is more instinct than intent. My throat clenches tighter, my lungs beg for air, but the only sound that escapes is a muffled, sinful gasp.

Yet… still no message.

I realize I should drown in panic, but strangely I am not. A different kind of power coils, dark and insidious. Why am I pretending to resist when my whole being wants this?

I yield, leaning into the force of his hand, letting him drive me down as my own fingers mirror the motion, lost in the audacious, breathless thrill of surrender.

As the limousine shielding our depravity glides silently over the asphalt, a sudden burst of light flares ahead, followed by the raw growl of an engine.

“What the hell?” Julian snaps, straightening his suit as he leans angrily forward to get a better look through the window.

I follow his lead. A jolt shoots through me as soon as I see it—a motorcycle, sleek and black, parked sideways in the middle of the road, blocking our way. The rider sits motionless, dressed in all black, his face hidden beneath a helmet. Julian growls in frustration, shoving the door open.

“I swear to God—”

I barely register his anger as I step out behind him, my eyes locked onto the rider’s back. He is completely still, like he’s waiting for something—or someone. The limo’s headlights cast long shadows, illuminating the sharp lines of his leather jacket, the stiffness in his shoulders.

For a moment, everything stands down—the city noise fading, Julian’s frustrated muttering nothing but background static. My entire world narrows on the figure astride the bike, his broad shoulders tense, his head tilting ever so slightly as if considering whether to stay or go. He is a statue, frozen in time, yet I can feel his dominance piercing through the visor.

That’s when I notice it.

A small screen mounted on the side of his bike, glowing in the darkness. On it—clear as day—is the inside of the limousine. Every corner of it. Every moment.

Nausea rises in my throat.

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