Page 92 of Controlled Burn
She braced herself on the sink, the porcelain cool against her palms, and stared at her reflection: hollow-eyed, mouth parted, pupils wide and wild. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like a girl already halfway gone and already claimed.
You don't want this, she told herself. But her thighs pressed together, aching for friction. Her breath came shallow, chest rising and falling in quick, helpless bursts.
She slid a hand beneath her waistband, the rough fabric dragging over skin that still tingled from last night. Her fingers found her clit, already slick, already desperate. She bit her lip, hard, fighting a moan.
She pictured Dean—fury in his eyes, hand on her throat, shoving her against the wall, squeezing until her ears rang, voice rough as gravel: You like being used, don't you? Tell me you want this. Open your mouth, rookie.
She pressed harder, hips rocking against her own palm. The image of him flashed in her mind: uniform rumpled, eyes black with want, mouth curled in a cruel smile. The weight of him. The sound of his belt hitting the floor.
Jake's voice layered in next—the low, taunting murmur in her ear: Bet you want someone to see, don't you? Bet you get off on it. Being watched. Being shown off. Dirty girl.
She remembered the camera, the flash of the video screen, the hungry way Jake had looked at her, the sense that every angle of her was being devoured.
She hated herself for it. But her fingers didn't stop.
She imagined someone watching now through a vent. A tiny hole was drilled in the tile. The glint of a hidden phone behinda bottle of shampoo. She wanted to be caught and displayed. Wanted someone to know what she was.
A girl who couldn't stop. Who got off on danger. Who liked being watched. Who wanted to be used.
Her body shook. Her breath stuttered, hot and frantic, skin prickling with humiliation and need. She came quietly, hand muffling the sound, hips jerking, every muscle locked and trembling. Tears stung at her lashes.
She slumped against the sink, chest heaving, sweat cooling on her skin. Her hand trembled as she reached for a paper towel and wiped herself clean. The world felt sharp and new. Every nerve raw.
She didn't clean up right away. Just stared at herself, the mask slipping. She didn't see a firefighter. Didn't see the tough girl who could take any call.
She saw a girl who wanted to be watched. A girl who wanted to be caught. A girl who would do it again.
A bitter laugh slipped out, unhinged and shaky. There was something deeply, terribly wrong with her. And she didn't want to fix it.
She just wanted to know who had left the note.
And if they'd be watching next time.
When she finally unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, the air felt different. Thicker. Heavy. She felt the weight of unseen eyes—a presence hovering, hungry, just out of sight. Her heart pounded, but her hips rolled as she walked, a challenge in every step.
She didn't look back.
But she felt it.
And deep down, she hoped they wouldn't look away.
Watcher
He watched her leave the bathroom, head high, lips bitten red. He saw the tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders squared as if she could carry the weight of the world and all its dirty secrets.
He held his breath, barely moving, tucked just out of sight behind the cracked janitor's closet door. He'd waited. Watched the hallway camera feeds. Timed it perfectly.
She didn't see him. Not this time.
But he saw everything.
He'd seen her check for cameras—seen her scan the vents, the corners, the mirror. She was smart. But not smart enough.
He replayed the scene in his mind: her hips rocking against the sink, her hand moving under her waistband, the broken gasp she tried so hard to muffle. The way she looked at her reflection—wild, hungry, lost.
God, he wanted to see it for real.
He'd left the note because he had to know. He needed to see what she'd do when she thought she was being watched. When she thought she was exposed.
