Page 16 of Black Heart

But I lose myself in the image, hypnotized by her every move.

Her fingers move faster, her nails dragging lightly across sensitive skin. My own palm presses against the cool glass surface of the monitor, my dormant heart reawakened. I bite back a groan as she arches her back, her breast rising to meet her seeking hand. When she closes her eyes and throws her head back in modest ecstasy, I can’t bear it anymore.

Pushing away from the desk so violently it nearly topples, Iflick off the monitors, the room plunging into darkness again. I can still feel her, though—her presence permeating every pore of my being.

This isn’t right. She shouldn’t be doing this.

But I can’t deny that I want her.

I spin, pressing myself against the cold wall behind me, trying to find some semblance of calm amid the havoc she’s created. My hand fists, knuckles white from the strain. I know I should stop, but I can’t.

My mind races, imagining what she’s doing, what I could be doing to her. The softness of her skin against my rough grip, the slick, wet sounds of her pleasure echoing through the empty room. I close my eyes tightly as I try to picture it, try to feel it.

It’s not enough.

An ache grows deep inside, a hunger only she can satiate. And so I succumb, dropping to my knees before the blacked-out monitors.

I stroke myself, imagining her hand instead, guiding me with those delicate fingers. Her gasps of pleasure become my gasps for breath, and soon, they mingle together in a symphony of need and longing. My hips jerk forward, faster and faster, my entire being consumed by this forbidden fantasy.

I roar, my orgasm overwhelming in one powerful release, my back curving as if hit by lightning. Cum splatters against the cool glass screen, warmth spreading between my fingers.

I fall forward, trembling, panting like a beast unleashed.

This shouldn’t be happening—no one should feel this way about their captor or stalker or whatever she thinks I am or what she is to me.

I wipe my hand on my pants, still unsteady from the intensity of my release. When I finally gather enough strengthto stand, I glance at the blank screen, wondering if she’s done with her performance.

The screen flickers to life, and there she is—Layla near the side of her bed, sipping her wine, setting it down, then guiding one strap down her shoulder.

My blood runs cold.

“Wraithling,” I say, low and feral as I lean closer to the screen. “What have you done?”

Layla must have set up some sort of loop, taunting me with an endless replay of her undressing to incapacitate me and give her time to escape my watch.

I growl under my breath, snatching my phone from the desk and storming out of the warehouse. My fingers hover over the screen for a moment, but I decide against sending Layla any threatening messages.

Words are unnecessary. Punishment is what matters now.

7

LAYLA

The night air hits me like a wet slap—cold, damp, and angry.

I can actuallytastemy heartbeat as I scramble out of my house and into my car, like my heart just might slip over my tongue and out of my mouth in a similar panicked escape attempt.

All I’ve taken with me is my red cross-body purse, the thumb drive safely tucked into my bra, and a kitchen knife I impulsively tucked in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.

My hand shakes as I turn the key into the ignition, then I skid over gravel and over-correct when I press on the gas too hard.

Earlier, I amazed myself at how calm I was while figuring out how to outsmart my watcher, first by ensuring his focus when I used tactics trying to break into his system, then subtly recording pleasuring myself to upload.

His system went through routine maintenance reboots—brief windows I observed over the weekend. During this short period, I uploaded the loop directly into the system’s localstorage via a hidden access point I discovered in the house’s network infrastructure, bypassing the main security firewall that my watcher monitors. I figured my striptease would be surprising enough to give me precious time to escape.

Grinning, I imagine the shock he must’ve felt at the sudden appearance of his victim in barely-there silk pajamas, fondling her breasts. I didn’t have to imagine the heat pooling between my legs as I did it or how hard my nipples became when I pinched them, thinking of my invisible watcher on the other side, watching me with hooded eyes.

It turned me on when it should have repulsed me. I actually felt the beginnings of an orgasm when my hand wandered down my stomach, reaching for the ache between my legs.