Page 47 of Hellebore

She freezes. Then bolts toward the bathroom.

I switch cameras.

“There too, my love.”

A raw scream tears from her throat as she runs back into the living room, blanket trailing behind her as a cape.

I open the gallery and send her the video.

“I want you to see yourself coming in my mouth.”

Her phone dings. She stops dead in the middle of the room. The video starts playing.

I zoom in on her face.

Her beautiful blue eyes go wide. Her lips part. A deep blush spreads across her cheeks and down her neck. She slowly sinks onto the couch, blanket slipping slightly off one shoulder as she stares at the screen, unable to look away.

I watch every micro-expression, the way her thighs press together, the way her breathing grows shallow, the way her free hand unconsciously drifts toward her chest.

My cock hardens painfully against my pants at the sight. The memory of her taste, her soft unconscious moans, the way her cunt clenched around my tongue, it all floods back.

Fuck. I need more.

I need her awake next time. Screaming my name. Begging for more.

“Why didn’t—” She stops mid-sentence and grabs her phone with shaking hands.

I text first.

“You can speak. I can hear you.”

She stares at the screen, then starts looking around the room again, eyes wide and frantic, searching for the cameras as if she expects red blinking lights in the corners. She won’t find them, but I love watching her try.

“You didn’t… fuck me?” she asks, voice hoarse.

“No. I didn’t.”

She reads it, breathing fast.

“Why?” Her voice shakes a little.

“Fucking you is different from making you come to fulfill your fantasy. Fucking means you are awake. Feeling every inch of me stretching you open. Every brutal thrust. Every mark I leave on your skin. Fucking means you get to come with your eyes locked on mine while I ruin you.”

She reads it. Her cheeks flush a deep, shameful red. She presses the phone against her chest.

“I’m insane,” she says louder now, standing up. The blanket slips, revealing more of her pale skin. “I’m standing naked in my own apartment talking to a fucking stalker who drugged me, ate me out while I was unconscious, and put cameras and microphones everywhere. You’ve been watching me shower. Get dressed. Touch myself⁠—”

She drops to the floor, rubbing her face with both hands, voice cracking. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

I smile, enjoying every second of her unraveling.

“You enjoy the dark side of life, just as I do. There is nothing wrong with that, Briar. Also you drugged yourself. You ate the cake. All of it.”

She reads it and rolls her eyes, but her blush deepens.

“And why do you text like that? All dark and poetic and… whatever the fuck this is?” She whines. “Also…why do you like—?” She pulls the paused video of me without my shirt. “This.”

That pulls a low, genuine laugh from my chest.