A room comes with a cost - Part 3 - Sexgeschichten

A room comes with a cost - Part 3

... all at once.

Why? Hate him... the squeeze on my thigh in the kitchen, the vid's garbled confession, the way he'd scripted half the rules in that midnight powwow. But the wipe-down last night, the hair strokes through the aftershocks... it stuck, twisted comfort in the chaos.

"Just... a minute. Don't touch. Talk or something."

He nodded... slow, no push... and settled back on his heels, hand dropping to his thigh instead, fingers drumming once, twice, like he reined in the itch to reach. The lamp's glow caught the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his shorts tented subtle, unspoken evidence of the kitchen's show.

"Alright. Talk it is."

Voice low, edged with that gravel he shared with Mike, but softer... no command, just... there. A beat, his eyes flicking to the crumpled panties in my fist, then back up, holding mine without flinching.

"That was... intense. Your call, yeah? Scripting it like that... gag first, edge through all twenty. Ballsy. Or crazy."

A half-smirk tugged his lip, but it died quick, eyes searching deeper, like he saw the crack I'd spilled at dinner: The fear, the her, the slut scripting her own fall.

"You good? For real? 'Cause if it's too much..."

"Too much?" I laughed... bitter, watery, the sound cracking in the quiet, tears pricking fresh as I shifted on the mattress, the sheets whispering cool against my bare ass, a mercy on the throbbing heat.

"It's always too much. The log, the checks, the way you all... know. ...

... And still... I'm scarred of this side of me. Scarred of her"

My fist clenched tighter around the panties, the damp cotton seeping through my fingers, that musky tang wafting up like accusation. Know my slick, my begs, the way I'd chosen the humiliation because fighting it left me wetter, needier.

"Scared of her," he echoed, voice low and rough, no smirk... just quiet, like he was turning the words over, tasting them.

He shifted on his knees, the carpet creaking faint under him, close enough now that his knee brushed the bed's edge, the heat of him seeping through.

"The girl who... wins the heat. Yeah. I get that."

A pause, his gaze dropping to the panties clutched in my fist, then back up, holding mine, waiting.

"You don't have to hate her, Sarah. She's you. The fighter who scripts her own edges, chooses the gag 'cause it's honest. That's not losing. That's... owning the storm."

I flinched at the brush of his knuckles... light, feather-soft against my outer thigh, tracing the faint bruise blooming where Liam had pinned me spread. Not groping. Not checking. Just... tracing, like mapping a scar to understand it. The contact sparked... electric, unwelcome but not, sending a lazy throb low in my belly, clit twitching raw against the cool air.

"Stop," I whispered, but my hand didn't shove... fisted the sheets instead, knuckles white, the rebellion warring with the ache for more of that touch, that twisted care. After the swats, the floods, the begged ...