Chapter 3: Different Opinions
1002 Words
Chapter 3: Different Opinions
(Scarlet's POV)
My mother always told me to have dignity. It was her favorite sermon, usually delivered while she scrubbed other people's floors or mended shirts that had seen better decades.
"Chin up, Scarlet," she would say, her eyes weary but fierce. "Your reputation is everything. Without pride, you are nothing."
I respectfully disagree.
I don't think pride can pay the electric bill. I don't think dignity can stop a bullet aimed at your chest.
Mother was wrong.
In this cruel, bloodthirsty world, it isn't the shameless who win. It's the survivors. The ones who see the world for the slaughterhouse it is and adapt to the blade.
Dignity is a luxury item, like a vintage Chanel bag or a summer home in the Hamptons. It is a trinket for the rich.
I can't afford it.
All I need is to live.
I looked down at Damon. The heavy fabric of his trousers remained flat. My touch earlier hadn't been enough to wake him up. He was just as the rumors said-cold, detached, a statue of ice.
I didn't kneel. I wasn't his servant, and I wouldn't act like one.
Instead, I stepped forward, positioning myself between his spread legs. My hands hovered over his thighs, uncertain.
"I'm not exactly an expert at this," I admitted.
My voice was steady, a construct of pure survival instinct, though my heart battered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He didn't push me away. He just watched, his gaze dropping to my waist, observing me like a specimen.
I took his hand. His skin was cool, unyielding.
I guided it toward the hem of my skirt. My fingers trembled, betraying my fear, but my movement was decisive. It was a desperate move. A gamble.
I didn't look away. I stared straight into his cold grey eyes.
I didn't ask for permission. This wasn't a request; it was a negotiation.
"Let's see if the rumors are true," I whispered, my voice low and laced with a challenge.
His hand rested against my thigh. The contrast between his cold fingers and my warm skin was jarring.
I didn't ask, *Is this okay?*
I tightened my grip on his wrist, pulling his hand higher, inward.
"Tell me if you hate this," I said.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. It was subtle, barely there, but I saw it.
His hand stopped at the edge of my panties. His fingertip slipped beneath the lace, poking gently.
My knees buckled.
I stumbled forward, falling toward his chest.
His other hand shot out, gripping my arm to steady me. His grip was iron.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable but intense.
"Can you handle this?" he asked seriously.
My brain stalled.
I felt like I was mixing volatile chemicals in a lab, holding a beaker that could explode at any second.
Frustration surged, drowning out the shame working its way up my neck.
"I need to know if it's alive down there," I muttered.
I lowered my head, my eyes scanning his lap with clinical scrutiny. I looked at him like a doctor looking for a pulse.
Sweat beaded on my neck. Strands of hair stuck to my cheek.
I looked back up at him, my eyes wide and sincere.
"Looking isn't enough, right?"
Damon's voice dropped, gentle but guiding.
"Are you sure looking will solve the problem?"
I blinked, confused for a split second.
"Touch," he commanded.
A memory flashed in my mind. Middle school graduation.
I was at my neighbor Julian's house.
He had a stash of softcore movies he liked to watch for the "plot." He had tried to show me, thinking it was rebellious.
To me, the screens just showed friction and mechanics. It looked clinical. Boring, even. There was no romance, just biology and physics.
When Julian tried to show me, I didn't feel disgusted. I felt like I was in biology class, dissecting a frog. I watched with scientific curiosity.
*That's the head,* he had whispered, pointing at the grainy screen.
I brought my hand down now, covering the bulge in Damon's pants.
It was semi-hard.
My mind detached, coolly comparing dimensions against what I knew in theory. It was... significant.
I tried to pull away, but he stopped me.
At the same time, his other hand slipped deeper into my underwear.
He found the dampness there.
He withdrew his hand slowly, holding it up to the light. His fingertips glistened.
"What do you call this?" he asked.
"It's... wet," I said.
My throat felt tight. I couldn't think of a medical term. I didn't want to use a vulgar one.
The blunt honesty seemed to please him.
Under my hand, I felt him harden instantly. He grew heavy and stiff, pressing against my palm through the fabric.
Damon stared at the clear fluid on his fingers. He brought his hand closer to his face and inhaled, taking in the scent.
Then, he did something that stopped my heart.
He pressed his fingers to his lips and tasted me.
I didn't freeze. A jolt of electricity shot down my spine, mixing with terror.
I stared at his mouth. It was mesmerizing. Dangerous.
He lowered his hand and looked at me.
A smile curled his lips. It was devilish. Charming.
Before I could breathe, he grabbed my hand.
He pressed my palm firmly down onto his erection. It was fully awake now, hard as steel.
His eyes drifted to the plastic nametag pinned to my torn blouse.
"Scarlet," he said, testing the name on his tongue.
My lips were dry as sandpaper. I nodded.
"Yes."
He lifted my hand to his mouth.
He pressed my thumb against his lips, wiping away the trace of my own fluids.
Then he let me go.
He looked like a predator that had just eaten. Satisfied.
He turned his gaze to the locked door.
His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the silence.
"Now, you can tell me what happened earlier."
- Writer
