Chapter 23: Digital Devotion
The loft was a tomb of blue light and white noise.
Rebel’s hand moved in a brutal, punishing rhythm, a sharp contrast to the slow, deliberate ballet unfolding on the monitors. He was fucking his own fist, teeth gritted, eyes locked on her face. On screen two, her head was thrown back, throat exposed, the tendons straining. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but her mouth was open in a soundless ‘O’.
He remembered the taste of her that morning. The shock of it, the salt and silk, the way her thighs had clenched around his ears when he didn’t let up. She’d screamed his name into the pillow, the sound muffled but raw. A gift. A wrecking ball.
His phone, face-up on the desk beside his keyboard, vibrated with a hard buzz.
He didn’t look away from her convulsing body as he snatched it up. The screen glowed.
Sammy: Faster.
A broken laugh tore from his throat, dry and hollow. His own pace increased, a harsh, mechanical response to her command. His gaze was locked on monitor three, the thermal overlay. The bloom of heat between her legs was a nuclear sun, cooling now in lazy, pulsing waves as she came down.
On the main feed, her eyes opened. She looked directly into the hidden lens behind the screw, her hazel eyes dark and depthless in the low light. Spent. Defiant. Knowing.
His own climax hit him like a sucker punch, a wave of shame and violence that left him shuddering, sticky, and utterly empty. He slumped back in the chair, the leather squeaking. The loft smelled of sex and sweat and the flat, sterile odor of electronics.
On the monitor, Sammy was moving again. She pushed herself up, swung her legs off the bed, and walked, naked and unselfconscious, to her ensuite bathroom. The camera over the shower—one he’d installed last year claiming he was upgrading the ventilation—caught her reflection in the mirror as she washed her hands. She looked at her own face, water dripping from her fingertips. Then her eyes lifted, finding the camera hidden in the steam detector. She gave a slow, tired blink. Acknowledgment.
His phone buzzed again.
He didn’t want to look. He looked.
Sammy: Done watching?
He typed, fingers clumsy.
Rebel: No.
Her hand on the shower tap was steady. The bathroom filled with steam, a curling fog that softened the harsh edges of marble and chrome.
She stepped under the spray, her head tipping back to let the hot water hit her face. It poured over her dark hair, her closed eyelids, the curve of her lips. The water traced the lines of her tattoos, the black ink swirling across her ribs and shoulder like living things.
She stood for a long moment, just letting the heat soak in. Then she reached for the soap.
Her movements were deliberate. She lathered her hands, working the citrus-scented bar into a rich foam. She started with her neck, her fingers massaging slow circles into her skin. Her eyes were open now, gazing straight ahead at the tile wall. She knew he was watching. The steam detector. The vent.
Her phone, resting on the vanity outside the shower, buzzed faintly against the marble. She ignored it.
She dragged her soapy hands down her body, over her collarbones, across the swell of her breasts. She took her time, sliding her palms over her stomach, her hips. She arched into her own touch, her skin slick and gleaming under the water. Her head lolled to the side, exposing the column of her throat.
She turned, presenting her back to the spray. Water sluiced down the length of her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze drifting up toward the ceiling vent. A challenge. An invitation.
The phone buzzed again. And again. Persistent.
With a sigh that was mostly performance, she stepped out of the stream. Water pooled at her feet as she reached for a towel. She blotted her face first, then wrapped the towel loosely around her body. She padded, dripping, to the vanity.
She picked up her phone, her wet thumbs leaving smears on the screen.
Sammy: Okay.
Sammy: Where are they all?
She sent the texts, then leaned against the counter, staring at her reflection in the fogged mirror. She waited.
The response came a minute later.
Rebel: Smoke detector over the sink.
Rebel: The top left screw on the medicine cabinet mirror is a lens.
Rebel: Vent above the shower. Obvious one.
She read the words, a strange calm settling over her. He wasn’t hiding anymore. He was mapping her cage, handing her the keys.
She typed back.
Sammy: That’s it?
Sammy: In here?
A pause. The three dots pulsed.
Rebel: Yes.
She believed him. It was a new, unsettling instinct. She looked up, directly at the smoke detector nestled in the ceiling. She saw the tiny, dark glass eye at its center now. She turned her head toward the medicine cabinet, to the innocuous screw she’d passed a thousand times.
Then she looked back at her phone. Her next message was simple.
Sammy: Which one has the best view?
In the loft, Rebel’s breath caught. The question wasn’t fearful. It was tactical. She was scouting her own exposure. He typed quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Rebel: The medicine cabinet. Angled.
Rebel: Shows most of the room.
On the monitor, he watched her read the message. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her damp lips.
She dropped the towel.
It puddled on the floor at her feet. She didn’t look at the camera. She walked, naked and glistening, back toward the shower. She stopped just outside the spray’s reach, her body perfectly framed in the center of the bathroom.
Then she slowly turned her head, looking directly into the mirrored medicine cabinet. Into the screw. Into his eye.
She raised her hands to her hair, running her fingers through the wet strands. She tilted her head back, her throat working as she swallowed. Every movement was languid, exaggerated for the specific angle he’d given her.
She stepped back under the water, her back to him this time. She glanced over her shoulder, a look that was pure, unadulterated sin. She beckoned with one finger, a slow, deliberate curl.
Then she turned to face the spray fully, letting the water cascade over her front. Her hands slid over her body again, but this time there was no soap. It was just touch. Worship. A show staged for a single, captive audience.
Her phone, abandoned on the vanity, lit up with a new message.
Rebel: Look up.
Sammy’s hands stilled on her skin.
She turned her head, water streaming down her temples. Her phone glowed on the vanity, a pale beacon in the steam-filled room. She stepped from the shower, dripping on the floor, and walked toward it with deliberate, unhurried steps.
The screen held a single command.
Rebel: Look up.
Her gaze lifted from the device to the ceiling. The steam was thinning near the vent. She saw the faint, circular outline of the housing, the slats. Behind one of them, she knew, was a lens. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to her slow, measured breaths.
She placed the phone back on the counter, screen up. She didn’t break eye contact with the vent.
Her hands returned to her body, but differently now. This was no longer a private ritual. It was a demonstration. Her fingers traced the black lines of the raven tattoo on her ribs, then dipped lower, into the water-slicked curls between her thighs.
In the loft, Rebel’s world narrowed to the feed from the bathroom vent. It offered a god’s-eye view. Her head was tilted back, her expression serene and focused. Water droplets caught in her eyelashes. Her movements were slow, exploring, then deliberate.
A low groan escaped him. He unbuttoned his jeans, shoving them down past his hips. His own hand was rough, calloused, a stark contrast to the image of her careful touch. He mirrored her pace, his eyes glued to the monitor.
Pridence swallowed every other feeling. All his fears about her finding the cameras, about her anger, had dissolved. They were irrelevant. She was giving him a gift he’d never dared to properly imagine. His little ghost was no ghost at all. She was flesh and fire, and she was performing for him alone.
The annoying, grinding need to be physically present, to pin her against her marble countertop, to feel her arch and break under his hands, was a dull roar in his blood. For now, this would do. He could direct this. He could own this version of events.
His free hand flew to the keyboard.
Rebel: Slower.
On screen, her fingers visibly eased their rhythm. She obeyed, her chest rising and falling with a deeper breath.
Rebel: Use your left hand. On your neck.
She lifted her left hand from the water-slicked tile wall where it had been braced. She brought her fingertips to the pulse point just below her jaw, letting them rest there. The contrast was arresting—the gentle touch at her throat, the more purposeful movement below.
Rebel: Thumb in your mouth. Look at the mirror.
She brought her right thumb to her lips, sucking the water from it, her eyes locking onto her own reflection in the steam-fogged glass of the shower door. She held her own gaze, a dare to herself, to him.
Rebel’s breath sawed in and out. He was hurtling toward a precipice, the blue light of the monitors washing over him. This was better than any fantasy. This was real. She was real, and she was listening.
Rebel: Turn around. Hands on the wall.
Sammy paused. For a second, she just stared at the phone on the counter, reading the words. Then she turned, placing her palms flat against the cool tile. The water beat down on the back of her neck, her shoulders, streaming in rivulets down the valley of her spine. She pressed her forehead to the wall.
The new angle was devastating. Rebel could see the tense line of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the way her body shifted as she continued to touch herself. It was submission and defiance woven into one gesture.
Rebel: Say my name.
A tremor went through her visible shoulder. Her head shook once, a minute refusal. Then her lips moved. Even through the soundless feed, he could see the shape they formed. Rebel.
It was silent, but it detonated in his chest. His own movements grew urgent, frantic. He was closer now, teetering on the edge.
Rebel: Louder.
She shook her head again, her knuckles white where they pressed into the tile. But her mouth opened. This time, he could almost hear the gasp that preceded it. Her shoulders tensed, her back arching away from the wall.
Rebel: Say it.
A convulsion seemed to rack her frame. Her head fell forward, her dark hair sticking to the tile. Her mouth opened in a soundless cry, the name lost in the steam and the roar of the water. He saw it anyway. He saw everything.
The sight of her coming undone, following his commands, shattered his control. A harsh, guttural sound tore from his throat as he followed her over the edge, his own release a messy, solitary punctuation mark to their shared, distant act.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the whir of the servers. On the monitor, Sammy slid down the wall, her body folding to sit under the spray, head resting on her knees. Spent.
He wiped his hand on his jeans, his body feeling hollowed out and electric. He typed, his fingers trembling slightly.
Rebel: Look at the phone.
Under the water, she didn’t move for several seconds. Then, slowly, she pushed herself up. She turned off the shower. The sudden silence was profound. She stepped out, water pooling around her feet, and picked up the device.
Rebel: I’m coming over.
She stared at the words, her expression unreadable. Water dripped from her hair onto the screen. She didn’t reach for a towel. She just stood there, naked and glistening in the humid air, considering.
Her reply, when it came, was simple.
Sammy: The guest house. Door will be open.
Sammy: Don’t wake my brother.