Page 77 of Somno Slave

The footage runs.

Peter’s grip around Deogal’s neck is brutal, coiled tight until his face turns red, but I’m not watching that. My gaze sticks where it shouldn’t, between his legs.

I slow it down. The image stutters slightly as it breaks apart into pieces. Movement becomes mechanical.

I try to breathe normally and fail, the rhythm slipping every time I reach for it. My thighs press together and it feelsamazing. A burst of pleasure that makes my fingers tighten on the edge of the desk, nails pressing into the wood hard enough to ground me.

I shouldn’t be reacting like this. I shouldn’t be watching this.

But then his hand moves, and I track it closely.

It shifts from his knee to his thigh in one clean movement, staying there for a beat longer than I remember. He continues. His fingers curl around his erection slowly, digit by digit, and I can’t look away. My chair creaks quietly under me as I lean closer.

When he grips it, a muscle in his jaw strains. The sound that leaves him isn’t loud, but it hits me anyway, low and rough. He thrusts once, almost light, almost testing, like he’s waiting to see if he’d be caught. And then he thrusts again.

Something tight and hot pulls through my body. I don’t recognise the way it hums. I shift before I realise that I’mmoving, and the chair drags along the place that aches. I gasp. I try to hide it, I really do, but it tears through my lips before I can catch it, and it seems to rip something open within me.

It throbs now. It begs me to touch it.

My fingers move by their own accord, resting on my thigh just like his did a few moments ago.

The pressure is unfamiliar. Wrong. It pulls something loose in my memory.

A few years ago. A flash of pink.

Olivia’s laugh, loud and careless, spilling across the table as she shoved the bag toward me like it was a joke I wasn’t in on. I hadn’t even needed to open it properly. The shape had pressed through the paper, obvious, deliberate. Her grin had only widened when I froze.

“You’re twenty-one,”she’d said, like that explained everything, like that made it normal.“What are you waiting for?”

Inside the bag was a vibrator, small but intimidating. I still have it. It’s still sealed, still hidden in my beside cabinet, unused.

My eyes prick, a sharp reminder I haven’t blinked in minutes. My tights feel soft to touch, even softer when I trail the pads of my fingers up the inside of my thigh. They disappear beneath my skirt before I can think too much about it. I shiver, the touch unfamiliar.

My other hand zooms in. The image pixelates, softening the edges, turning his features into something a little blurrier, but I need to be closer. I want to see more.

Something new blooms deep within and it’s addictive.

I lick my lips, refocusing on between his legs. His hand moves in that same slow, controlled rhythm, and my breath starts to shift.

For a moment, my fingers tingle as though something is pressing against them.

I freeze.

The sensation doesn’t belong there. It’s faint—barely anything—but it’s enough to make my stomach drop, a sharp, cold awareness spreading through me. The feeling lingers, phantom and wrong, like something brushing against me without ever quite touching. Hard and solid. And...thick.

Fuck!

My pulse stutters, then kicks harder, heat rising too fast under my skin as the connection snaps into place in a way I don’t want to understand.

No.

That’s not—

I flex my fingers, trying to shake it off, to ground myself back in something real, something separate, but it refuses to leave. And when I look back at the screen, I’m painfully aware of how close he is.

His arm jolts now, sharper, less controlled, like whatever restraint he had is slipping.

His head tips back with it, exposing the full line of his throat, and I feel my focus drag there instantly, caught on the movement before I can stop it. The muscles in his neck pull tight beneath his skin, shifting with each breath, each strained inhale travelling visibly through him, like I can track it, like I can follow it as it builds.