I warn her. I try, anyway. “Sophie…fuck, you need to stop or this won’t last.” She looks up at me, blue eyes huge, and then she sucks harder, hollowing her cheeks like she wants to ruin me. I let her, because I want to see what happens when she gets greedy. When I come, it’s all at once, white-hot, and she takes it, licking and swallowing and not looking away until I collapse back against the sofa, spent and shaking.
She wipes the corner of her mouth, still blushing, but smiling proud and filthy, her hair wild, her lips swollen. I drag her up into my lap and kiss her, tasting myself on her tongue, not caring about anything except the way she laughs into my mouth and presses against me, soft and warm and real.
But I’ve had weeks of wanting her, weeks of jerking off to thoughts of her every night, so my cock is instantly hard again for her.
She’s still flushed, still trembling, still wet enough that when I grab her hips and guide her down onto my cock she sinks all the way with a single, brutal thrust. Her eyes fly open, mouth inan “o” of shock and then pleasure that makes me want to rip the rest of the night apart just to see how many other sounds I can drag out of her.
“Christian!” she gasps, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from coming again at the way she says it, half scandalized, half desperate.
“You’re mine!” I growl into her ear. I’m already moving, using her hips like handles, fucking her so deep her head tips back and her nails carve half-moons into my shoulders. “Oh god, sweetheart, I’ve needed you, needed this, so bad. You don’t even know.”
She’s shaking, clutching at me, breathless and pink and so beautiful I almost feel unworthy. Almost. But the way her cunt clenches around me, the way she rocks against me like she’s starving, tells me she wants every filthy thing I’m thinking. So I say them, low and rough into her ear: how I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks, how her sweet little body was made for me, how I’m going to keep her here until she can’t walk straight and the only word she remembers tomorrow is my name.
She moans, high and helpless, and I feel her start to fall apart again. I want her to come like this, riding me, looking at me, so I keep my hands on her ass and slow her down, letting her feel every inch. “Look at me,” I say, and she does, eyes huge and wet, lips bitten red.
When she comes, it’s a full-body quake, her thighs clamping around me like she’s afraid I’ll leave, her cunt pulsing so hard I barely keep it together long enough to watch her collapse against my chest, spent and shaking. I hold her through it, stroking her hair, kissing the sweat on her temple, letting her catch her breath.
But I’m nowhere near finished. I lift her, still impaled on my cock, and carry her to the bed in the other room, laying her out like an offering. She laughs, dazed, but when I spread her kneesand go down on her again she screams, no shame, no restraint, just pure, blinding pleasure. I eat her until she begs me to stop, then fuck her again, slow and deep, until she loses count of the orgasms and just sobs my name into the mattress.
When I finally come, it’s with her legs wrapped around my waist and her nails in my back, her voice hoarse from moaning. I spill inside her, raw and violent, and for the first time in my life I know what it means to want something so bad you’d give up an empire for it.
We collapse together, tangled and sticky and utterly spent. She curls into my side, face pressed to my chest, and I hold her like she’s the only thing anchoring me to this planet. Because she is. I now live only for Sophie Winters.
Sophie
Christmas morning light sneaks through curtains I forgot to close, painting golden stripes across sheets that don’t belong to me. Not my bed. Not my apartment. Christian’s. His penthouse. His bed—the one I ended up in after our unforgettable night at the Grand Summit.
I stretch, letting a delicious ache ripple through muscles that are still sore from our passionate lovemaking, savoring the warmth of the blankets against my bare skin, the lingering scent of Christian on the pillow next to me. He’s not here, but I can hear him moving in the kitchen, the soft domestic sounds of coffee brewing, maybe breakfast being made.
Then my hand lifts almost on its own, brushing hair from my face—and I stop cold. A weight. A glitter. A flash of fire that scatters across the ceiling. My breath catches.
A ring.
A massive, flawless diamond glints from my left hand—the same hand I fell asleep with tangled in his. It wasn’t there before. Not this ring.
I stare, my chest tightening, stomach flipping. It’s not a simple solitaire. It’s something bold, intricate, intimate. Snowflake shapes in platinum, smaller diamonds dancing around the center stone, an icy, sparkling promise I didn’t see coming. My pulse hammers.
“Merry Christmas.”
Christian’s voice makes me jump. He’s in the doorway, sleep pants hanging low, hair perfectly mussed, holding a tray of coffee and pastries. Fuck. He looks…dangerous. Vulnerable. Every part of him claims me, every glance makes my heart stutter.
“You put a ring on my finger while I was sleeping,” I murmur, half accusation, half awe, my voice trembling.
He crosses the room, sets the tray down, slides onto the edge of the bed. His eyes sweep mine, dark and intense. “I considered the whole bended-knee, speech, perfect moment routine,” he says, thumb brushing the ring, sending sparks straight into my chest. “But this…felt more like us.”
“Sneaky and presumptuous?” I tease, though there’s heat in my words, a flutter in my stomach that makes him smirk.
“Intimate. Certain.” His gaze pins me, claiming me without touching. “A quiet promise. Between us. Before anyone else can stake a claim.”
I swallow, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness, the sheer…himness of it. This is Christian. Bold. Controlling. Private. And somehow tender all at once. Tears prick my eyes.
“Is that a yes?” His voice is just slightly unsure.
I don’t answer with words. I launch myself at him, arms wrapping around his neck, pressing my lips to his. “Yes,” I whisper into him. “Absolutely yes.”
Christian’s hands are everywhere, possessive, claiming. My body hums under his touch, under the warmth of his arms around me. I can’t get enough, can’t stop drinking in his scent, the feel of his skin, the slow, knowing pressure of his hands. That ring glitters, dazzling and impossible, but it’s nothing compared to him, nothing compared to this perfect, private moment that is ours alone.
“I had it made for you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the intricate snowflakes. “From my mother’s diamond…from both our pasts, combined for our future.”
