“Take your clothes off,” he orders. “Now.”
The command slices through the air like a blade. I can barely strip the dress over my head. It drops at my feet, leaving me in red lace. He doesn’t move, watching me like I’m something he’s earned.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m scared,” I admit, throat tight.
The smirk fades from his mouth. He steps closer, heat radiating from him. “Good.”
The word shouldn’t make me shiver, but it does. He wants the fear—the proof that I still know what danger feels like. That I still know he could break me.
“I want you to remember this,” he murmurs, voice low, threaded with something darker than lust. “Every time you think about running. Every time you look at another man. I want you to remember that no one else will ever touch you like this. No one else will ever have you like I do.”
His hand moves down to my chest. Palm flat against my heart. “You feel that?”
I nod.
“That’s mine now. Your body. Your soul. It belongs to me.”
He turns me slowly, his hand trailing down the length of my spine. When his fingers find the clasp of my bra, it slips free with a soft snap. The air feels colder without it. His palm follows, skimming lower until he reaches the thin lace still clinging to my hips.
He doesn’t tear them away yet. Instead, he steps in behind me. I can feel him—solid, unyielding—pressing against the small of my back.
“You ready?” He breathes.
I close my eyes. And I nod. Because pain fromhimis different. It’s not cruel. It’sclaiming.
He leans close, his breath a rough whisper at my ear. “You trust me?”
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “I think so.”
My heart is a drumbeat against the silence of the room, loud enough to fill it. His voice follows, breathy and deep.
“You belong to me, Summer. Say it.”
I hesitate—only a heartbeat—but it’s enough.
He grips my jaw, forcing my head back, my face angled just enough that I can feel the edge of his breath.
“Say it.”
The words come out small but certain. “I belong to you.”
His exhale shudders against my skin, and for a moment, I feel it—something that almost resembles tenderness. The quiet between us hums with danger and devotion both.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, almost reverent.
The sound of it unravels me. He slides his hand down the front of my panties. I gasp—arching against him as his fingers find me. He groans, teeth grazing my neck.
“You’re fucking soaked,” he mutters. “God, I knew you were soaked in the truck. I saw the way you squirmed.”
He strokes once—lightly—and I moan, unable to stifle the pleasure he’s creating inside of me. He pushes me forward—his hands a command, not a guide—and I stumble against the wall, I feel his chest pressing behind me, with a force that knocks the air out of my lungs.
There’s no path to gentleness here. He could take me right here. Against the wall. On the floor. The thought flickers, and heat rushes through me—violent and shameful.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns me and lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist out of instinct. His strength isn’t just impressive—it’s unholy. I feel it in the tension of his muscles, in the way he carries me up the stairs like I weigh nothing.
