He steps behind me, his presence an oppressive heat at my back. I watch his dark reflection appear in the glass behind my own pale, ghostly silhouette.
His hands don’t go to my zipper. Instead, they slide down my sides, his fingers hooking under the hem of the emerald silk. With a single rough motion, he hikes the dress up, gathering the expensive fabric in his fists until it’s bunched around my waist. The cool air of the room hits my bare skin, and I am exposed from the waist down, my legs and the black lace beneath them reflected in the glittering city lights.
My breath catches in my throat. I am still trapped in the top of the dress, but utterly bare to his gaze, and to the imagined gaze of the entire world below.
Then, his right hand lifts. The air crackles with anticipation.
CRACK.
The sound is sharp, shocking, echoing in the silent room. A stinging, electric heat explodes across my left cheek, so intense that it makes me cry out, my hands flying up to bracemyself against the cold glass. The sound, the sting, the sheer, unadulterated claim of the act sends a bolt of lightning straight down my spine.
West doesn’t say a word. He simply places his hand over the place he just struck, his palm hot and heavy, branding me. He leans his body against mine, trapping me between his heat and the cold of the window.
“Everyone is down there, Kinsley,” he whispers, his voice a rough, guttural sound right beside my ear. “Panicking. Talking. Wondering what comes next.” He leans his head against mine, his lips brushing my temple. “I want them to look up. I want them to look up at this tower, the crown jewel of an empire I just threw away, and I want them to know that the queen of my new world is right here.”
Vertigo spins through me, a terrifying, exhilarating mix of fear and desire. He is not hiding me away, he is putting me on display.
He leans down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. His erection is a hard, demanding pressure against the small of my back.
“Look down, Kinsley,” he commands, his voice a raw growl. “Look at them all.”
I obey, my gaze dropping to the endless sea of lights below.
“They can look,” he whispers, his free hand sliding down my stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the thin lace barrier. “But you are mine.”
The fabric of my panties gives with a sharp tearing sound. He tosses the ruined lace aside, a discarded scrap of the old world. Now I am truly bare to him, naked against the glass, my reflection a pale, trembling ghost caught between the city lights and the hard, solid reality of him behind me.
His right arm bands around my waist, pulling me back against him. The position is awkward, precarious. He reaches up withhis other hand, not for my throat but for the fabric of my dress still bunched above my breasts. With a single, powerful rip he tears the silk down the back. The dress splits, the ruined fabric falling away to pool around my feet, leaving me wearing nothing but my heels. The cold glass is a shock against my bare, hardened nipples.
“You were made for this,” he groans, the sound torn from his chest. “Made for me.”
He grips my hips, tilting them back. I feel the blunt head of him press against my entrance, a slick, hot promise of what’s to come. My breath hitches. My body, my traitorous, brilliant body, doesn’t tense. It welcomes him. It’s been waiting for this.
With a slow, unrelenting push, he sinks into me.
The stretch is exquisite, a deep, claiming fullness that makes my head fall back against his shoulder as a low, guttural moan escapes my lips. He is inside me, deep and absolute, a connection that goes beyond the physical. It is a sealing of the contract, a binding of our fates in the most intimate way possible.
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just lets us both feel the rightness of it. He is a sheath, and I am the blade. Together we are a single, perfect weapon.
And then, he begins to move.
His other arm slides up my body, a slow, deliberate journey that makes my skin prickle with anticipation. His fingers trail over my collarbone, up the column of my throat. They simply rest there, a light, possessive touch that is more terrifying than a grip. My pulse hammers against his fingertips, a frantic, trapped bird.
“You feel that?” he growls, his hips rocking in a slow, deep rhythm that makes my toes curl. “That’s the world watching us Kinsley, and they don’t see a victim. They see a queen. My queen.”
His words are a dark, intoxicating magic rewiring my brain, recasting my terror as triumph. The city below isn’t a witness to my violation; it’s an audience for my coronation. The hand on my throat tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to command. To remind me who holds the power, who controls the very air I breathe. A thrill, sharp and electric, shoots through me. My hands, pressed flat against the cool glass slide down, leaving smudged prints in the condensation of our shared heat.
I am no longer bracing myself against him, I am presenting myself to him.
His pace increases, a slow, steady rhythm that quickly builds into a punishing, driving force. Each thrust is a declaration, a brand, erasing the man I was with and carving the man he is into my very soul. The pleasure is a tidal wave, rising higher and higher, threatening to drown me. My moans fill the room, no longer sounds of fear but of raw, unadulterated need.
He feels my response, the way my body opens for him, the way my hips rock back to meet each powerful thrust. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a rough, intimate vibration that sends a shiver straight through me. “That's it,” he growls, his hand on my throat flexing with a possessive pulse. “Take it. Take what I'm giving you.”
And I do. I take every hard inch of him, every possessive word, every brutal, beautiful thrust. My mind is gone, a distant, irrelevant speck. There is only this. Only the raw, overwhelming reality of him claiming me, body and soul. I am a vessel, created for this purpose and I am finally, terrifyingly, blissfully whole.
My fingers curl into claws against the glass, a desperate attempt to anchor myself against the overwhelming force of the pleasure building inside me. My breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps, fogging the window in front of my face. The city lights blur into a swirling, psychedelic kaleidoscope of color. I am beingfucked against a window twenty stories above the world, and I have never felt more grounded.
“Look at you,” he groans, the words a raw, possessive sound that vibrates through his chest and into my back. “So beautiful. So fucking mine.” He shifts his angle, a slight, deliberate movement that makes me cry out with a sharp, strangled sound of pure pleasure. He's found it; that perfect, devastating spot inside me and now he aims for it with ruthless, unerring precision. Each thrust is a direct hit, a jolt of lightning that arcs through my entire body.
