I push to my elbows again to see fire blazing in his eyes when he opens them and looks at me.
“No.” The word rips from my throat, desperate and wanting. “Rafael, please, I was so close?—”
He flips me over with hands that are gentle despite their strength, positioning me face down on his desk with my ass in the air. I feel exposed in an entirely new way, vulnerable in a position that speaks to submission and surrender.
His hands spread me open, and I feel the heat of his breath against places no one has ever touched. When his tongue traces a path from my clit all the way back to nearly touching the tight ring of muscle there, I nearly scream.
“Has anyone ever touched you here?” His voice is rough with want.
“No.” The word comes out as a whimper. “Never. I have never—no one has ever?—”
"Good." He returns to my pussy, licking and sucking with renewed intensity while his thumb traces teasing circles against my ass. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure and pressure and the desperate need for release all tangled together until I cannot tell where one ends and another begins.
His fingers dig into flesh possessively.
I am so close. I can feel the orgasm building, cresting, about to crash over me like a wave.
And again, he stops.
I pound my fist against the hard wood of the desk, the air in my lungs locked in place. A sob escapes my lips, frustration and need combining into something that sounds like surrender.
I hear the rustle of papers, and then something slides across the desk in front of my face.
A warm light comes on to reveal a contract. The words blur before my eyes, but I can make out enough to understand what I am looking at.
A marriage agreement. Terms and conditions. A space for my signature at the bottom.
“Sign, my sweet dove.” His voice is velvet and steel, promise and threat all wrapped into one. “Sign, and I will give you everything you want. The release you are desperate for. A place in my world. Protection from everyone who has ever hurt you.” His fingers slide back inside me, curling against a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. “All you have to do is sign.”
“What’s the fine print say?”
“An heir.”
A pause.
“You nearly died today. Don’t leave this world without knowing the pleasure of holding your own child. Or righting a wrong and raising that child with the love you were never shown.”
He curls his finger again and all the words he said makesense. There’s no way I am getting out of here without my signature on that contract anyway.
I should read the contract. I should demand time to review the terms, to negotiate, to maintain some semblance of control overmy own fate. But I am spread across his desk with his fingers inside me and his breath hot against my skin, and rational thought has abandoned me entirely.
“One year.” The words come out broken, barely audible. "Give me one year. If it does not work, if I am miserable, you let me go.”
Another pause. His fingers still inside me, and I nearly weep at the loss of sensation.
“We can start there,” he agrees finally. “One year. And then we renegotiate.”
It is not a promise of freedom. It is not the escape I thought I wanted when I walked into his club three weeks ago.
But it is something. A timeline. A light at the end of a very long tunnel.
“Rafael.” My voice breaks on his name.
He takes the pen he placed beside the contract and adds the new term.
“Now. Sign.”
I reach for the pen with trembling fingers and scratch my name across the bottom of the contract. The ink is barely dry before he is pulling me up, spinning me around, lifting me into his arms like I weigh nothing at all.
