"Please," I whimper, not entirely sure what I'm begging for.
He knows, though. His fingers slip beneath the elastic of my underwear, finding bare skin, and I cry out at the direct contact. He explores me with expert precision, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes me press desperately against his hand.
"That's it," he coaxes as I rock against his fingers. "So close already, aren't you? So eager for your first orgasm."
The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my lower belly, but just as I feel myself approaching the edge of something monumental, he slows his movements, drawing a sound of frustration from me.
"Sutton, please," I beg, my hips moving of their own accord, seeking the friction he's denying me.
"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open to meet his. "I want to see your face when you come for the first time. I want to know that I'm the one who gave you this pleasure." His fingers resume their movement, more purposeful now. "But first, I need you to beg for it."
"Please," I gasp immediately, beyond pride, beyond everything but the desperate need for release. "Please, Sutton, I need... I need..."
"What do you need, Cecily?" he presses, his fingers skillfully building me back toward that peak. "Tell me exactly what you need."
"I need to come," I manage, the words foreign on my tongue but desperate in their sincerity. "Please let me come."
His smile is triumphant, his eyes burning with satisfaction. "Good girl. Now, come for me. Let go."
His fingers increase their pressure, their speed, and the tension that's been building suddenly snaps, pleasure crashing over me in waves I couldn't have imagined. I cry out, my body shuddering against his hand, my vision blurring as sensation overwhelms me.
He works me through it, murmuring praise and encouragement, his free arm wrapped around my waist to hold me steady as I convulse in his lap. Only when the last tremor subsides does he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean in a gesture so erotic it nearly sends me over the edge again.
"Beautiful," he says, his voice rough with restrained desire. "Even more perfect than I imagined."
I slump against him, boneless and stunned, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. His arms encircle me, holding me close, one hand stroking soothingly up and down my spine.
"I've never..." I whisper, unable to articulate the magnitude of what I just experienced.
"I know," he says, a note of masculine pride in his voice. "And now that pleasure belongs to me. To us."
He shifts me in his lap so that he can see my face, his expression serious despite the desire still evident in his eyes. "Say you're mine, Cecily. Say it now, when you can't deny what's between us."
My mind is hazy with pleasure, my body still humming from his touch, but I understand the weight of what he's asking. This is more than just words—it's a commitment, a surrender of a kind I've never given anyone before.
But haven't I already given it? Haven't I already agreed to his terms, allowed him to touch me in ways no one else ever has?
"I'm yours," I whisper, and the words feel right on my tongue, true in a way I don't fully understand.
His answering smile is triumphant yet tender, possession and protection in equal measure. He presses his lips to my forehead, a gesture so gentle it makes my heart ache.
"Mine to protect," he murmurs against my skin. "Mine to pleasure. Mine to cherish."
And in this moment, floating in the aftermath of ecstasy, safe in the arms of this powerful, dangerous man, I believe him. I believe that whatever this is between us—this inexplicable, irresistible pull—it might just be the salvation I never knew I needed.
six
. . .
I padbarefoot through the penthouse, restless energy thrumming through my veins. A week has passed since I surrendered to Sutton's touch, since I claimed him as mine and he claimed me as his. A week of careful dancing around each other—his hands on me, his mouth teaching mine the language of desire, but never going further than that first night. "When you're ready," he says each time I arch against him, seeking more. "Not until you're sure." It's maddening and intoxicating, this restraint from a man who otherwise takes what he wants without hesitation. Today he's sequestered in his home office, has been for hours, the low murmur of his voice occasionally drifting through the closed door as he conducts whatever mysterious business has kept him home on a Tuesday.
I try to occupy myself with the books he's given me, with the streaming services available on the enormous television, but nothing holds my attention. My mind keeps drifting back to Sutton—to his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and rare.
It still doesn't make sense, this connection between us. Why would a man like him—powerful, wealthy, commanding—become so fixated on a nobody like me? Why go to such lengths to keep me here, to make me his?
I find myself outside his office door, drawn by the sound of his voice. I don't mean to eavesdrop, not really. But then I hear my name, and my feet root to the spot.
"Yes, I need everything on Raymond Parker," Sutton is saying, his voice colder than I've ever heard it. "Financial records, business dealings, personal contacts. Anything that might give us leverage."
