My chest tightens, panic blooming behind my ribs. "Why? Why do you need me to relive that?"
"Because I need to know exactly what I'm dealing with," he says, his voice softening slightly. "Exactly what kind of monster he is. What he's capable of."
I look down at my hands, twisting together in my lap. "He was going to sell me," I whisper. "To his business partner, Hargrove. For sex." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Said Hargrove would pay well for a night with me. Maybe more if I didn't... disappoint."
A sound escapes Sutton then—a low, dangerous growl that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I glance up to find his face transformed by rage, his eyes burning, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.
"And this wasn't the first time he'd hurt you," he says, not a question but a statement of fact.
I shake my head, memories flashing behind my eyes. "No. He... after my mom died, he changed. He was always controlling, but without her there to protect me..." I trail off, unable to continue.
Sutton's expression softens slightly, though the rage still simmers beneath. "Did he touch you? Sexually?"
"No," I say quickly. "No, it wasn't like that. It was more... he treated me like property. Like a burden he was forced to deal with until he could find a way to make me useful." I swallow hard. "Useful meant selling me, apparently."
Sutton stands abruptly, coming around the desk to kneel in front of my chair. His hands cover mine, warm and strong, and I realize I'm trembling.
"I'll take care of it," he says, his voice gentle but with that undercurrent of danger that both frightens and thrills me. "He'll never hurt you again. Never even come near you."
The certainty in his voice, the promise of protection, brings tears to my eyes. No one has ever defended me like this, put themselves between me and harm.
"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice small. "Take care of it?"
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a soothing gesture at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "It means I'll use every resource at my disposal to ensure he can never threaten you again. Legally, financially, whatever it takes."
Something in his tone makes me wonder if "whatever it takes" might extend beyond legal means, but I don't ask. Part of me doesn't want to know.
"Why?" I whisper instead. "Why go to such lengths for me?"
His hand leaves mine to cup my cheek, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "Because you're mine now," he says simply, as if that explains everything. And in his world, perhaps it does.
His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, his eyes following the movement. "I protect what's mine, Cecily. I cherish what's mine." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I satisfy what's mine."
The shift from comfort to desire is so swift it leaves me breathless. One moment he's consoling me, the next his eyes are dark with hunger, his body radiating heat that seems to call to something primal in me.
"Sutton," I breathe, uncertain whether I'm seeking more comfort or more of this new, dangerous energy building between us.
"Let me take away the memory," he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans against my lips. "Let me replace those thoughts of him with thoughts of me. My hands on you. My mouth on you."
I should pull away. We're in the middle of a serious conversation about my abusive stepfather, about Sutton's mysterious investigation. But my body has other ideas, leaning toward him, seeking the oblivion his touch promises.
His lips find mine, gentle at first, a question I answer by opening to him without hesitation. The kiss deepens, grows hungrier, his hand sliding from my face to the nape of my neck, holding me in place as he devours my mouth.
Then he's lifting me, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carries me the few steps to his desk. He sets me on the edge, pushing aside papers and a laptop with one sweep of his arm.
"I'm going to taste you," he says against my lips, the words sending a shock of heat straight to my core. "I'm going to make you forget everything but my name."
Before I can process what he means, he's sinking to his knees between my spread thighs, his hands pushing up the skirt of the dress I'm wearing until it bunches around my waist. His eyes dark with desire as they take in the simple cotton underwear beneath.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband, tugging until I lift my hips to help him slide them down my legs. "So perfect."
I should be embarrassed, exposed like this on his desk, the most intimate part of me bared to his gaze. But all I feel is anticipation, a desperate need for whatever comes next.
His hands push my thighs wider, opening me completely to him. "Watch me," he commands, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. "I want you to see who's claiming you like this."
And then his mouth is on me, hot and demanding, his tongue finding the center of my pleasure with unerring accuracy. I cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders, unsure whether I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer.
"Sutton," I gasp, the sensation overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.
