He hums against me, the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure building inside me. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his assault, his tongue working me with skilled precision that suggests he's done this many times before.
The thought should bother me—how many women has he had like this?—but instead it only heightens my arousal. This experienced, powerful man has chosen me, wants me, is worshiping me with his mouth like I'm the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.
"Let go," he murmurs against my sensitive flesh. "Come for me, Cecily. Let me taste your pleasure."
His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue, send me hurtling over the edge. My back arches, a cry tearing from my throat as pleasure crashes through me in waves that seem endless.
He doesn't stop, continuing to work me through the aftershocks, gentling his touch but not ceasing until I'm a trembling, boneless mess on his desk.
When he finally rises, his mouth is wet with evidence of my pleasure, his eyes dark with his own need. He kisses me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue, a primal claiming that makes me whimper against his lips.
"Mine," he growls when he finally pulls back, his hand coming up to stroke my flushed cheek. "No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else will ever make you feel like this."
And in this moment, floating in the aftermath of ecstasy, I believe him. I want to believe him. Because if I'm his—truly his—then I'm safe. Protected. Cherished in a way I've never been before.
"Yours," I whisper, and his answering smile is both beautiful and terrifying in its possessive satisfaction.
seven
. . .
I waketo the sound of the television, unusual in our morning routine. Sutton is already up, dressed in tailored pants and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he stands before the massive screen. His posture is tense, anticipatory, like a predator waiting for prey to emerge from hiding. I pad toward him on bare feet, the silk of his borrowed pajamas sliding against my skin. He doesn't turn, though I know he's aware of my presence. His entire focus is on the news anchor speaking in grave tones about a "shocking scandal rocking the business community." Then I hear the name that stops me cold. Raymond Parker. My stepfather.
"—allegations of fraud, money laundering, and bribery have emerged against prominent real estate developer Raymond Parker," the anchor is saying, her professionally concerned expression belied by the gleam of excitement in her eyes. "Federal authorities raided Parker's offices early this morning, seizing computers and files after a anonymous source provided evidence of systematic corruption dating back more than five years."
The screen cuts to footage of Raymond being led out of his office building, flanked by FBI agents. He looks smaller somehow, diminished, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, his face a mask of stunned disbelief.
"Among the most serious allegations," the anchor continues, "are claims that Parker has been bribing city officials to overlook building code violations and environmental concerns at several of his luxury developments. Additionally, financial records suggest he may have been laundering money for organized crime figures through his legitimate businesses."
I can't breathe. Can't move. My stepfather—the man who's terrorized me for years, who was going to sell me to his business associate—is being dismantled on national television.
"Parker's reputation has already suffered in recent days," the report goes on, "after leaked emails revealed misogynistic comments about female employees and business associates, as well as disturbing references to his young stepdaughter that have prompted a separate investigation by child welfare authorities."
My knees weaken, and I reach for the back of the couch to steady myself. They know about me. Somehow, they know what he was planning to do to me.
"In a related development, businessman James Hargrove, a close associate of Parker's, is also under investigation for alleged involvement in sex trafficking and solicitation of minors. Authorities have declined to comment on whether the two investigations are connected."
Hargrove too. The man Raymond was going to sell me to. Both of them, exposed, ruined, in a matter of days.
The anchor moves on to the next story, but I barely hear her. My mind is reeling, trying to process what I've just seen. Raymond's business empire—built on corruption and cruelty—collapsing like a house of cards. His reputation in tatters. His freedom likely to follow.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I flinch when the television suddenly goes silent. Sutton stands with the remote in his hand, his eyes not on the screen but on me, watching, assessing, waiting for my reaction.
"Did you do this?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
He doesn't insult my intelligence by denying it. "I made some calls," he says, his voice casual despite the intensity in his gaze. "Put certain information in the right hands. The rest was already there, just waiting to be discovered."
"The emails about me..."
"Were real," he confirms, setting down the remote and moving toward me with that fluid, predatory grace that still makes my heart race. "I just made sure the right people saw them."
I should be horrified. Should be appalled that he wielded his power so ruthlessly, that he's apparently capable of bringing down a man's entire life with a few phone calls. But all I feel is relief. Relief and something darker, something that feels dangerously like satisfaction.
"He deserved it," I say, testing the words, waiting to see if guilt follows them. It doesn't.
Sutton stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, far enough that I don't feel crowded. "Yes," he agrees simply. "He did."
"What will happen to him now?"
