"He'll be charged. Convicted, with the evidence I—that was provided." A small slip, quickly corrected, but enough to hint at just how directly involved Sutton was in gathering that evidence. "He'll spend years in prison. When he gets out, he'll have nothing. No money, no reputation, no power."
No power. The words echo in my mind, a realization dawning that leaves me breathless. Raymond can't hurt me anymore. Can't threaten me. Can't control me. For the first time since my mother died, I'm truly free of him.
"You did this for me," I say, not a question but a statement of fact.
Sutton's expression softens slightly, one hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. "I did it because he deserved to be punished for what he planned to do to you. For what he's already done to you." His fingers linger against my cheek. "I told you I would take care of it. That I would protect what's mine."
There it is again—that possessive claim that should frighten me but instead makes me feel secure. Protected. Valued.
"Thank you," I whisper, leaning into his touch.
His eyes darken, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. "Don't thank me yet," he says, his voice dropping to a register that sends heat pooling in my belly. "This is just the beginning of what I'll do for you. Of what I'll do to anyone who tries to hurt you."
The intensity of his words, the absolute conviction in his tone, should scare me. Instead, it ignites something in me—a need to belong to this man who has moved mountains to keep me safe.
Without thinking, I step closer, eliminating the small distance between us. My hands come up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine cotton of his shirt.
"Show me," I say, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "Show me what else you'll do for me."
Understanding flares in his eyes, along with something darker, more primal. "Are you sure?" he asks, his control evident in every tense line of his body. "Once I start, I won't stop until I've had all of you."
I know what he's asking. Know that this is a line we haven't yet crossed, despite the intimacies we've already shared. But seeing Raymond brought low, knowing that Sutton did that for me—it's unleashed something in me, a need to give myself completely to the man who has given me my freedom.
"I'm sure," I say, holding his gaze. "I want to be yours. Completely."
The last thread of his restraint snaps. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling my head back as his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's all consuming possession. Gone is the careful control he's shown until now, replaced by a hunger that matches the one building inside me.
I melt against him, opening to the invasion of his tongue, surrendering to the demanding pressure of his lips. My hands clutch at his shoulders, needing an anchor in the storm of sensation he's creating.
He walks me backward until I hit the wall, his body pressing against mine, letting me feel the hard evidence of his desire. One of his hands leaves my hair to slide down my body, over the silk of the pajama top, finding the peak of my breast and pinching lightly through the fabric.
I gasp into his mouth, arching into his touch, silently begging for more. He obliges, his fingers working the buttons of the top, parting the silk to expose my skin to his hungry gaze.
"Perfect," he murmurs, bending to take one nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak and drawing a cry from my lips. "So responsive. So eager for me."
His hand slides lower, finding the waistband of the pajama bottoms, slipping inside to cup me intimately. I'm already wet for him, have been since I realized what he'd done for me, what he's capable of doing.
"Sutton," I gasp as his fingers find the center of my need, circling but not providing the direct pressure I crave. "Please."
He lifts his head from my breast, his eyes dark with desire as they lock with mine. "Please what, Cecily? Tell me what you want."
"Touch me," I beg, beyond pride, beyond everything but the desperate need for his hands on me. "Make me yours."
A savage smile curves his lips. "You're already mine," he says, his voice rough with possession. "But I'll make sure you never forget it."
In one swift movement, he spins me around, pressing me face-first against the wall. His body covers mine from behind, his arousal evident against the curve of my bottom. His breath is hot against my ear as he whispers, "I'm going to take you to my office. I'm going to bend you over my desk. And I'm going to make you come so hard you'll see stars."
Before I can process his words, he's leading me down the hallway, his hand firm around my wrist. The silk top hangs open, exposing my breasts, the bottoms riding low on my hips from his earlier exploration. I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Chosen.
We reach his office, and he closes the door behind us with a soft click that somehow sounds final. Decisive. His hands go to my shoulders, turning me to face him.
"Last chance," he says, his eyes searching mine. "If you want to stop, say so now."
"I don't want to stop," I tell him, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want you. All of you."
Something flares in his eyes—relief, triumph, hunger. He kisses me again, deep and possessive, then turns me back around, bending me forward until my palms flatten against the cool surface of his desk.
"Stay just like that," he commands, his voice a rough growl that sends shivers down my spine.
