He understands though. His hand finds the hem of my dress, bunching the delicate material as he pushes it up my thighs. "I'm going to make you come right here," he growls, his voice a dark promise. "Where anyone could see us. Where everyone will know exactly what you do to me, what I do to you."
"We can't," I protest weakly, even as I arch into his touch, my body betraying my words.
"We can," he contradicts, his fingers finding the edge of my panties, slipping beneath to discover the wetness there. "You're soaked for me, little one. Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind still doubts."
I bite my lip to stifle a moan as his fingers circle my most sensitive spot, his touch expert and relentless. "Someone will see," I gasp.
His smile is almost cruel in its satisfaction. "Let them," he says, pushing two fingers inside me without warning, making my knees buckle. "Let them see you wrecked for me. Let them see what they can never have."
He works me with ruthless efficiency, his thumb circling my clit as his fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. His other hand covers my mouth, muffling my cries as pleasure builds with embarrassing speed.
"That's it," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine, watching every flicker of emotion cross my face. "Give it to me, Cecily. Show me who you belong to."
The orgasm crashes over me without warning, my body clenching around his fingers, my muffled cries absorbed by his palm. He works me through it, only slowing when the aftershocks begin to subside.
When he finally withdraws his hand, his eyes are dark with hungry satisfaction. He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean in a gesture so erotic it nearly sends me over the edge again.
"Mine," he says simply.
And in this moment, disheveled and trembling in a darkened alcove of a fancy hotel, I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I don't belong in this world of wealth and power, of sharp smiles and sharper ambitions.
But I belong to Sutton. And somehow, that's enough.
ten
. . .
I wanderthrough the penthouse in bare feet, trailing my fingers along the cool marble countertops in the kitchen. Three weeks have passed since Sutton brought me here, since he claimed me in every way a man can claim a woman. Three weeks of passion and protection, of being cherished and controlled in equal measure. I should feel trapped in this gilded cage, but instead, I feel free—free from fear, free from uncertainty, free from the crushing weight of my former life. The irony isn't lost on me. I've traded one form of possession for another, but this one feels like salvation rather than imprisonment.
Sutton is in his office, door closed but not locked, the low murmur of his voice carrying faintly through the wood. Another business call, I assume. He's been busier than usual lately, something about a merger or acquisition that requires his constant attention. I've learned not to ask too many questions about his work—not because he refuses to answer, but because the complexities of his business empire are beyond my limited understanding.
I'm about to turn away, head back to the living room and the book I abandoned on the couch, when I hear my name.The sound of it in his mouth, even muffled by the door, sends a familiar shiver down my spine. I freeze, guilt warring with curiosity as I find myself pressing closer to the door, straining to hear.
"...need to ensure she never leaves," Sutton is saying, his voice harder than I'm used to hearing it when he speaks about me. "The legal options are too tenuous. She's of age, but barely. Any claim I make could be challenged."
A pause as whoever's on the other end responds.
"No, that's not soon enough. I want it done within the year." Another pause. "A baby changes everything. It creates a permanent bond that can't be severed, no matter what happens between us."
My breath catches in my throat, heart pounding so loudly I'm certain he must hear it through the door. A baby? Sutton wants to get me pregnant?
"The prenup is being drafted, but it's the pregnancy I want to focus on. She's young, fertile. It shouldn't take long once I stop using protection."
I back away from the door, my legs unsteady beneath me. He's been planning this—planning to get me pregnant without discussing it with me, planning to create a "permanent bond" to ensure I never leave him. The calculation in his voice, the cold strategy of it, should terrify me. Should make me run as far and as fast as I can.
Instead, a confusing heat pools low in my belly at the thought of Sutton inside me with nothing between us, his seed filling me, taking root in my womb. The idea of carrying his child—tangible proof of his possession—sends a flush of warmth through my entire body.
What's wrong with me? This is manipulation, control at its most primal level. I should be outraged. I should confront him.
But I'm not, and I won't. Because beneath the shock, beneath the indignation at not being consulted, there's a dark thrill at being wanted this completely, this consumingly. At being the focus of an obsession so powerful it drives a man like Sutton to such extremes.
I retreat to the bedroom, mind racing as I try to process what I've just learned. By the time I hear his office door open an hour later, I've worked myself into a state of conflicted arousal that has me pacing the room like a caged animal.
"Cecily?" His voice precedes him, and then he's there, filling the doorway with his powerful presence. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in my flushed cheeks, my agitated movements. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I lie, unable to meet his gaze directly. "Just restless."
He crosses the room in three long strides, his hand catching my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Don't lie to me," he says, his voice soft but with that undercurrent of steel that makes my knees weak. "Something's bothering you. Tell me."
