"You like that idea, don't you?" he presses, his hand leaving my breast to slide between us, finding that bundle of nerves that makes me see stars. "The thought of being bred by me. Marked as mine forever."
"Yes," I gasp, my hips rising to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure his words and body promise. "Yes, Sutton, please."
His control begins to slip, his rhythm growing erratic as his own release approaches. In our previous encounters, this is when he would withdraw, spilling himself on my stomach orthighs. But tonight, his hands grip my hips harder, holding me in place for his deepest penetration.
"Tell me again," he demands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to cum inside me," I breathe, beyond shame, beyond anything but the desperate need for completion. "I want to feel it. I want... I want your baby."
The last admission tears a guttural sound from his throat. His thrusts become almost punishing in their intensity, his fingers working my clit with merciless precision until I'm teetering on the edge of release.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough with strain. "Come around my cock while I fill you with my seed."
My orgasm crashes over me with his words, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever. He follows a moment later, his release hot and pulsing deep inside me as my name tears from his throat in a hoarse cry.
He collapses on top of me, his weight a welcome pressure, his breath hot against my neck. His hand slides down to rest possessively on my lower abdomen, as if he can already feel the life he hopes to create taking root.
"Mine," he murmurs against my skin, the word both a claim and a prayer. "Forever mine."
And as I lie there, filled with him in the most intimate way possible, I can't bring myself to regret what we've just done. Can't bring myself to fear the potential consequences. Because for all his manipulation, all his calculated planning, Sutton has given me something I never thought I'd have—a sense of belonging, of being valued, of being essential to someone's existence.
Maybe it's not the healthiest foundation for bringing a new life into the world. But it's more than I ever had before him. And for now, that's enough.
eleven
. . .
I clutchthe tablet in my hands, reading the headline for the fourth time, still unable to fully believe it's real. "RAYMOND PARKER SENTENCED TO FIFTEEN YEARS IN FEDERAL PRISON." The accompanying photo shows him being led away in handcuffs, his face a mask of defeat and rage. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of freedom for me. My hands tremble as I scroll through the article detailing his crimes—fraud, money laundering, tax evasion—all the financial transgressions Sutton helped uncover. No mention of me, of what he planned to do to me. That remains our secret, buried beneath the weight of his more provable crimes. But we both know the truth. This sentence isn't just for his financial misdeeds. It's punishment for every bruise he left on my skin, every threat he whispered in my ear, every moment of terror I lived through under his roof.
"It's done," Sutton says from behind me, his voice a gentle rumble that wraps around me like a security blanket. I didn't hear him enter the living room, too absorbed in the news that has changed everything.
I nod, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. He moves to sit beside me on the couch, his weight dipping the cushion, drawing me naturally toward him like gravity.
"Fifteen years," I whisper, my voice catching. "He'll be an old man when he gets out."
"And a broke one," Sutton adds, his hand covering mine where it rests on the tablet, steadying my trembling fingers. "The civil penalties will wipe out whatever's left of his fortune after the legal fees." His thumb traces small circles on my wrist, a soothing gesture that contradicts the cold satisfaction in his voice. "He'll never touch you again."
A sob breaks free, startling in the quiet room. I'm not sure why I'm crying—relief, maybe, or the delayed reaction to years of fear I kept bottled inside just to survive. Sutton gently takes the tablet from my hands, setting it aside before pulling me into his lap, cradling me against his chest like a child.
"Let it out," he murmurs against my hair. "It's over now. You're safe."
I press my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent as tears soak into the collar of his expensive shirt. He doesn't seem to mind, one hand stroking my back in long, soothing motions while the other cups the back of my head, holding me to him as if afraid I might shatter if he lets go.
"I never thought it would end," I admit, the words muffled against his skin. "I thought he'd always be there, always have power over me."
Sutton's arms tighten around me. "No one has power over you except me," he says, the possessive statement somehow comforting rather than threatening. "And I use that power to protect you, not hurt you."
I lift my head to look at him, taking in the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. This powerful, dangerous man has moved mountains to keep me safe, hasdismantled my tormentor piece by piece without hesitation or remorse.
"You don't have to fight anymore," he says, brushing a strand of hair from my tear-stained cheek. "The battle's won. Raymond is gone. Hargrove is under investigation. No one from your past can reach you now."
The enormity of what he's given me crashes over me in a wave—not just physical safety and material comfort, but true freedom from fear. For the first time since my mother died, I don't have to look over my shoulder, don't have to walk on eggshells, don't have to dread the sound of heavy footsteps approaching my door.
"Thank you," I whisper, the words wholly inadequate for the debt I owe him. "I don't know how I can ever repay you for what you've done."
A slight smile curves his lips. "I don't want repayment, Cecily. I just want you. Here. Safe." His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away the remnants of my tears. "That's all the reward I need."
But it's not enough. Not nearly enough for the miracle he's worked in my life. I want to give him something, to show him in some tangible way what his protection means to me.
