And for the first time, I can embrace that claim without reservation, without the shadow of the past hanging over me. I am his. Completely, irrevocably his. And in that belonging, I've found my freedom.
twelve
. . .
The black velvetbox sits on the dining table between us, innocuous in its elegance but humming with significance like a live wire. Sutton watches me from across the table, his dark eyes intent as I finish the last bite of the gourmet dinner he arranged to be delivered from his favorite restaurant. The wine in my glass—an expensive vintage I can't pronounce—catches the light from the chandelier above us, casting blood-red shadows across the white tablecloth. I've learned enough about Sutton in these past weeks to recognize the signs: the carefully arranged setting, the anticipatory gleam in his eye, the way his fingers tap an impatient rhythm against the tablecloth. He has something planned, something that means more to him than he'll admit.
"What's that?" I ask, nodding toward the box though I know perfectly well it's a gift of some kind. Another in the endless stream of presents he's showered me with since bringing me to his penthouse.
His lips curve in that slight smile that never fails to make my heart skip. "Open it and find out."
I reach for the box, my fingers brushing against his as he slides it toward me. The contact sends a now-familiar sparkthrough my body—static electricity, I tell myself, though we both know it's something deeper, more primal. The box is heavier than it looks, weighty with promise and expectation.
The hinges open silently, revealing a bed of cream satin and, nestled within it, a choker that steals the breath from my lungs. Diamonds—dozens of them, perhaps hundreds—arranged in an intricate pattern that reminds me of a spiderweb or a net, delicate yet unbreakable. The center stone is larger than the others, a teardrop diamond that must be several carats. The entire piece gleams with cold fire under the dining room lights, a fortune captured in platinum and stone.
"Sutton," I whisper, unable to find words adequate to the moment. It's the most beautiful, most extravagant thing I've ever seen, let alone been given.
"Do you like it?" he asks, though the knowing gleam in his eye suggests he's already certain of my answer.
"It's... it's too much," I manage, my fingers hovering over the diamonds without quite touching them, as if they might burn.
"Nothing is too much for you," he counters, rising from his chair with that fluid grace that still makes my breath catch. He comes around the table, standing behind me, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders. "Let me put it on you."
I nod, still speechless as he lifts the choker from its velvet nest. His fingers brush the nape of my neck as he fastens the clasp, the diamonds cool against my throat, heavier than I expected but not uncomfortable. When it's secure, his hands slide down to rest on my shoulders again, possessive and proud.
"Look," he murmurs, turning my chair slightly so I can see my reflection in the mirrored wall across the room.
The woman who stares back at me is a stranger—eyes wide and luminous, cheeks flushed with wine and emotion, throat encircled by a collar of ice and fire that transforms her from ordinary to extraordinary. The diamonds catch the light withevery small movement, sending prisms dancing across my skin, across the table, across Sutton's hands where they rest on my shoulders.
"Perfect," he says, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to send heat pooling low in my belly. "Exactly as I imagined it." His fingers trace the line of the choker, barely touching the diamonds or my skin. "Wear it so everyone knows you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice, in his touch, should disturb me. Instead, it sends a thrill of excitement through my body, a shameful pleasure in being wanted so completely, so consumingly.
"It looks like a collar," I say softly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Not an accusation, merely an observation.
His smile turns predatory, seeing through my feigned nonchalance to the arousal beneath. "That's exactly what it is," he confirms, his hand sliding from my shoulder to my throat, resting just above the diamonds in a light hold that reminds me of his strength. "A beautiful collar for my beautiful possession."
I should object to being called a possession. Should remind him that I'm a person, not a thing to be owned. But the words die in my throat, replaced by a soft sigh as his other hand slides lower, over my collarbone, brushing the swell of my breast through the thin material of my dress.
"Stand up," he commands softly, and I obey without hesitation, turning to face him as his hands settle on my waist. "You know what the sight of you in my diamonds does to me, don't you?"
I do know. I can see it in the darkening of his eyes, feel it in the tension radiating from his body, the barely leashed hunger that makes the air between us feel charged with electricity.
"Show me," I whisper, emboldened by the wine, by the weight of diamonds around my throat, by the knowledge thatthis powerful man wants me so desperately he's marked me as his in the most visible, most extravagant way possible.
His control snaps. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, setting me on the edge of the dining table, my legs automatically parting to accommodate his hips as he steps between them. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's all possession and hunger, his hands bunching the material of my dress around my waist.
"I want you to ride me," he murmurs against my lips, the crude request sending a flood of heat to my core. "I want to watch those diamonds catch the light while you take me inside you."
I nod, beyond words, beyond anything but the desperate need to please him, to fulfill the dark fantasy he's just revealed. He steps back only long enough to shed his trousers and boxers, freeing his already hard length. Then he's sitting in the chair I just vacated, guiding me onto his lap, facing him, my knees on either side of his hips.
His hands push my dress higher, finding the edge of my panties, tugging them aside rather than removing them entirely. His fingers test my readiness, finding me already wet with anticipation.
"So eager," he murmurs, satisfaction heavy in his voice. "So ready for me. Always so ready."
I whimper as his thumb circles my most sensitive spot, teasing but not giving the direct pressure I crave. "Please, Sutton."
"Please what?" he prompts, his free hand coming up to tangle in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me gasp. "Tell me what you want, Cecily. Be specific."
