"I want you inside me," I manage, heat flooding my cheeks despite how many times we've done this, how many ways he's had me. "I want to ride you while you watch me."
His smile is triumphant, predatory. "Good girl," he praises, guiding me up, positioning himself at my entrance. "Now take me. Show me how much you want this. How much you want to be mine."
I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch, the stretch and fullness making me gasp despite how ready I am. When he's fully seated inside me, I pause, adjusting to the sensation, my hands resting on his shoulders for balance.
His eyes never leave mine as I begin to move, finding a rhythm that makes us both gasp. His hands grip my hips, not guiding, just feeling the movement, letting me set the pace. It's a rare moment of control for me, this position, and I savor it even as I recognize it's still him allowing me this power, him dictating the terms of our pleasure.
"Look at you," he murmurs, one hand leaving my hip to trace the line of the choker, fingers brushing against the central diamond. "So beautiful. So perfect. Mine."
The word sends a fresh wave of arousal through me, my inner muscles clenching around him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides from the choker to cup my breast through my dress, thumb circling the nipple until it pebbles beneath the fabric.
"The diamonds," he says, his voice rough with desire. "They catch the light every time you move. Like stars around your throat." His hips thrust up suddenly, meeting my downward movement and hitting a spot inside me that makes me cry out. "A constellation marking you as mine for everyone to see."
I increase my pace, chasing the pleasure his words and body promise. His hands return to my hips, helping me now, guiding me into a rhythm that has us both gasping. The room fills with the sounds of our breathing, our moans, the obscene wet sounds of our bodies joining.
"Look in the mirror," he commands suddenly. "See what I see."
I turn my head, catching our reflection in the mirrored wall—me in his lap, my dress bunched around my waist, his hands gripping my hips as I rise and fall on him. But what captures my attention, what I know has captivated him, is the choker. With every movement, the diamonds shimmer and flash, sending prisms of light dancing across our skin, across the table, across the walls. It's beautiful and obscene all at once, this visual reminder of his ownership while he's quite literally inside me.
"Perfect," he groans, his rhythm faltering as his control begins to slip. "So fucking perfect."
One of his hands leaves my hip, sliding between us to find that bundle of nerves that makes me see stars. His fingers circle it mercilessly, pushing me toward the edge faster than I'm prepared for.
"Come for me," he demands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Come around my cock with my diamonds around your throat. Show me you're mine in every way possible."
His crude words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers, send me hurtling over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves, my inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. He follows a moment later, his release hot inside me as he groans my name against my neck.
We stay like that for long moments, connected in the most intimate way possible, his arms around me, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. I can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, matching pace with mine. When he finally lifts his head, the tenderness in his eyes almost undoes me.
"You're extraordinary," he murmurs, one hand coming up to trace the line of the choker again. "More precious than any diamond."
The compliment warms me in ways his more explicit praise never could. I lean forward, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that's gentle, almost chaste compared to the passion we just shared.
When I pull back, he's looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"The choker isn't just about marking you as mine to the world," he says, his voice softer than usual. "Though I won't deny I want that. It's about showing you your worth. About giving you something as rare and beautiful as you are."
The sentiment, unexpected from this man who usually expresses his feelings through possession and control rather than words, brings tears to my eyes. I blink them back, not wanting to ruin the moment with emotion he might not understand.
"Thank you," I whisper, my fingers coming up to touch the diamonds at my throat. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever owned."
A slight smile curves his lips. "Just like you're the most beautiful thing I've ever owned."
And there it is again—that possessiveness that should offend me but instead makes me feel secure, cherished, essential. I've come to understand that in Sutton's world, ownership isn't about diminishing value but about recognizing it, protecting it, treasuring it.
As he helps me off his lap, adjusting my dress with surprisingly gentle hands, I catch our reflection again in the mirrored wall. The diamonds still gleam around my throat, a visible manifestation of the invisible bonds between us—beautiful, valuable, unbreakable.
And for the first time, I feel worthy of such adornment, such devotion. Worthy of being owned by a man who sees possession as the highest form of appreciation.
Worthy of being his.
thirteen
. . .
I'm arrangingflowers in the living room—a skill I've been teaching myself from YouTube videos to fill the empty hours when Sutton is at work—when the landline phone rings. The sound startles me, making me prick my finger on a rose thorn. Almost no one calls the penthouse landline. Sutton conducts all his business on his cell phone, and I have no one who would call me. I suck the drop of blood from my fingertip as I move to check the caller ID, curious rather than concerned. Until I see the name displayed on the screen: PARKER, RAYMOND. My blood turns to ice water in my veins, the room spinning slightly as I stare at those eleven letters that spell out the nightmare I thought I'd escaped.
How is this possible? Raymond is in prison. He shouldn't be able to reach me here, shouldn't even know where I am. Yet there's his name, glowing on the display as the phone continues its insistent ringing. I back away from it as if it might bite, bumping into the coffee table and nearly knocking over the half-arranged bouquet.
