One of his hands leaves my thigh to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his hungry mouth. He bites down on the sensitive junction of my neck and shoulder, hard enough to mark but not to truly hurt, and the possessive gesture pushes me closer to the edge.
"That's it," he growls against my skin. "Come for me. Show me who owns your pleasure."
His thumb finds that bundle of nerves between my legs, circling it in counterpoint to his thrusts, and the dual sensation sends me hurtling over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasurecrashes through me in waves that seem endless, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
He follows a moment later, his release hot inside me as my name tears from his throat in a hoarse cry. He stays buried within me as we both come down from the heights of pleasure, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"I would kill for you," he murmurs, the confession so quiet I almost miss it. "I would destroy anyone who tried to take you from me."
The words should send me running. Instead, they make me feel safe, protected, valued beyond measure. In Sutton's world, this is love—possessive, all-consuming, dangerous in its intensity. And God help me, I want it. Want him, with all his darkness, all his obsession.
"I know," I whisper back, my hand coming up to cup his face. "And I would let you."
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I understand him so completely, that I accept this darkest aspect of his nature without judgment or fear. Then his mouth claims mine again, the kiss surprisingly tender after the fierce passion of moments before.
"No one will ever come between us," he promises against my lips. "Not Raymond. Not anyone."
And as he carries me to our bedroom, still joined, still unwilling to separate even for the short journey, I believe him. Because Sutton has shown me time and again that his promises are absolute, his protection unwavering, his possession complete.
For better or worse, I am his. And nothing—not Raymond, not the ghosts of my past, not even my own doubts—can change that now.
fourteen
. . .
I siton the edge of our bed—his bed, really, though he insists on calling it ours—watching the sun set through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. The city below transforms as darkness falls, buildings becoming constellations of light against the deepening blue of evening. It's beautiful, mesmerizing, and completely unreachable from my golden prison. Two months have passed since Sutton found me in the rain, since he brought me into his world and claimed me as his own. Two months of pleasure and protection, of being cherished and controlled in ways I never imagined possible. But something has shifted in the past week, since Raymond's phone call. Sutton's possessiveness, always intense, has taken on a new edge—sharper, harder, almost desperate in its fervor. He's fired three members of his staff for perceived failures in keeping me secure. He's installed new security systems in the penthouse. He tracks my movements through an app on my phone that he thinks I don't know about. And last night, I caught him watching me sleep, his expression a mixture of adoration and fear that made my blood run cold.
The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam that precedes Sutton into the bedroom. He's freshly showered, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to the hard planes of his chest. Despite my troubled thoughts, my body responds to the sight of him with embarrassing predictability—heart racing, skin flushing, a familiar heat pooling between my legs.
"You're thinking too hard," he says, moving to stand before me, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. "I can practically hear the gears turning in that beautiful head of yours."
I catch his hand, holding it against my cheek, drawing courage from the contact. "Sutton," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel, "are you going too far?"
His expression doesn't change, but I feel the slight tension that enters his body at my question. "What do you mean?"
"The new security system. The tracking app on my phone. Firing people who've worked for you for years." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to ask the question that's been haunting me. "Should I be afraid of you?"
For a long moment, he doesn't respond. His eyes search mine, dark and unreadable, his thumb tracing small circles on my cheekbone in a gesture that's both soothing and possessive.
"Are you?" he finally asks, his voice soft. "Afraid of me?"
It's not an answer, and we both know it. "Sometimes," I admit, the confession harder than I expected. "Not that you'll hurt me, exactly. But that... that there might not be any limits to what you'd do to keep me."
A small smile curves his lips, not reaching his eyes. "There aren't," he confirms, the simple statement more frightening in its matter-of-factness than any threat could be. "Does that scare you?"
I should say yes. Any sane person would be terrified by such an admission. But the truth is more complicated, more shameful. "It should," I whisper. "But it doesn't. Not the way it's supposed to."
His smile deepens, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Because you like it," he says, not a question but a statement of fact. His hand slides from my cheek to my throat, resting there lightly, a reminder of his strength, his control. "You like being mine, don't you? Like knowing there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you."
Heat floods my cheeks at his accurate assessment, at the way my body responds to his touch even as my mind grapples with the implications of his obsession. "That's not healthy," I manage, though the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Says who?" he challenges, his hand still at my throat, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse. "The same society that stood by while your stepfather abused you? The same world that offers freedom but not protection?" His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You and I, we make our own rules, Cecily. Create our own definition of healthy."
His words are seductive, wrapping around me like silk bonds, making it hard to remember why I was concerned in the first place. His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting it toward his.
"You like being mine," he repeats, his eyes holding mine captive. "You like belonging to me. And you hate yourself a little for it, don't you? For wanting something that goes against everything you've been taught about independence and autonomy."
I swallow hard, unable to deny the truth in his words. "Yes," I whisper, the admission like a weight lifted from my chest.
