His smile turns triumphant, predatory. "Let me show you why that's not something to fear or be ashamed of," he murmurs,leaning down to capture my lips in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle given the intensity of our conversation.
I respond despite myself, my body already conditioned to crave his touch, to open for him without hesitation. His hands slide down to my shoulders, pushing me back onto the bed with firm but careful pressure. I go willingly, watching as he straightens and drops the towel, revealing his already hard length.
"You're mine," he says, crawling over me, his powerful body caging me against the mattress. "And I'm yours. That's the part you're missing, little one. This isn't just about my possession of you. It's about my complete devotion to you."
His words make my heart stutter in my chest, unexpected emotion welling up at this new framing of our relationship. Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, more demanding this time, his tongue seeking entrance I readily grant.
As he kisses me, his hands work at removing my clothes—the simple t-shirt and shorts I wear around the penthouse—until I'm as naked as he is. Only then does he break the kiss, lifting himself slightly to look down at me, spread beneath him like an offering.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes roaming over me with possessive appreciation. "So perfect. So made for me."
His hand slides down my body, over the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, to rest low on my abdomen. "Do you want to know how I know you like being mine?" he asks, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to send heat pooling between my legs. "How I know you're not really afraid of my possessiveness?"
I nod, beyond words, caught in the spell of his touch, his voice, his overwhelming presence.
"Because of how your body responds to me," he says, his hand sliding lower, finding the evidence of my arousal with unerring accuracy. "See how wet you are? How ready for me? Your mind might have doubts, but your body knows the truth."
His fingers explore me with practiced skill, finding all the places that make me gasp, that make my hips rise involuntarily to chase his touch. He watches my face as he plays my body like an instrument, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and triumph.
"Tell me," he commands softly, sliding one finger inside me, then another, curling them to find that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. "Tell me you like being mine."
I bite my lip, a last futile attempt at resistance. His thumb circles my clit in response, drawing a moan from my throat that I can't suppress.
"Say it," he presses, his fingers working me with merciless precision. "Admit what we both know is true."
"I like being yours," I gasp, the confession torn from me by the pleasure building under his skilled touch. "God help me, I like it."
His smile is pure male satisfaction. He withdraws his fingers, positioning himself between my thighs, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance without pushing in.
"And if I'm going too far?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "If my possessiveness crosses some arbitrary line of what's considered normal or healthy?"
I look up at him, at this beautiful, dangerous man who has remade my world in his image, who has given me safety and pleasure and a twisted form of freedom I never knew existed.
"I don't care," I whisper, the truth of it resonating through me like a struck bell. "I don't care if it's wrong or unhealthy or too much. I just want to be yours."
That's all he needs to hear. He thrusts forward, entering me in one powerful stroke that makes me cry out—not in pain but in the relief of having him fill me so completely. He pauses when he's fully seated within me, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with a need that matches my own. "While I'm inside you. While I'm claiming you. Say you like being mine."
"I like being yours," I repeat, my hands sliding up his arms, feeling the coiled strength beneath his skin. "I love being yours."
The last word slips out unbidden, surprising both of us. Love. We've never used that word, never named this consuming thing between us. It hangs in the air between us for a moment, charged with significance.
Then Sutton begins to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. "Say it again," he commands, but this time I know he's asking for that other word, that admission I didn't mean to make.
"I love being yours," I say again, watching his eyes darken further at the repetition. "I love how it feels to belong to you completely."
It's not quite a declaration, but it's close enough for now. He rewards me with a particularly deep thrust that hits a spot inside me that makes me gasp.
"And I love owning you," he says, the words a vow and a confession all at once. "Love knowing that no matter what happens, you're mine. That no one else will ever touch you, ever have you, ever know you the way I do."
His pace increases, his control slipping as passion overtakes him. One hand slides down to grip my hip, angling me to take him deeper, while the other tangles in my hair, holding me in place for his consuming kiss.
"No more doubts," he murmurs against my lips. "No more questions about whether this is too much, whether you should be afraid. This is what we are, Cecily. This is what we want. What we need."
And as his thrusts drive me higher toward that peak of pleasure only he has ever shown me, I can't deny the truth in his words. This consuming possession, this total belonging—it's exactly what I want, what I crave, what I've been searching for without knowing it.
"Mine," he growls as he feels me tightening around him, my release approaching. "Say it. One more time."
