When he finally withdraws, turning me in his arms to face him, there's something almost tender in his expression despite the possessiveness still evident in his touch.
"No more questions about Raymond," he says softly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "No more looking back. Only forward. Only us."
I nod, understanding the bargain he's offering. My safety, my pleasure, my place in his world—all in exchange for my silent complicity in whatever methods he deemed necessary to secure them.
It's a devil's bargain, perhaps. But as he gathers me in his arms, as he carries me to our bedroom with that mixture of possession and reverence that still takes my breath away, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Raymond is gone. The past is truly buried now. And in Sutton's arms, in his protection, in his obsession, I've found a peace I never thought possible—even if it's built on foundations others might find disturbing.
"Mine," he whispers against my hair as we lie tangled together in the aftermath of passion. "All mine."
And God help me, that's exactly what I want to be.
sixteen
. . .
I driftup from the depths of sleep, pulled by a strange sensation on my left hand. Something cool and heavy encircles my ring finger, unfamiliar and unexpected. My eyes flutter open to the gray predawn light that filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sutton's—our—bedroom. For a moment, I'm disoriented, caught between dreams and reality. Then I lift my hand before my face and freeze, breath catching in my throat. A diamond glints back at me, massive and brilliant even in the dim light, perched on a band of what must be platinum. The stone is easily three carats, maybe more, surrounded by smaller diamonds that catch what little light there is and throw it back in rainbow fragments. An engagement ring. One I wasn't wearing when I fell asleep.
My heart stutters in my chest, a confusing mixture of emotions washing over me—surprise, wonder, a flicker of unease at having such a significant decision made while I was unconscious. I turn my hand slightly, watching the diamond catch the light, its facets throwing prisms across my skin. It's stunning, exactly what I would have chosen if given the opportunity—which I wasn't. The realization should bother memore than it does. Once, I would have been furious at such a high-handed gesture. Now, I find myself oddly touched by its presumptiveness, by the absolute certainty behind it.
"Mine," a voice whispers against my inner thigh, and I jolt, suddenly aware that the covers have been pulled back, that Sutton is already between my legs, his breath warm against my most intimate parts. I didn't even notice him moving down my body, too captivated by the ring he placed on my finger while I slept.
Before I can form a coherent response, his mouth is on me, his tongue finding that bundle of nerves with unerring accuracy. I gasp, my back arching off the bed, my hand—the one now bearing his ring—instinctively reaching down to tangle in his hair.
"Sutton," I breathe, his name half question, half plea. "What are you?—"
"Worshipping my fiancée," he murmurs against my sensitive flesh, the vibration of his words sending shivers up my spine. "Claiming what's mine. What has always been mine."
The dual possession—of my body with his mouth, of my future with his ring—sends a wave of heat through me, pooling where his tongue works its magic against my core. I should ask questions, should demand explanations for this unilateral decision, but all rational thought dissolves under the skilled ministrations of his mouth.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his exploration, his tongue alternating between long, slow strokes and quick, targeted circles that make stars burst behind my eyelids. I'm already close—embarrassingly so—my body responding to him with the same eager desperation it always has, as if programmed at the cellular level to crave his touch.
Just as I approach the edge, he pulls back, his mouth leaving me with a deliberate slowness that makes me whimper infrustration. He rises onto his knees between my spread thighs, his eyes dark with possession as they roam over my naked body.
"Do you like your ring?" he asks, his voice rough with desire despite the deceptively casual question.
I lift my hand again, examining the diamond that now marks me as his. "It's beautiful," I admit, because it is, regardless of the circumstances of its appearance on my finger.
"Not as beautiful as you," he counters, his hands sliding up my thighs, over my hips, to my waist. "Nothing could be as beautiful as you, spread out in my bed, wearing my ring, wet and ready for me."
Heat floods my cheeks at his crude assessment, but I don't deny it. Can't deny the evidence of my desire that I know he can see, can smell, can taste on his tongue.
"You didn't ask me," I say, finding my voice at last, though it comes out breathier than intended. "Isn't that customary? Asking before putting a ring on someone's finger?"
A slight smile curves his lips, predatory and satisfied. "When have we ever been bound by custom, little one?" His hands continue their journey up my body, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling the nipples until they peak beneath his touch. "Besides, I already know your answer."
"Do you?" I challenge, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the way I arch into his touch, my body betraying my attempt at indignation.
"Yes," he says simply, his confidence absolute. One hand leaves my breast to trace a path down my stomach, back to where I'm still aching from his earlier attention. "Your body never lies to me, Cecily. It always tells me exactly what you want, what you need." His fingers find my slick entrance, circling but not penetrating. "And what you want, what you need, is to be mine. Completely. Legally. Permanently."
I can't deny the truth in his words, can't pretend I haven't dreamed of exactly this—being bound to him in ways that can't be easily broken, that announce to the world that I belong to him and he to me.
"Yes," I whisper, the admission surprisingly easy despite the unconventional proposal. "I want to be yours."
His eyes darken further, triumph and desire making them almost black in the dim light. "Say it properly," he demands, his fingers finally sliding inside me, curling to find that spot that makes my back arch off the bed. "Say you'll marry me."
"I'll marry you," I gasp as his thumb circles my clit in counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers. "Yes, Sutton, I'll marry you."
