His rhythm falters at my surrender, his eyes locking onto mine with frightening intensity. "Mine," he growls. "Say it. Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," I whimper, and it doesn't even feel like a lie anymore.
He rewards me with a deep, grinding thrust that has me seeing stars. "Again."
"I'm yours, Daddy." The words tumble out, shameless now. "All yours."
His hand finds my clit, circling roughly. "Come for me, baby girl. Let me feel this tight pussy milk my cock."
My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing around him as I cry out. He follows immediately, his release hot and pulsing deep inside me, his groans of pleasure rumbling through his chest and into mine.
We stay like that for long moments, joined and panting, his forehead pressed to mine. The photos on his wall stare down at us—evidence of his obsession, his possessiveness, his need to control.
"I'm still mad about the photos," I murmur against his lips.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me where we're still connected. "No, you're not."
The worst part is, he's right. I should be terrified by the proof of his stalking. Instead, as he slowly withdraws from my body, I feel strangely…cherished. Protected. Wanted in a way I've never experienced before.
I straighten my dress as he retrieves his towel, watching him move with predatory grace around the small office.
"I'll take them down if they bother you," he offers, surprising me.
"They bother me," I say automatically, but I'm not sure if it's true anymore.
He nods, unpinning one of the photos—me, reading on my cabin porch, completely absorbed in the story. The expression he captured is peaceful. Unguarded. When was the last time I felt that way before coming here?
"You were reading Jane Eyre," he says quietly, handing me the photo. "You smiled three times and frowned twice. It was the first time I saw you relaxed."
The intimacy of the observation catches me off guard.
Has anyone ever truly noticed me the way he does?
six
. . .
Gray
I've been callingin every favor I have, pulling every string, leaning on every contact to clear Beck's name. Five days she's been with me now. Five days of claiming her body, of watching her resistance melt a little more each time. Five days of keeping her safe in my cabin while working to fix the clusterfuck that put her in danger in the first place. The laptop screen blurs as I rub my tired eyes. Three more bounty hunters took the job this week alone. One's getting close—asking questions at diners along the highway just twenty miles south. Too fucking close. I need to hurry this process along before someone else shows up trying to take what's mine.
Beck moves around the kitchen behind me, the soft sounds of domesticity I never thought I'd have in this cabin. The clink of mugs. The whoosh of the kettle. Her bare feet padding on the wooden floor. I've started ordering groceries—real food, not just the basics I used to keep—because she likes to cook. Watching her move around my kitchen in one of my t-shirts, those soft legs bare and tempting, stirs something primal in my chest.
"Tea?" She appears at my elbow, setting a steaming mug beside my laptop.
I grunt in thanks, not looking up from the email I'm drafting to an old Army buddy who now works in the federal courthouse. He owes me for saving his ass in Kandahar. Time to collect.
"Any progress?" she asks, peering at the screen.
I angle the laptop away slightly. No need for her to see the details—the other bounty hunters' names, their locations, their methods. It would only frighten her. "Some. Got the right paperwork filed. Just need to push it through faster."
She nods, accepting this vague answer. Five days, and she's already learning not to push certain topics. Learning to trust that I'll handle things. Progress.
My hand reaches for her without conscious thought, wrapping around her wrist and pulling her into my lap. She comes willingly, settling across my thighs, her head fitting perfectly under my chin.
"Gray?" she murmurs against my neck.
"Hmm?"
