"Say it, Liberty." He sounds as destroyed as I feel. "Say you're mine."
"Please—" I try to push back against him, desperate for friction, but his hand on my hip pins me in place.
"Say. It."
I'm shaking. Falling apart at the seams. My pride screams at me to hold out, but my body is screaming louder.
"I'm yours." The words tear out of me like a confession. Like a death. Like the last piece of myself I had left. "I'm yours, Elias. Please. I'm yours."
He slams into me so hard the desk scrapes across the floor.
"Again."
"I'm yours." I'm sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, pleasure and shame and need all twisted together until I can't tell where one ends and another begins. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm?—"
His fingers press down on my clit. His cock drives deep. And I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like a bomb detonating at the base of my spine.
My vision whites out.
My body convulses around him, milking him, and I hear him groaning my name against my shoulder like it's a prayer—the only prayer he's ever meant.
His hips stutter. He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a sound that's almost a snarl.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
His weight pins me to the desk. His breath heaves against my back. I can feel him softening inside me, feel the wetness between my thighs, feel the tears still tracking down my cheeks.
I said it.
I told him I was his.
And the worst part—the part that makes me want to carve my own heart out of my chest—is that I meant every word.
Reality crashes back in like ice water.
I shove against the desk, and he pulls out of me, steps back.
I hear him dealing with the condom as I grab my clothes, yanking them on with desperate, jerky movements.
My hands won't stop shaking.
"Liberty—"
"Don't." I can't look at him.
Can't look at the desk where I spread my legs for him.
Where I begged for him. Where I told him I belonged to him while he fucked me like I was made for exactly that purpose.
"This changes things."
"This changes nothing." I button my jeans, grab my shirt, focus on the mechanical motions because if I let myself think—if I let myself feel—I'll shatter into pieces too small to ever put back together.
"You said you were mine."
"I lied."
