Chapter 14
I wake slowly, surfacing from a deep, dreamless sleep like a diver ascending from the crushing pressure of the abyss. My first sensation is not one of sight or sound, but of feeling. A profound, undeniable fullness. A heavy, comforting warmth deep inside me.
I am impaled.
My eyes flutter open. The morning light is a soft, gray wash against my bedroom blinds.
The room is quiet. But the feeling is real.
He is still inside me from the night before, his semi-hard cock nestled deep within my body.
We must have both fallen asleep like this, tangled together after the last shuddering orgasm wrung us both out.
He is a dead weight on top of me, his breathing a slow, even rhythm against my ear, one heavy arm draped possessively over my waist.
His body spoons mine, my back pressed against his chest, but it feels more like being pinned.
I am trapped by his weight, by the intimate invasion of his body.
A frantic, claustrophobic panic begins to bubble up from my stomach.
I have to get away. I have to get out from under him, out of this bed.
I need to be alone inside my own skin again, if only for a few minutes.
I try to move, an inch at a time, a slow, painstaking effort to slide my hips out from under him without waking him. If I can just create a little space, I can slip out, escape to the shower, and pretend this hasn't happened. I shift my weight, trying to ease him out of me.
It is a mistake.
The subtle movement, the clenching of my inner muscles as I try to dislodge him, has the opposite effect.
I feel him stir against my back, a low groan rumbling in his chest. And then, I feel him begin to harden, the slow, thick expansion of his cock stretching my inner walls.
He is waking up. And he is still inside me.
“No,” I whisper, the word a soundless plea to the universe.
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. His hips shift, a lazy, rolling motion. He begins to fuck me.
There is no preamble, no kiss, no foreplay. Just a slow, sleepy, possessive rhythm. He is still half-asleep, fucking me with the absentminded instinct of a man claiming what is his. It is the most intimate, most violating, most profoundly arousing thing I have ever experienced.
My mind screams in protest. This is not okay.
You are not an object for him to use in his sleep.
But my body, the goddamn traitor, is already responding.
The lingering soreness from the night before melts into a slick, liquid heat.
Every slow, deep thrust is a perfect, agonizing stroke against my most sensitive nerves.
I am already wet, already arching back into him, my own hips beginning to match his lazy, hypnotic rhythm.
I can’t resist. I am too tired, too thoroughly fucked-out, and my body is too conditioned to his touch. Resisting him feels like resisting my own heartbeat.
He slides one hand down my stomach, his fingers tangling in my pubic hair before finding my clit. He begins to rub a slow, steady circle, his thumb perfectly in sync with the deep, unhurried thrusts of his cock. My breath hitches. A low moan escapes my lips, a sound of pure, unwilling pleasure.
It doesn't take long. My body is already on a hair trigger, perpetually humming with a low-grade arousal he has instilled in me.
The climax builds quickly, a hot, pulling tide in my womb.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists in the sheets as my orgasm washes over me, a deep, shuddering, internal pulse that makes my inner muscles clench and milk him.
He groans, a rough, guttural sound against my hair, and I feel him spill his hot seed deep inside me, his own body shuddering with the force of it.
After a few final, convulsive thrusts, he is still. He pulls out of me with a wet, slick sound and his breathing evens out, returning to the slow rhythm of sleep.
I lie there for a long moment, my own body trembling with aftershocks, his seed a warm pool inside me.
As soon as I am sure he is deeply asleep again, I slip out of the bed.
This time, he doesn't stir. I move silently, grabbing a clean towel and retreating to the bathroom, the one place that feels remotely like my own territory.
I stand under the scalding spray of the shower for a long time, scrubbing, letting the water wash everything away.
When I get out and towel off, I inspect my body in the steamed-up mirror.
He was careful this time. The angry, purple marks on my hips have faded to pale yellow ghosts.
But there are new marks. Small, dark love bites clustered on the tops of my breasts, on the soft skin of my inner thighs, on the curve of my ass.
None of them will be visible in the clothes he bought me.
They are private brands, a secret map of his possession that only he and I will know is there.
The weekend passed in a strange, disorienting fog.
After he announced that I no longer have my own apartment, I was too stunned to fight anymore.
I simply… existed. In his space. In his world.
It was a blur of domesticity and debauchery.
He cooks incredible meals, things I’ve only ever read about on menus I can’t afford.
We drink expensive wine and talk. He asks me questions about law, about cases, about my opinions, listening with that unnerving intensity of his.
It feels dangerously like being treated as an equal, a partner.
And then there is the sex. Constant, insatiable, and varied.
Angry, punishing fucking against the glass walls of his penthouse overlooking the city lights.
Slow, tender lovemaking in the middle of the afternoon.
A quick, frantic blowjob in the kitchen while he waits for water to boil.
He has systematically explored every inch of my body, learning my responses, my limits, and then pushing past them.
He has wrecked me, over and over, until I am a raw, open nerve of pure sensation.
My body has now recalibrated to a new normal. A constant state of low-level arousal. I’ll be reading a book on his sofa and a random memory of his mouth between my legs flashes in my mind, and I feel a hot, wet clench between my thighs. My panties are perpetually damp. It’s humiliating.
I need to buy panty liners. The practical, mundane thought is a strange island of clarity in the sea of my confusion. I’m going to ruin all this expensive underwear he bought me if I can’t get myself under control.
The thought itself is a form of surrender. An acceptance of my new reality.
I’m brushing my teeth, staring at my own alien reflection in the mirror, when the bathroom door opens. Jasper stands there, wearing only a pair of soft, gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His chest is bare, his hair is a mess from sleep, and he looks sinfully, infuriatingly handsome.
He comes up behind me without a word, his body pressing against my back.
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me against his groin.
I can feel his morning erection, hard and insistent, against the curve of my ass.
He lowers his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot on my neck just below my ear.
He kisses me, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that sends a shiver down my spine.
His hands start to wander, one sliding up to cup my breast, the other sliding down over the front of my towel.
“Jasper,” I mumble, my mouth full of toothpaste.
“Hmm?” he murmurs against my skin, his hand starting to edge its way under the towel.
I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth quickly. I turn in his arms, putting a hand flat against his chest. “We can’t,” I say, trying to sound firm. “We have that meeting today, remember?”
He just looks down at me, a lazy, sensual smile playing on his lips. “It can wait,” he says, leaning in to kiss me again.
I put my hands on his shoulders and push, a gesture that is more symbolic than effective. “No,” I insist. “You are a sex-fiend. A menace. Go take a shower. A cold one.”
To my surprise, he laughs. A real, deep, genuine laugh. It transforms his face, erasing the cold, calculating predator and replacing him with someone charmingly, dangerously human.
“Alright, alright,” he says, releasing me and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You win this round, counselor.” He winks at me, then turns and steps into the massive, glass-walled shower.
I stand there for a moment, my heart doing a strange little flutter. The playfulness is new. The easy surrender is new. It’s disarming.
I finish getting ready, choosing the navy sheath dress and the tailored blazer.
I look the part. I look like I belong. When I emerge from the bathroom, dressed and ready, he is already out of the shower, a towel slung around his waist, coffee brewing in the kitchen.
The routine of it is starting to feel unnervingly normal.
The ride down in the elevator is silent. The car waits for us. As we pull out into the morning traffic, he places his hand on my thigh, high up, his fingers just brushing the hem of my dress. It is a casual, possessive gesture.
I smack his hand. Not hard, but with a sharp, definite tap. “Hands to yourself,” I say, my voice a low, mock-scolding tone. “We’re on our way to a business meeting.”
I expect him to get angry, to grab my hand, to assert his dominance. Instead, he just laughs again, that same easy, amused sound. He removes his hand, a roguish glint in his eye. “Yes ma’am.”
This is a game. A new game, with new rules that I am only just beginning to understand. And the most terrifying part is, I think I am starting to enjoy playing.
The town car glides to a stop before the familiar blade of black glass and chrome. This time, as we enter the grand, marble-floored lobby, I feel a strange sense of belonging, a disquieting feeling that this is my new reality.
When the doors open directly into his office, the receptionist greets us, her expression perfectly neutral as she takes in my presence at Jasper's side, but her eyes are sharp and intelligent.
"Good morning, Mr. Donovan," she says, her voice crisp and professional.
She holds out a thin, leather-bound folio.
"The executive officers from Meridian have arrived.
I've shown them to the main conference room. "
My feet stop moving. My brain feels like it’s short-circuited. Mr. Donovan. Not Wolfe. The firm name is one thing—a holding, a subsidiary, a legal fiction. But the name… the name is different.
Jasper doesn't break stride. He gives the receptionist a curt nod. “Thank you, Katherine.” He keeps walking toward a set of imposing double doors at the end of the long hallway, his hand still resting lightly on my back.
I am frozen in place. My mind is racing, trying to connect dots that refuse to align. Wolfe. Donovan. Wolfe Global. Donovan & Creed. It is a jumble of names and entities that makes no sense. He signed the checks as J.W. He was arrested as Jasper Wolfe.
He notices I've stopped. He turns, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.
I find my voice, my words a confused whisper. “Why did she call you that?” I ask, my gaze darting from him to the name on the wall and back again. “Mr. Donovan?”
He looks at me, and his expression is completely, utterly placid. There is no deception in his eyes, no flicker of a lie. Just a simple, devastating statement of fact.
“Because that’s my name,” he says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He turns and pulls one of the heavy conference room doors open, holding it for me, a perfect gentleman.