Chapter 10
Gideon
My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out everything except the ragged edge of her breathing and the small, broken sound she made when my fingers found the button of her jeans.
Metal gave way beneath my thumb.
Simple. Mechanical.
The zipper followed with a whisper of teeth separating, each increment of descent marking territory claimed.
Her hands gripped the table edge hard enough that her knuckles went white. Tendons stood out in sharp relief along her wrists. She didn't push me away. Didn't fight. Just held on like the wood was the only solid thing left in a world tilting sideways.
Smart girl.
She'd learned faster than I'd expected.
Resistance only prolonged things. Made them messier. Added struggle to an equation already weighted in my favor.
This way—her stillness, her silent fury—gave her the illusion of dignity.
I'd allow that.
For now.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. I watched them gather, suspended, refusing to fall through sheer force of will.
"I hate you."
The words shook.
Genuine. Raw. Everything I'd wanted to hear since the night she'd looked through me at that gala like I was beneath her notice. Like I didn't matter. Like I was nothing.
I studied her face—the defiance carved into every angle, the terror she wouldn't name, the heat she'd rather die than acknowledge.
Perfect.
"Good," I said quietly. "Hate lasts."
Longer than fear.
Longer than shame.
Hate kept people tethered when everything else burned away.
I hooked my fingers into the denim at her hips.
She stiffened. Breath caught. But her hands stayed locked on the table, white-knuckled and trembling, holding position like I'd trained her already without saying a word.
The jeans peeled away easily. Down over her thighs. Past her knees. Off completely.
She didn't resist. Didn't kick. Didn't make me work for it.
She knew.
Futility had a taste, apparently. Bitter enough to swallow pride, sharp enough to cut through denial, heavy enough to pin someone in place more effectively than hands ever could.
I folded the jeans precisely. Set them aside on a chair she couldn't reach without going through me.
When I looked back, she was still crying without letting the tears fall.
Still hating me with everything she had.
Still mine.
"Take off your underwear."
The air between us went electric when she spat, "Go fuck yourself."
I didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just let the words hang there, raw and reckless, while her chest heaved like she’d run a mile.
Then I reached for the steak knife.
The blade caught the candlelight as I lifted it; the edge gleaming like a promise. Her breath hitched. Not fear—not yet—but something sharper, something that made her thighs press together just a little tighter.
I didn’t rush. Let her see it coming. Let her feel the weight of the moment, the way her pulse jumped in her throat, the way her fingers twitched against the table like she was fighting the urge to cover herself.
The knife slid under the waistband of her underwear, cold metal against warm skin. She went still. Not daring to breathe. Not daring to move.
One slow cut.
The fabric gave way with a whisper, the sound too quiet for how final it was.
I didn’t tear. Didn’t rip.
Just let the blade do the work, peeling the last barrier away like unwrapping something precious.
Her breath came faster now, shallow little gasps that made her ribs flutter. I dropped the ruined scrap of lace to the floor and stepped back just enough to look.
Fuck.
She was perfect.
Pink and flushed and mine, even if she’d rather die than admit it. The sight of her pussy hit me like a punch to the gut—hard, instant, undeniable. My cock thickened, pressing against my zipper, demanding more than just looking.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to stay still.
To savor it.
Because this wasn’t about taking.
This was about proving.
And Belle Reiss was about to learn exactly how little her defiance mattered when I decided something was mine.
The floor was cold against my knees, but I didn’t care.
The heat of her—fuck, the scent of her—washed over me like a drug, sweet and musky and so goddamn hers it made my head spin.
I breathed her in deep, letting it fill my lungs, my skull, my goddamn soul, and the groan tore out of me before I could stop it.
Raw. Hungry. The sound of a man who’d just found something he’d been starving for without knowing it.
Her thighs trembled around my shoulders.
I could feel her pulse hammering through the soft skin of her inner thighs, fast and frantic like a trapped bird’s. My hands slid up, fingers digging in just enough to hold her open, to keep her open, because I wasn’t done looking. Wasn’t done breathing her in.
A broken little sound escaped her—half sob, half gasp—and then, so quiet I almost missed it, "Please."
I tilted my head, dragging my gaze up the flat plane of her stomach, over the rapid rise and fall of her ribs, to her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her dark eyes wide and wet and begging even as she tried to hide it.
"Please what?"
She swallowed hard. Her fingers twisted in the tablecloth, knuckles white. "Don’t—"
I smirked.
Slow.
Knowing.
Then I looked back down, letting my breath ghost over her cunt just to watch her shudder.
Oh, she hated this. Hated that she was spread out for me. Hated that she was wet. Hated that her body was already betraying her before I’d even touched her. Hated most of all that I could see it.
And fuck if that didn’t make me harder.
I leaned in closer, close enough that my next breath would be against her, close enough that she’d feel the shape of the words I didn’t say.
Her hips jerked like she wanted to pull away.
Like she wanted to run.
Too bad, Belle.
You signed the contract.
And I always collect.
The first taste of her nearly unraveled me.
I didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect the way her flavor—sweet, musky, hers—would hit the back of my throat and make my cock throb like a fucking teenager’s.
My tongue dragged up her center, slow and deliberate, and the little gasp she bit back vibrated straight through me.
Her thighs tensed around my head, but she didn’t push me away.
Didn’t beg. Just made that broken, breathy sound again, like she was drowning and too proud to ask for air.
Good.
Let her suffer.
I flattened my tongue and licked her from entrance to clit, savoring the way her hips jerked before she locked them still. Her fingers clawed at the tablecloth, knuckles bone-white, but she didn’t say a word. Didn’t give me the satisfaction.
Fine.
I’d take it, anyway.
I sealed my mouth over her and fucking feasted, sucking her clit between my lips, swirling my tongue, pressing just hard enough to make her whimper.
Her thighs shook. Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
I could feel her pulse against my lips, erratic and wild, and when I slid two fingers inside her without warning, she arched off the table with a choked cry.
Tight.
So fucking tight.
I curled my fingers, found that spot inside her that made her vision whiten, and worked it.
My tongue never stopped moving—circles, flicks, relentless pressure—while my fingers pumped in and out, in and out, stretching her, owning her.
She was dripping, soaking my hand, her body betraying her even as she clenched her jaw shut.
I pulled back just as her muscles started to lock.
Her eyes flew open, dark and dazed and furious.
"Gideon—"
I cut her off with a sharp nip to her inner thigh. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to make her gasp.
"Shh."
She trembled, her chest heaving, her skin flushed pink from her collarbone to her hairline. I could see the frustration in every line of her body, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to hit me, the way her teeth sank into her bottom lip hard enough to leave marks.
I gave her thirty seconds.
Let her ride the edge of it, let her feel how close she was, how empty, how needy.
Then I did it again.
This time, I didn’t start slow.
I went straight for her clit, sealing my mouth over it and sucking hard, my fingers driving into her without mercy.
She made a sound—half sob, half curse—and her hips rolled up, seeking more, even as she tried to fight it.
I gave her exactly what she didn’t want to want, my tongue working in tight, ruthless circles, my fingers crooking inside her, owning her.
She was dripping now, her arousal slick on my chin, her thighs trembling violently. I could taste how close she was, could feel her cunt fluttering around my fingers, her body coiled so tight she was practically vibrating.
I pulled away again.
She let out a broken, furious sound, her chest heaving, her eyes wild.
"Fuck you."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, slow, deliberate, and met her glare. "Not yet."
Her breath hitched.
I gave her twenty seconds this time. Watched the way her fingers dug into the table, the way her thighs pressed together like she could trap the ache inside. Watched the way her lips parted, the way her tongue darted out to wet them, the way her pulse jumped in her throat.
Then I went in for the third time.
No buildup.
No mercy.
I buried my face between her thighs and ate her like a man starving, my tongue and fingers working in brutal rhythm, giving her everything she hated needing. She was soaking me, her hips rolling in helpless little circles, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.
I could feel it—the way her body tensed, the way her muscles locked, the way her cunt clenched around my fingers like she was trying to hold on—
I pulled back.
She let out a sound that was half scream, half sob, her body shaking, her skin slick with sweat.
"Gideon, you bastard—"
I stood up slowly, wiping my mouth again, and looked down at her.
Spread out.
Trembling.
Mine.
"Beg," I said.
Her eyes burned with hatred.
Her lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line.
Silence.
I smirked.
This was going to be fun.
Her cunt was weeping by the time I went in again, her thighs slick with it, her skin flushed so deep I could see the pulse in her neck hammering like a trapped thing.
I didn’t tease this time. Didn’t draw it out.
Just sealed my mouth over her and took, my tongue working her clit in tight, ruthless circles while my fingers pumped into her, stretching her, owning her.
She made a sound—broken, raw, something between a sob and a curse—and her hips jerked up, seeking more even as she tried to fight it.
I could feel it building, the way her muscles locked, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers clawed at the table like she was trying to anchor herself to the world. Her thighs trembled around my head, her skin damp with sweat, her whole body coiled so tight she was practically vibrating.
I pulled away.
She let out a choked, furious sound, her chest heaving, her eyes wild and wet and begging even as she bit her lip to keep the words in.
"Fucking please—"
I stood up slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked down at her.
Spread out.
Trembling.
Mine.
"One more time," I murmured.
Her breath hitched.
I didn’t give her time to brace.
Just went in hard, my tongue flat against her clit, my fingers driving into her without mercy.
She arched off the table with a broken cry, her hips rolling, her body taking even as her mind screamed.
I could taste how close she was, could feel her cunt fluttering around my fingers, her thighs shaking violently.
I pulled back.
She let out a sound that was half scream, half sob, her body shaking, her skin slick with sweat.
"Gideon—"
I licked my fingers clean, one by one, watching her.
Fuck.
She was beautiful like this.
Broken.
Desperate.
Mine.
"I think I'm satiated," I murmured.
Her eyes burned with hatred.
Good.
Let her hate me.
I undid my belt.
The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room.
Her breath caught when I pulled out my cock, thick and heavy and aching for her. Her eyes widened, but there was something underneath it—something dark. Something hungry.
I stroked myself slowly, watching her watch me.
"Look what you fucking do to me," I said, my voice rough.
Her gaze flicked up to mine, then back down, her throat working as she swallowed.
I stepped closer, close enough that the head of my cock brushed against her thigh.
She flinched.
But she didn’t pull away.
"I want to fuck you until you can’t walk," I said, my voice low. "Until you can’t think without remembering how it feels to have me inside you. I want to bend you over this table and take you so hard you scream. I want to feel you come on my cock, over and over, until you’re begging me to stop.
Until you’re begging me for more. I want to fill you up with my seed, you taste me. Get you pregnant, over and over again."
Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.
I stroked myself harder, my grip tight, my thumb swiping over the head.
"Fuck, Belle," I groaned. "Look at you. Look at what you do to me."
She didn’t say a word.
Just watched, her lips parted, her eyes dark.
I came with a rough groan, hot and thick over her thighs, marking her.
Mine.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just lay there, spread out on the table, my come drying on her skin.
I leaned down, bracing my hands on either side of her, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Right where I’d marked her.
"Welcome home," I murmured.
The napkin was cool against my skin, the fabric too fine for this.
I wiped my cock clean with methodical strokes, watching her the whole time.
Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, her fingers still twisted in the tablecloth like she was afraid to let go. Afraid of what she might do if she did.
I tossed the napkin aside and zipped up, the sound too loud in the quiet room. My cock still throbbed despite its release, unsatisfied, but this wasn’t about me. Not yet.
"Eat," I said. "Then come to bed."
She didn’t move.
I didn’t repeat myself. Just turned and walked away, leaving her there—spread out, trembling, mine—while the candles burned low and the food went cold.
The stairs creaked under my weight. I didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. I could feel her behind me, her rage and her shame and her fucking need pressing against my skin like a second pulse.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind me.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool, the room quiet, the house holding its breath.
Waiting.
Just like she was.
I turned off the light.
Didn’t bother with the lock.
She’d come.