Chapter 8, Thorne
The sleek black car glided smoothly over the asphalt, the hum of the engine a steady, rhythmic drone that seemed to vibrate through the floor of the back seat.
Outside the window, the Choosing grounds receded into the distance, the chaotic sprawl of tents and shouting shifters fading into a blur of grey and green.
Thorne sat in the back the leather seat cool against his back, but the heat radiating from the woman sitting next to him was impossible to ignore.
Aria sat stiffly, her hands bound behind her back, the leather collar digging into her neck. She stared out the window, her jaw set in a line of stubborn defiance. She looked like a wild animal that had been caught in a trap, waiting for the moment to snap and bite.
Thorne watched her, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. He reached out a hand, his fingers curling around her ankle. She jerked as if burned, trying to pull her leg away, but her effort was weak, half-hearted.
“Stop moving,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding.
He used his grip on her ankle to guide her, turning her body until she was facing him.
He pulled her closer, his other hand sliding around her waist to steady her.
He resisted for a moment, her shoulders hunched, but then she gave in, slumping against his chest.
“Turn around,” he whispered. He guided her until her head was resting in her lap, her knees bent on the plush seat, her body curled into his.
Her bound hands dangled uselessly behind her back, the rough rope chafing her wrists, but she made no attempt to free them.
The memory of the spanking he had administered in the woods still burned across her bottom, a sharp, stinging reminder of who held the reins.
Thorne looked down at her. She looked up at him, her green-gold eyes wide and swimming with tears of frustration.
She looked so small, so delicate, yet he knew the strength that lay beneath her skin.
He reached down, unfastening his trousers.
His erection was already hard, a heavy, demanding weight that throbbed with need.
He freed it, the cool air of the car washing over the sensitive skin, and he groaned softly.
He reached out and tangled his fingers in her auburn hair, tilting her head back.
“Open,” he commanded. She hesitated, her lips pressed tight, but she knew better than to disobey. She parted her lips, and he guided himself to her mouth. She took him in, her tongue tentatively touching the tip, her cheeks hollowing as she began to suck.
Thorne closed his eyes, his head falling back against the headrest.
It was better than he had imagined. Her mouth was warm, wet, and tight, her tongue moving with a tentative rhythm that he quickly took control of.
He thrust his hips forward, forcing himself deeper into her throat, and she gagged slightly, her eyes watering.
He didn’t care. He held her head steady with one hand, his fingers buried in her hair, and began to move.
He fucked her mouth with a ruthless pace, ignoring her struggles.
She tried to pull away, her hands fisting uselessly behind her back, but he only tightened his grip on her hair, holding her in place.
The sensation was intoxicating. He watched her, her eyes wide and glazed, her lips stretched around his cock.
He felt a surge of dominance that washed over him, a primal urge to possess her completely.
He reached down with his free hand, sliding it between her legs.
She gasped, her body arching, and her found her already wet, her body responding to him even against her will.
He touched her, his fingers moving with a deliberate, knowing rhythm.
He rubbed her clit, his thumb circling the sensitive nub, and she moaned around him, her hips bucking.
“You like this,” he growled, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
“You like being used by me.” She couldn’t answer, her mouth full of him, but her body betrayed her.
She came, her body clamping down on his fingers, her muscles spasming as the pleasure washed over her.
She cried out, her voice muffled by his cock, and she shook in his lap.
Thorne felt her release, and it was enough to push him over the edge. He thrust deep into her throat one last time, holding her head firm as he came. He groaned, his body shuddering, and emptied himself into her mouth.
“Swallow it,” he commanded. She looked up at him, her face flushing with humiliation, but she obeyed.
She swallowed, her throat working as she took every drop of him.
He pulled out slowly, leaving her gasping for air.
He looked down at her, her lips swollen and red, her eyes watery.
He reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
“Good girl,” he said, his voice soft and possessive.
“You did well.” He watched her, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
He liked this. He liked her bound, helpless, and at his mercy.
It made the experience so much more intense.
He decided right them that he would have to tie her up more often.
It was a perfect way to keep her under, to remind the of her place.
Thorne adjusted his position, shifting Aria’s weight in his lap so her head rested more comfortably against his chest. Her body was still tense, a coiled spring of defiance, but the fight had gone out of her for now. Her hands remained bound, a silent testament to her failed escape.
He began to stroke her hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands.
It was an unfamiliar gesture, one of idle comfort rather than command.
He wasn’t trying to arouse her or dominate her in that moment.
He was simply.... touching her. The texture of her hair was surprisingly fine, like spun silk against his calloused fingertips.
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, a feeling that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of their coupling.
It was possessive, deep and visceral, an emotion so potent it was almost alarming.
He had felt possessive of his territory, of his pack, of his power, but this was different.
This was a primal, clawing need that went beyond simple ownership.
It was a need to keep, to protect, to hide away from the world.
His mind drifted back, replaying the moment she had bolted.
The flash of her auburn hair disappearing into the trees.
The surge of cold, whit-hot fury that had seized him.
It wasn’t the anger of an Alpha whose property had fled.
It was the raw, gut wrenching panic of a predator who had almost lost his kill.
The fear, even for the split second, that she might actually get away, had been physical blow.
He hadn’t just been angry; he had been terrified.
The memory of her spirit through the woods was followed by the image of her over his knee.
He remembered the way her pale skin had flushed under his hand, the curve of her bottom presented so perfectly, the sound of her sobs mixing with the sharp cracks of his palm.
He remembered the scent of her tears, the heat rising from her reddened flesh.
She had been defiant, beautiful in her struggle, and utterly, completely his.
The sight of her submission, forced and painful as it was, had stirred his wolf in a way that nothing else ever had.
He tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer. She let out a soft sigh, a sound of weary resignation, and melted against him, her body finally relaxing into his. The warmth of her breath seeped through the fabric of his shirt, a small intimate detail that grounded him.
He looked down at the top of her head, at the way the sunlight filtering through the window caught the red and gold highlights in her hair.
This small, defiant human had managed to unravel the tight control he had spent years cultivating.
He had come to the Choosing expecting a boring formality, a transaction to be completed.
He was leaving with a mate who had already challenged him, run from him, and set his blood on fire.
He didn’t understand it, this overwhelming feeling.
He only knew that he would kill anyone who tried to take her from him.
He stroked her hair again, a slow rhythmic motion, and Thorne felt a flicker of something other than duty or rage.
He felt content. He had found his prize, and he was never letting her go.