Chapter 28 Cloe
CLOE
I was still sore from Barron.
Every step through the apartment reminded me of what it meant to be wanted by a man who had been holding himself back too long. My thighs ached. My hips throbbed. The bruises were fresh, worshipped, earned. And still—I knew what Wolfe needed from me now had nothing to do with comfort.
It had to do with control.
He stood at the far end of the room, sleeves rolled, shirt black, eyes darker. The others were gone. Royal, Loyal, Barron—they’d left hours ago. After the plan was drafted. After the war was agreed on. After Wolfe had poured one last drink and handed it to Barron like a truce.
And now? Now he watched me. No words. No movement. Just that stare.
I dropped to my knees.
The floor was cold.
Perfect.
My hands folded behind my back. My knees spread. My eyes on the floor. My breath quickening.
He didn’t tell me to do it. He didn’t have to.
Wolfe moved slowly. The sound of his steps deliberate. Each one heavier than breath.
He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could smell the leather of his belt. Close enough that my pulse jumped. And still he said nothing.
Silence stretched between us like a leash. I breathed through it. I knew the rules. This wasn't foreplay. This was obedience. And I was already wet.
His hand moved. Fingers brushing my chin. Not lifting it. Just resting there. Testing.
I held still.
He stepped to the side. Walked around me in a slow circle. Inspection. One hand behind his back. One at his side.
My heart beat harder the longer he stayed quiet.
Finally—
His voice.
Low.
Final.
“Open your mouth.”
I obeyed. No hesitation. No sound. Just surrender. And Wolfe stepped in front of me again. Unbuckled his belt. Undid the button. Zipper slow. Deliberate.
His cock was already hard. Thick. Dark. Heavy with what he hadn’t said. He gripped the base. Ran the tip over my lower lip. Not to tease. To mark.
Then—
He slid inside.
He didn’t move fast.
He moved like time answered to him.
His cock filled my mouth inch by inch, stretching my jaw until my throat fluttered around the weight of him. My lips stretched wide. My eyes watered. Still, I didn't pull back. Pain in worship wasn't weakness. It was proof.
His fingers tangled in my hair. Not yanking. Just holding. Anchoring.
“Breathe,” he said. Low. Controlled.
I tried.
His hips pressed forward. My throat opened for him—just barely. Just enough. The burn was sharp. Tears welled. Drool slid from the corner of my lips.
He didn’t praise me. Didn’t groan. He held still.
Deep.
And I held him.
The heat of his breath hit the crown of my head. His hand tightened. My scalp tingled under the pressure.
He pulled back slowly—just far enough for air.
“Again.”
I opened wider. Took him deeper. My throat fought. My eyes stung. My fingers dug into my thighs, nails biting skin. But I didn't stop. Wolfe didn't fuck for praise.
He fucked for possession.
And I needed to be owned.
His other hand wrapped lightly around my throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just there. A reminder. Of who held my air.
He pushed in deeper. My nose touched his skin.
My throat spasmed. He didn’t flinch. I choked—soft, quiet, beautiful.
His cock twitched. His breath caught. Still, he didn't come.
This wasn't about him. It was about me breaking, bleeding obedience into the spaces between breath and silence.
He pulled back again. My lips red. Raw. My chin slick.
"Keep it open," he said.
And I did. Pain was part of worship. Worship was survival. He didn’t speak. Didn’t tell me I was good. Didn’t ask if I could take it. He just held my head still and fucked into my mouth like it was owed to him.
My knees dug harder into the floor with each thrust. The ache had long since set in, but the pain wasn’t a deterrent. It was a direction.
He didn’t hold my hair. He held my skull. One hand curled tight against the base of my neck. The other braced against his thigh.
He moved like a rhythm carved into marble—
Deep.
Hard.
Relentless.
Every thrust stole my breath. And I let him take it. My eyes blurred. My jaw throbbed.
Saliva dripped from my chin to my chest. The wet slap of his cock against the back of my throat filled the room.
Still, he said nothing.
Because this wasn’t about words. This was about silence. And Wolfe had always known how to weaponize it.
He angled his hips, changing the depth. My shoulders jolted forward. My stomach tightened. I gagged around him. But I didn’t pull away.
My nails curled into my thighs. My eyes locked on his abdomen. His breath was shallow now. His pace brutal.
My body shook. Not from pain. From need.
He held himself deeper than before.
Paused.
Let me feel it—all of him, thick and pulsing, taking space I didn’t have. I blinked hard, tears falling freely now.
He slid out.
I gasped. Air flooded in. My chest burned.
“Look at me,” he said.
I lifted my head. His cock glistened. His eyes were dark. But not cold. Just absolute. He slid back in. Faster. Harder.
My head rocked with each movement. My spine locked. My thighs trembled. And still I stayed. I stayed because he needed this.
Because I needed this.
The silence broke on a groan. Low. Ragged. Ripped from somewhere behind his teeth. His hand clamped at the back of my head, holding me in place as his cock jerked deep in my throat. Heat filled my mouth. Pulse after pulse.
He didn't pull out. Didn't give me warning. He finished inside me like he owned the right. He did.
I swallowed.
Choked.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
And Wolfe exhaled above me.
Still.
Powerful.
Mine.
I stayed on my knees. My lips were swollen. My throat ached. His cum still coated the back of my tongue. I didn’t wipe my mouth. Didn’t move.
Wolfe zipped his pants slowly. Every motion deliberate. Every breath still measured. But his silence wasn’t cold now. It was reverent.
He looked down at me. I looked up. My knees burned. My shoulders shook. He reached out. Fingers gentle. Thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
He wiped the mess he left there. But not in disgust. Not in shame. In ritual. Then he cupped my jaw. Both hands. Held my face like it was something sacred. His thumb swept across my cheekbone.
Slow.
Like he could trace his ownership there. His fingers tightened just slightly—enough to remind me I was still his. Even after the violence. Especially after it.
He didn't kiss me. He didn't praise me. He just held me. And I didn't cry. But I wanted to. It wasn't just the pain that broke me. It was the way he stayed.
Wolfe dropped to one knee. His eyes never left mine. Then he leaned in. And kissed the top of my head.
Just once.
Soft.
Final.
Like he was sealing something. Something already written. Something he didn’t plan on giving back. He didn’t stand right away. Neither did I.
I knelt between his knees, throat raw, skin flushed. His hands still framed my jaw like he wasn’t ready to let me go.
I watched his eyes. Dark. Unreadable. But not empty.
Never empty.
His thumbs brushed under my cheekbones.
Slow.
Measured.
And then—
He spoke.
Quiet.
Final.
“You were always mine.”
I swallowed. The words hit harder than his cock. Harder than his silence.
“Before Royal flirted.” He tilted my chin higher. “Before Loyal softened.” His voice dropped lower. “Before Barron touched.”
The air went still. My pulse thundered in my throat.
His fingers tightened, just slightly. Just enough.
“You were mine first.”
I didn't nod. Didn't answer. I didn't need to.
He leaned in. Nose brushing mine. Breath hot. “And if they ever forget it…” His lips brushed my ear. “I’ll remind them.”
He stood. Fastened his belt. Ran a hand through his hair. Then looked down at me one last time. His mouth didn’t move.
But his eyes said everything:
You don’t kneel for them the way you kneel for me.
And he was right. I never would.
Worship has a memory.
And Wolfe wrote his name on mine first.