Chapter 5
five
. . .
We move to the couch, my legs still trembling from that earth-shattering kiss.
Sutton sits with casual confidence, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, but his eyes never leave me.
There's nothing casual about his gaze—it's focused, calculating, as if he's trying to see straight through to my soul.
I perch on the edge of the cushion, keeping a careful distance between us, though my body seems to lean toward him of its own accord.
The air between us vibrates with possibility, with the knowledge that something fundamental has shifted.
I've admitted I'm his, and now he plans to define exactly what that means.
"We need to establish some parameters," he says, his voice steady and businesslike, at odds with the heat still simmering in his eyes. "If you're going to stay here—with me—there are certain rules I expect you to follow."
My stomach tightens with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. "Rules?"
"Boundaries," he amends, though his expression suggests there's little difference in his mind. "Expectations that will keep you safe and make this arrangement work for both of us."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling vulnerable despite being fully clothed. "I'm listening."
He leans forward slightly, closing some of the distance between us. "First, you stay. Not just physically in this penthouse, but with me. No running, no hiding, no shutting me out."
I nod slowly. It seems reasonable enough, though I wonder how he defines "shutting out."
"Second, you don't run." His eyes darken as he says this, and I remember my aborted escape attempt days ago. "If something is wrong, if you're upset or scared or angry, you come to me. We deal with it together. You don't try to solve your problems by disappearing."
Again, I nod, though this one is harder. Running has been my survival strategy for as long as I can remember—running from Raymond's moods, running from difficult situations, running from anything that threatened my precarious sense of security.
"And third," he continues, his voice dropping to a register that sends a shiver down my spine, "you trust me. Completely. Without reservation."
At this, I hesitate. "I don't know if I can promise that," I say honestly. "Trust isn't something I give easily."
A smile flickers at the corners of his mouth, surprising me.
"I'm aware of that, Cecily. It's one of the things I admire about you.
Your caution has kept you alive this long.
" He reaches out, his fingers tracing a path from my shoulder down to my wrist. "But I'm not asking for blind faith.
I'm asking you to try. To let yourself believe that I want what's best for you, even when you don't understand my actions. "
I shiver at his touch, at the gentleness belying the steel in his words. "And what do I get in this arrangement? It seems like all the rules are about what you want."
His eyes flash with something—amusement, maybe, or appreciation for my boldness.
"You get safety. Security. A place to heal from what was done to you.
Resources to build whatever future you want for yourself.
" His fingers encircle my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point.
"And you get me. My protection. My attention. My... devotion."
The last word hangs between us, weighted with implications that make my breath catch. This powerful, dangerous man is offering me devotion—something I'm not sure I know how to handle.
"Why?" I ask, the question that's been plaguing me since the night he found me. "Why would you offer all this to someone you barely know?"
His grip on my wrist tightens fractionally. "Because from the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine to protect. Mine to care for." His voice drops lower, his eyes holding mine captive. "Mine to possess."
I should be frightened by that declaration. Instead, a warm, liquid heat pools in my belly, spreading outward through my limbs. I've never been wanted like this—with this fierce intensity, this absolute certainty.
"I don't know why I'm agreeing to this," I whisper, more to myself than to him. "It doesn't make sense."
"Doesn't it?" His free hand comes up to cup my face, turning it toward him. "You've spent your life belonging to people who hurt you, who saw you as a burden or a commodity. Is it so strange that you might want to belong to someone who sees you as precious?"
Precious. The word echoes in my mind, unfamiliar and alluring. Is that what this is about? Am I so desperate to be valued that I'm willing to trade one form of captivity for another?
But this doesn't feel like captivity, not really. Despite the rules, despite the power imbalance between us, there's something in Sutton's gaze that speaks of reverence as much as possession.
"Okay," I say finally, my voice barely audible. "I'll try. I'll stay. I won't run. And I'll... I'll try to trust you."
The smile that spreads across his face is mesmerizing in its genuine pleasure. "Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise sends an unexpected thrill through me.
His hand slides from my face to the back of my neck, exerting gentle pressure, drawing me toward him. "Now, let's seal our agreement properly."
His lips meet mine, and unlike the fierce claiming of our first kiss, this one is slow, deliberate, a meticulous exploration that leaves me breathless. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entry, and I open for him without hesitation.
The kiss deepens, his hand tightening in my hair, and I make a soft sound of surrender against his mouth. This feels nothing like the awkward kisses I've experienced before—this is artistry, expertise, a man who knows exactly how to elicit response from a woman's body.
When he finally pulls back, my lips feel swollen, sensitized, and my breathing comes in short, shallow gasps. His eyes are dark with desire as they roam over my face, my neck, lower to where my chest rises and falls rapidly.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "So beautifully responsive to my touch."
His hand moves from my lip to my throat, tracing the rapid pulse there, then lower still, skimming over my collarbone, down to the swell of my breast. Even through the fabric of my shirt, his touch leaves a trail of fire on my skin.
"I want to touch you," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "I want to learn every inch of your body, discover all the ways I can make you come apart in my hands."
The crude yet poetic words send a shock wave through me, desire mingling with apprehension. I've never gone beyond kissing, never felt comfortable enough with anyone to allow more intimate touches. But with Sutton, my body seems to have a will of its own, arching slightly into his exploring hand.
"I... I haven't..." I stammer, heat flooding my cheeks.
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flash of something darker, more possessive. "You're inexperienced," he says, not a question but a confirmation of what he's suspected.
I nod, unable to meet his gaze. "Very."
A slow smile spreads across his face, predatory and pleased.
"Then I'll be your first. Your only." His hand cups my breast fully now, his thumb brushing over the nipple, drawing a gasp from my lips.
"I'll teach you everything about pleasure, Cecily.
Show you all the ways your body can sing under the right touch. "
He leans in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Do you want that?" he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. "Do you want me to show you what it feels like to come apart in my hands?"
I can't speak, can only nod, my body trembling with need I've never felt before.
"Words," he commands softly. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes," I breathe, my voice catching. "Please."
That's all the permission he needs. In one fluid motion, he pulls me into his lap, my legs straddling his thighs, my center pressed against the hard evidence of his desire. His hands grip my hips, guiding me in a slow, torturous rhythm against him.
"Feel what you do to me," he growls, his eyes never leaving mine. "Feel how much I want you."
The friction is exquisite, even through the layers of our clothes. I whimper, my hands clutching at his shoulders for support as he continues to move me against him.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving my hip to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his hungry mouth. "So perfect."
His lips trace a burning path down my neck, over my collarbone, to the edge of my shirt. With his free hand, he tugs the fabric aside, his mouth finding the curve of my breast above my bra.
"Sutton," I gasp, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me.
"I've got you," he assures me, his voice a soothing rumble against my skin. "Just feel, Cecily. Let yourself feel everything."
His hand slides under my shirt, up my ribcage, to cup my breast through the thin material of my bra. His thumb circles my nipple, drawing it to a tight peak, and a moan escapes me—a sound I barely recognize as coming from my own throat.
"That's it," he encourages, his eyes dark with approval. "Let me hear you. Let me know how good this feels."
His other hand leaves my hair, sliding down my back, over the curve of my bottom, then around to the button of my jeans. He pauses there, his eyes seeking mine.
"May I?" he asks, and the fact that he's asking permission—that despite his dominance, he's giving me this choice—makes me want him even more.
"Yes," I whisper, beyond shyness now, consumed by the need building inside me.
He opens the button, lowers the zipper with agonizing slowness, then slips his hand inside, over the thin cotton of my underwear. I jerk against him as his fingers find the center of my need, pressing gently through the fabric.
"So wet," he murmurs, satisfaction heavy in his voice. "So ready for me."
His fingers move in slow circles, building pressure that has me squirming in his lap, chasing a relief I've only vaguely understood before this moment.
"Please," I whimper, not entirely sure what I'm begging for.
He knows, though. His fingers slip beneath the elastic of my underwear, finding bare skin, and I cry out at the direct contact. He explores me with expert precision, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes me press desperately against his hand.
"That's it," he coaxes as I rock against his fingers. "So close already, aren't you? So eager for your first orgasm."
The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my lower belly, but just as I feel myself approaching the edge of something monumental, he slows his movements, drawing a sound of frustration from me.
"Sutton, please," I beg, my hips moving of their own accord, seeking the friction he's denying me.
"Look at me," he commands, and I force my eyes open to meet his. "I want to see your face when you come for the first time. I want to know that I'm the one who gave you this pleasure." His fingers resume their movement, more purposeful now. "But first, I need you to beg for it."
"Please," I gasp immediately, beyond pride, beyond everything but the desperate need for release. "Please, Sutton, I need... I need..."
"What do you need, Cecily?" he presses, his fingers skillfully building me back toward that peak. "Tell me exactly what you need."
"I need to come," I manage, the words foreign on my tongue but desperate in their sincerity. "Please let me come."
His smile is triumphant, his eyes burning with satisfaction. "Good girl. Now, come for me. Let go."
His fingers increase their pressure, their speed, and the tension that's been building suddenly snaps, pleasure crashing over me in waves I couldn't have imagined. I cry out, my body shuddering against his hand, my vision blurring as sensation overwhelms me.
He works me through it, murmuring praise and encouragement, his free arm wrapped around my waist to hold me steady as I convulse in his lap.
Only when the last tremor subsides does he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean in a gesture so erotic it nearly sends me over the edge again.
"Beautiful," he says, his voice rough with restrained desire. "Even more perfect than I imagined."
I slump against him, boneless and stunned, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. His arms encircle me, holding me close, one hand stroking soothingly up and down my spine.
"I've never..." I whisper, unable to articulate the magnitude of what I just experienced.
"I know," he says, a note of masculine pride in his voice. "And now that pleasure belongs to me. To us."
He shifts me in his lap so that he can see my face, his expression serious despite the desire still evident in his eyes. "Say you're mine, Cecily. Say it now, when you can't deny what's between us."
My mind is hazy with pleasure, my body still humming from his touch, but I understand the weight of what he's asking. This is more than just words—it's a commitment, a surrender of a kind I've never given anyone before.
But haven't I already given it? Haven't I already agreed to his terms, allowed him to touch me in ways no one else ever has?
"I'm yours," I whisper, and the words feel right on my tongue, true in a way I don't fully understand.
His answering smile is triumphant yet tender, possession and protection in equal measure. He presses his lips to my forehead, a gesture so gentle it makes my heart ache.
"Mine to protect," he murmurs against my skin. "Mine to pleasure. Mine to cherish."
And in this moment, floating in the aftermath of ecstasy, safe in the arms of this powerful, dangerous man, I believe him. I believe that whatever this is between us—this inexplicable, irresistible pull—it might just be the salvation I never knew I needed.