Chapter 6
six
. . .
I pad barefoot through the penthouse, restless energy thrumming through my veins.
A week has passed since I surrendered to Sutton's touch, since I claimed him as mine and he claimed me as his.
A week of careful dancing around each other—his hands on me, his mouth teaching mine the language of desire, but never going further than that first night.
"When you're ready," he says each time I arch against him, seeking more.
"Not until you're sure." It's maddening and intoxicating, this restraint from a man who otherwise takes what he wants without hesitation.
Today he's sequestered in his home office, has been for hours, the low murmur of his voice occasionally drifting through the closed door as he conducts whatever mysterious business has kept him home on a Tuesday.
I try to occupy myself with the books he's given me, with the streaming services available on the enormous television, but nothing holds my attention. My mind keeps drifting back to Sutton—to his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and rare.
It still doesn't make sense, this connection between us. Why would a man like him—powerful, wealthy, commanding—become so fixated on a nobody like me? Why go to such lengths to keep me here, to make me his?
I find myself outside his office door, drawn by the sound of his voice. I don't mean to eavesdrop, not really. But then I hear my name, and my feet root to the spot.
"Yes, I need everything on Raymond Parker," Sutton is saying, his voice colder than I've ever heard it. "Financial records, business dealings, personal contacts. Anything that might give us leverage."
Raymond. My stomach twists at the mere mention of my stepfather. What is Sutton doing looking into Raymond?
"No, I don't care about the cost," he continues after a pause. "This is priority one. And I want that connection investigated thoroughly. There has to be a reason why Cecily ended up at my building specifically. In a city this size, that level of coincidence stretches credibility."
I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp. He thinks there's some kind of connection between us beyond chance? That my ending up at his building wasn't just random desperation?
"Look deeper into his business partners," Sutton commands. "Particularly the ones in real estate and development. I want to know if he's ever had dealings with any of my companies, if our paths have crossed before."
My mind races. Could Raymond and Sutton have known each other? Is that why he took me in, why he's so determined to keep me? As some kind of leverage in a business rivalry?
"And Hargrove," Sutton says, the name making my blood run cold. "I want everything on him too. Especially his... proclivities. If he was willing to pay for a seventeen-year-old girl, it's unlikely she'd be the first."
I sway on my feet, nausea rising in my throat. How does he know about Hargrove? I never told him the specifics of why I ran, never mentioned Raymond's plan to sell me to his business partner.
"No, she hasn't told me everything yet," Sutton admits after another pause, confirming my suspicion. "She's still guarded. Traumatized. But I've pieced enough together from what she has said, from her reactions to certain questions."
A silence stretches, and I should move away, should pretend I never heard any of this. But my feet remain frozen to the floor.
"Of course I'm personally invested," Sutton snaps suddenly, a dangerous edge to his voice. "She's mine now. And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver down my spine—half fear, half something darker and more primal.
"Just get me what I need," he concludes. "And remember, this stays between us. No one else needs to know about her or her connection to—"
The office door swings open suddenly, and I find myself face to face with Sutton, his phone still held to his ear. His eyes widen briefly in surprise, then narrow as he takes in my guilty expression, my obvious eavesdropping position.
"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, his eyes never leaving mine. He ends the call, slips the phone into his pocket, and then we're just standing there, staring at each other in a silence that stretches taut between us.
"How much did you hear?" he finally asks, his voice deceptively calm.
I consider lying, but something tells me he'd see right through it. "Enough," I admit. "You're investigating Raymond. And me. You think there's some connection between us that brought me to your building that night."
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Come in," he says, stepping back from the doorway, gesturing for me to enter his office.
I hesitate, suddenly nervous. I've never been in this room before—his private domain within his already private sanctuary.
"Cecily," he says, my name a command on his lips. "Come in. Now."
I obey, stepping past him into a space that screams masculine power—dark woods, leather chairs, walls lined with books that look actually read rather than just for show.
A massive desk dominates one end of the room, multiple computer screens glowing with information I can't decipher from this distance.
Sutton closes the door behind us with a soft click that sounds like a prison cell locking. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room.
"Sit," he says, pointing to one of the leather chairs facing his desk.
Again, I obey, sinking into the buttery softness of the leather, watching as he stalks around the desk to his own chair—a throne, really, high-backed and imposing.
"You shouldn't have been listening at the door," he says, his voice level but with an undercurrent of steel. "If you wanted to know what I was doing, you should have asked."
"Would you have told me?" I challenge, finding my voice. "Would you have admitted you're investigating me and my past?"
"Yes," he says without hesitation. "I don't lie to you, Cecily. I may not always volunteer information, but I don't lie."
I absorb that, turning it over in my mind. It's true that for all his mystery, all his control, he's never outright lied to me.
"What did he do to you?" Sutton asks suddenly, changing tacks with dizzying speed. "Your stepfather. What exactly did he do that made you run that night?"
I stiffen, the question hitting me like a physical blow. "I told you. He wanted me to do something I couldn't do."
"Be specific," he presses, leaning forward, his eyes intense. "I need to hear you say it."
My chest tightens, panic blooming behind my ribs. "Why? Why do you need me to relive that?"
"Because I need to know exactly what I'm dealing with," he says, his voice softening slightly. "Exactly what kind of monster he is. What he's capable of."
I look down at my hands, twisting together in my lap. "He was going to sell me," I whisper. "To his business partner, Hargrove. For sex." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Said Hargrove would pay well for a night with me. Maybe more if I didn't... disappoint."
A sound escapes Sutton then—a low, dangerous growl that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I glance up to find his face transformed by rage, his eyes burning, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.
"And this wasn't the first time he'd hurt you," he says, not a question but a statement of fact.
I shake my head, memories flashing behind my eyes. "No. He... after my mom died, he changed. He was always controlling, but without her there to protect me..." I trail off, unable to continue.
Sutton's expression softens slightly, though the rage still simmers beneath. "Did he touch you? Sexually?"
"No," I say quickly. "No, it wasn't like that. It was more... he treated me like property. Like a burden he was forced to deal with until he could find a way to make me useful." I swallow hard. "Useful meant selling me, apparently."
Sutton stands abruptly, coming around the desk to kneel in front of my chair. His hands cover mine, warm and strong, and I realize I'm trembling.
"I'll take care of it," he says, his voice gentle but with that undercurrent of danger that both frightens and thrills me. "He'll never hurt you again. Never even come near you."
The certainty in his voice, the promise of protection, brings tears to my eyes. No one has ever defended me like this, put themselves between me and harm.
"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice small. "Take care of it?"
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a soothing gesture at odds with the hardness in his eyes. "It means I'll use every resource at my disposal to ensure he can never threaten you again. Legally, financially, whatever it takes."
Something in his tone makes me wonder if "whatever it takes" might extend beyond legal means, but I don't ask. Part of me doesn't want to know.
"Why?" I whisper instead. "Why go to such lengths for me?"
His hand leaves mine to cup my cheek, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "Because you're mine now," he says simply, as if that explains everything. And in his world, perhaps it does.
His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, his eyes following the movement. "I protect what's mine, Cecily. I cherish what's mine." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I satisfy what's mine."
The shift from comfort to desire is so swift it leaves me breathless. One moment he's consoling me, the next his eyes are dark with hunger, his body radiating heat that seems to call to something primal in me.
"Sutton," I breathe, uncertain whether I'm seeking more comfort or more of this new, dangerous energy building between us.
"Let me take away the memory," he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans against my lips. "Let me replace those thoughts of him with thoughts of me. My hands on you. My mouth on you."
I should pull away. We're in the middle of a serious conversation about my abusive stepfather, about Sutton's mysterious investigation. But my body has other ideas, leaning toward him, seeking the oblivion his touch promises.
His lips find mine, gentle at first, a question I answer by opening to him without hesitation. The kiss deepens, grows hungrier, his hand sliding from my face to the nape of my neck, holding me in place as he devours my mouth.
Then he's lifting me, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carries me the few steps to his desk. He sets me on the edge, pushing aside papers and a laptop with one sweep of his arm.
"I'm going to taste you," he says against my lips, the words sending a shock of heat straight to my core. "I'm going to make you forget everything but my name."
Before I can process what he means, he's sinking to his knees between my spread thighs, his hands pushing up the skirt of the dress I'm wearing until it bunches around my waist. His eyes dark with desire as they take in the simple cotton underwear beneath.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband, tugging until I lift my hips to help him slide them down my legs. "So perfect."
I should be embarrassed, exposed like this on his desk, the most intimate part of me bared to his gaze. But all I feel is anticipation, a desperate need for whatever comes next.
His hands push my thighs wider, opening me completely to him. "Watch me," he commands, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. "I want you to see who's claiming you like this."
And then his mouth is on me, hot and demanding, his tongue finding the center of my pleasure with unerring accuracy. I cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders, unsure whether I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer.
"Sutton," I gasp, the sensation overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.
He hums against me, the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure building inside me. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his assault, his tongue working me with skilled precision that suggests he's done this many times before.
The thought should bother me—how many women has he had like this?—but instead it only heightens my arousal. This experienced, powerful man has chosen me, wants me, is worshiping me with his mouth like I'm the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.
"Let go," he murmurs against my sensitive flesh. "Come for me, Cecily. Let me taste your pleasure."
His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue, send me hurtling over the edge. My back arches, a cry tearing from my throat as pleasure crashes through me in waves that seem endless.
He doesn't stop, continuing to work me through the aftershocks, gentling his touch but not ceasing until I'm a trembling, boneless mess on his desk.
When he finally rises, his mouth is wet with evidence of my pleasure, his eyes dark with his own need. He kisses me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue, a primal claiming that makes me whimper against his lips.
"Mine," he growls when he finally pulls back, his hand coming up to stroke my flushed cheek. "No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else will ever make you feel like this."
And in this moment, floating in the aftermath of ecstasy, I believe him. I want to believe him. Because if I'm his—truly his—then I'm safe. Protected. Cherished in a way I've never been before.
"Yours," I whisper, and his answering smile is both beautiful and terrifying in its possessive satisfaction.