Chapter 7
seven
. . .
I wake to the sound of the television, unusual in our morning routine.
Sutton is already up, dressed in tailored pants and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he stands before the massive screen.
His posture is tense, anticipatory, like a predator waiting for prey to emerge from hiding.
I pad toward him on bare feet, the silk of his borrowed pajamas sliding against my skin.
He doesn't turn, though I know he's aware of my presence.
His entire focus is on the news anchor speaking in grave tones about a "shocking scandal rocking the business community.
" Then I hear the name that stops me cold. Raymond Parker. My stepfather.
"—allegations of fraud, money laundering, and bribery have emerged against prominent real estate developer Raymond Parker," the anchor is saying, her professionally concerned expression belied by the gleam of excitement in her eyes.
"Federal authorities raided Parker's offices early this morning, seizing computers and files after a anonymous source provided evidence of systematic corruption dating back more than five years. "
The screen cuts to footage of Raymond being led out of his office building, flanked by FBI agents. He looks smaller somehow, diminished, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, his face a mask of stunned disbelief.
"Among the most serious allegations," the anchor continues, "are claims that Parker has been bribing city officials to overlook building code violations and environmental concerns at several of his luxury developments.
Additionally, financial records suggest he may have been laundering money for organized crime figures through his legitimate businesses. "
I can't breathe. Can't move. My stepfather—the man who's terrorized me for years, who was going to sell me to his business associate—is being dismantled on national television.
"Parker's reputation has already suffered in recent days," the report goes on, "after leaked emails revealed misogynistic comments about female employees and business associates, as well as disturbing references to his young stepdaughter that have prompted a separate investigation by child welfare authorities. "
My knees weaken, and I reach for the back of the couch to steady myself. They know about me. Somehow, they know what he was planning to do to me.
"In a related development, businessman James Hargrove, a close associate of Parker's, is also under investigation for alleged involvement in sex trafficking and solicitation of minors. Authorities have declined to comment on whether the two investigations are connected."
Hargrove too. The man Raymond was going to sell me to. Both of them, exposed, ruined, in a matter of days.
The anchor moves on to the next story, but I barely hear her. My mind is reeling, trying to process what I've just seen. Raymond's business empire—built on corruption and cruelty—collapsing like a house of cards. His reputation in tatters. His freedom likely to follow.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I flinch when the television suddenly goes silent. Sutton stands with the remote in his hand, his eyes not on the screen but on me, watching, assessing, waiting for my reaction.
"Did you do this?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
He doesn't insult my intelligence by denying it. "I made some calls," he says, his voice casual despite the intensity in his gaze. "Put certain information in the right hands. The rest was already there, just waiting to be discovered."
"The emails about me..."
"Were real," he confirms, setting down the remote and moving toward me with that fluid, predatory grace that still makes my heart race. "I just made sure the right people saw them."
I should be horrified. Should be appalled that he wielded his power so ruthlessly, that he's apparently capable of bringing down a man's entire life with a few phone calls. But all I feel is relief. Relief and something darker, something that feels dangerously like satisfaction.
"He deserved it," I say, testing the words, waiting to see if guilt follows them. It doesn't.
Sutton stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, far enough that I don't feel crowded. "Yes," he agrees simply. "He did."
"What will happen to him now?"
"He'll be charged. Convicted, with the evidence I—that was provided." A small slip, quickly corrected, but enough to hint at just how directly involved Sutton was in gathering that evidence. "He'll spend years in prison. When he gets out, he'll have nothing. No money, no reputation, no power."
No power. The words echo in my mind, a realization dawning that leaves me breathless. Raymond can't hurt me anymore. Can't threaten me. Can't control me. For the first time since my mother died, I'm truly free of him.
"You did this for me," I say, not a question but a statement of fact.
Sutton's expression softens slightly, one hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face.
"I did it because he deserved to be punished for what he planned to do to you.
For what he's already done to you." His fingers linger against my cheek.
"I told you I would take care of it. That I would protect what's mine. "
There it is again—that possessive claim that should frighten me but instead makes me feel secure. Protected. Valued.
"Thank you," I whisper, leaning into his touch.
His eyes darken, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. "Don't thank me yet," he says, his voice dropping to a register that sends heat pooling in my belly. "This is just the beginning of what I'll do for you. Of what I'll do to anyone who tries to hurt you."
The intensity of his words, the absolute conviction in his tone, should scare me. Instead, it ignites something in me—a need to belong to this man who has moved mountains to keep me safe.
Without thinking, I step closer, eliminating the small distance between us. My hands come up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine cotton of his shirt.
"Show me," I say, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "Show me what else you'll do for me."
Understanding flares in his eyes, along with something darker, more primal. "Are you sure?" he asks, his control evident in every tense line of his body. "Once I start, I won't stop until I've had all of you."
I know what he's asking. Know that this is a line we haven't yet crossed, despite the intimacies we've already shared. But seeing Raymond brought low, knowing that Sutton did that for me—it's unleashed something in me, a need to give myself completely to the man who has given me my freedom.
"I'm sure," I say, holding his gaze. "I want to be yours. Completely."
The last thread of his restraint snaps. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling my head back as his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's all consuming possession. Gone is the careful control he's shown until now, replaced by a hunger that matches the one building inside me.
I melt against him, opening to the invasion of his tongue, surrendering to the demanding pressure of his lips. My hands clutch at his shoulders, needing an anchor in the storm of sensation he's creating.
He walks me backward until I hit the wall, his body pressing against mine, letting me feel the hard evidence of his desire. One of his hands leaves my hair to slide down my body, over the silk of the pajama top, finding the peak of my breast and pinching lightly through the fabric.
I gasp into his mouth, arching into his touch, silently begging for more. He obliges, his fingers working the buttons of the top, parting the silk to expose my skin to his hungry gaze.
"Perfect," he murmurs, bending to take one nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak and drawing a cry from my lips. "So responsive. So eager for me."
His hand slides lower, finding the waistband of the pajama bottoms, slipping inside to cup me intimately. I'm already wet for him, have been since I realized what he'd done for me, what he's capable of doing.
"Sutton," I gasp as his fingers find the center of my need, circling but not providing the direct pressure I crave. "Please."
He lifts his head from my breast, his eyes dark with desire as they lock with mine. "Please what, Cecily? Tell me what you want."
"Touch me," I beg, beyond pride, beyond everything but the desperate need for his hands on me. "Make me yours."
A savage smile curves his lips. "You're already mine," he says, his voice rough with possession. "But I'll make sure you never forget it."
In one swift movement, he spins me around, pressing me face-first against the wall.
His body covers mine from behind, his arousal evident against the curve of my bottom.
His breath is hot against my ear as he whispers, "I'm going to take you to my office.
I'm going to bend you over my desk. And I'm going to make you come so hard you'll see stars. "
Before I can process his words, he's leading me down the hallway, his hand firm around my wrist. The silk top hangs open, exposing my breasts, the bottoms riding low on my hips from his earlier exploration. I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Chosen.
We reach his office, and he closes the door behind us with a soft click that somehow sounds final. Decisive. His hands go to my shoulders, turning me to face him.
"Last chance," he says, his eyes searching mine. "If you want to stop, say so now."
"I don't want to stop," I tell him, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want you. All of you."
Something flares in his eyes—relief, triumph, hunger. He kisses me again, deep and possessive, then turns me back around, bending me forward until my palms flatten against the cool surface of his desk.
"Stay just like that," he commands, his voice a rough growl that sends shivers down my spine.
I hear the sound of a drawer opening, closing.
Then his hands are at my hips, tugging the pajama bottoms down along with my underwear until they pool around my ankles.
The cool air of the office touches my heated skin, making me hyper-aware of how exposed I am, bent over his desk with him standing behind me.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, one hand tracing the curve of my bottom, down to where I'm wet and ready for him. "So perfect."
His finger slides inside me, testing, preparing, and I moan at the invasion, my hips pushing back instinctively to take him deeper.
"So eager," he says, satisfaction heavy in his voice. "So ready for me."
"Yes," I gasp as he adds a second finger, stretching me in a way that burns but also satisfies some deep, primal need. "Please, Sutton."
"Not yet," he says, understanding what I'm asking for.
"Not today. Today I'm going to make you come like this, with my fingers inside you, my body over yours.
" His free hand slides around to find my breast, pinching the nipple in time with the thrusts of his fingers.
"And then I'm going to spill myself on this perfect ass, marking you as mine in the most primitive way possible. "
His words, crude yet somehow poetic, send a fresh flood of arousal through me. I shouldn't want this—shouldn't want to be claimed so completely, so possessively. But I do. God help me, I do.
"Mine," he growls, his fingers finding that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. "No one else will ever have you like this. No one else will ever make you feel like this."
"No one," I agree, gasping as his thumb circles my clit in counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers. "Only you, Sutton. Only ever you."
His rhythm increases, driving me higher and higher toward that peak of pleasure. I can feel his control slipping, his breathing harsh against my ear as he drapes his body over mine, pinning me to the desk with his weight.
"Come for me," he demands, his voice rough with his own need. "Let me feel you come apart around my fingers."
And I do, the orgasm crashing over me with an intensity that leaves me crying out his name, my inner muscles clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure courses through me.
He works me through it, murmuring praise and endearments against my neck, only withdrawing his fingers when the last tremor subsides. Then I feel it—his own release hot against my skin, marking me just as he promised.
We stay like that for a long moment, his body covering mine, both of us breathing hard, coming down from the heights of pleasure. Finally, he straightens, helps me turn over, pulls me into his arms.
"Mine," he murmurs against my hair, his arms tight around me as if afraid I might disappear. "All mine."
And as I lean into his embrace, surrounded by his strength and his scent and the evidence of his desire for me, I realize that I want to be his.
Completely, irrevocably his. Not because of gratitude for what he's done to Raymond, not because of the safety he provides, but because something in me recognizes something in him—a matching piece I didn't know I was missing until now.