Chapter 9
nine
. . .
I stare at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me.
The midnight blue gown Sutton selected hugs every curve I didn't know I had, the material so fine it feels like wearing water.
My hair has been styled by a professional he brought to the penthouse, my makeup applied with an expert hand that makes my eyes seem bigger, my lips fuller.
I look like someone else entirely—someone who belongs on the arm of a man like Sutton.
But beneath the designer dress and the careful makeup, I'm still just Cecily, a girl who ran away from her stepfather's abuse into the arms of a man whose world is as foreign to me as another planet.
"You're beautiful," Sutton says from the doorway, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.
I turn to face him, my breath catching at the sight of him in a tuxedo that looks like it was poured over his powerful frame. He's always handsome, but tonight, he's devastating—the kind of man who stops conversations when he enters a room.
"I don't know if I can do this," I admit, fidgeting with the delicate bracelet he fastened around my wrist earlier, another in the endless stream of gifts he's showered me with. "These people... they're not my people."
He crosses the room in three long strides, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders, warm and steadying.
"They're not my people either," he says, surprising me.
"They're business associates, competitors, people I need to manage.
But you—" his hand slides up to cup my cheek, "—you're mine.
The only person in that room who matters. "
I lean into his touch, drawing strength from the certainty in his voice. "What if they can tell? That I don't belong?"
His eyes darken, thumb brushing over my lower lip. "You belong to me. That's all anyone needs to know." He leans down, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that's equal parts possession and promise. "And tonight, I want everyone to see exactly who owns my attention."
The word "owns" should bother me, but it doesn't. Not anymore. Not when it comes from Sutton, who has shown me that his possession is a form of protection, his control a kind of freedom I never knew existed.
The moment we step into the grand ballroom of the Whitmore Hotel, I feel every eye turn in our direction.
The room is filled with beautiful people in beautiful clothes, sipping champagne beneath crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people make in a year.
The women wear dresses that might as well be painted on, their necks and wrists dripping with diamonds.
The men stand in clusters, power radiating from them like heat from the sun.
And they're all looking at us. At me.
Sutton's hand rests possessively at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd with practiced ease.
His face is impassive, but I can feel the tension in his touch, the silent warning in the pressure of his fingers against my spine: These people might look, but they cannot touch. Cannot have.
"Sutton," a woman purrs, appearing before us in a crimson dress that reveals more than it conceals. Her hair is a perfect platinum blonde, her smile razor-sharp as her eyes flick dismissively over me before returning to him. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
"Vanessa," he acknowledges, his tone coolly polite. "I wouldn't miss it." His hand slides possessively around my waist, pulling me closer to his side. "This is Cecily. Cecily, Vanessa Harrington runs the arts foundation hosting tonight's event."
The woman's smile doesn't reach her eyes as she extends a hand weighted down with a diamond the size of a quail's egg. "Charmed," she says, in a tone that suggests anything but. "And how did you two meet? I don't believe I've seen you at one of our events before, Cecily."
Before I can stammer out some response, Sutton answers for me. "Fate," he says simply, the word a clear dismissal of further questions. "If you'll excuse us, I see several people I need to speak with."
As he guides me away, I whisper, "She hates me."
His lips twitch in what might be amusement. "She wanted me. I wasn't interested."
"She's beautiful," I say before I can stop myself, thinking of her perfect hair, her confident poise.
Sutton's hand tightens on my waist. "She's empty," he counters. "Like most of the people here." His mouth brushes my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "You're real. That's why they can't take their eyes off you. That's why they're all wondering what you have that they don't."
I glance around, noticing for the first time that he's right—people are watching us, whispering behind their hands, their eyes curious and, in some cases, openly hostile.
"They're wondering what you're doing with someone like me," I murmur.
"They're wondering how I found such a perfect, unspoiled creature in this cesspool of ambition and greed," he corrects me, his voice hardening. "And how they can take you from me."
Before I can process that disturbing statement, we're surrounded by a group of men in expensive suits, all eager to shake Sutton's hand, to bend his ear about business opportunities and market trends.
I stand at his side, painfully aware of my inadequacy in this world.
I have nothing to contribute to conversations about stock options and corporate acquisitions.
I'm just arm candy, a pretty distraction.
A server passes with a tray of champagne flutes, and I take one gratefully, hoping the alcohol might calm my nerves. I sip it too quickly, the bubbles going straight to my head.
"And what do you do, Cecily?" one of the men asks, his gaze roaming over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"She's with me," Sutton answers before I can respond, his tone brooking no further questions. "That's all you need to know, Harrison."
The man—Harrison—smirks, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Lucky her," he says, the words carrying an insinuation that makes my cheeks burn.
As the night wears on, the pattern repeats itself.
Women eye me with suspicion or outright disdain.
Men look at me with hungry speculation, as if trying to figure out what makes me special enough to hold Sutton's interest. And Sutton keeps me close, his hand never leaving my body, his possessiveness both comforting and increasingly arousing as the champagne loosens my inhibitions.
By the time we've circled the room once, meeting more people than I could possibly remember, I'm a bundle of nerves and confused desire.
I don't belong here. I never will. But the way Sutton touches me, the way his eyes darken whenever someone looks at me too long, the way he introduces me with such obvious pride—it makes me feel like maybe I don't need to belong here. I just need to belong to him.
"I need air," I whisper when there's a brief lull in the conversations. "Please."
Sutton studies my face, understanding immediately.
Without a word, he guides me away from the main ballroom, down a less crowded corridor.
We pass a few couples engaged in quiet conversation, but Sutton doesn't stop until we reach a darkened alcove, partially hidden from the main hallway by a heavy velvet curtain.
"Better?" he asks, his fingers tracing the rapid pulse at the base of my throat.
"Yes," I breathe, relief washing over me at being away from all those judging eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this."
"You're perfect," he counters, his hand sliding up to cup my face. "Too perfect for them. They can sense it—that you're not corrupted by their games, their ambitions. It makes them want to taint you."
The possessiveness in his voice makes my stomach tighten with desire. "Is that why you brought me here? To show them what they can't have?"
His eyes flash, dark and dangerous. "I brought you here because you're mine, and I want the world to know it.
" His thumb traces my lower lip, pressing slightly.
"But seeing you among them, watching them want you, knowing only I can touch you.
.." He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear.
"It makes me want to remind you exactly who you belong to. "
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine, his kiss hard and demanding.
His hands grip my hips, pushing me backward until I hit the wall, the shock of the cold surface against my bare shoulders making me gasp.
He takes advantage of my parted lips, his tongue sweeping in to claim my mouth completely.
I should be embarrassed—we're in public, anyone could walk by and see us—but all I can focus on is the heat building between my legs, the way my body responds instantly to his touch as if it's been conditioned to crave him.
"Sutton," I whisper against his lips, a plea for what, I'm not entirely sure.
He understands though. His hand finds the hem of my dress, bunching the delicate material as he pushes it up my thighs. "I'm going to make you come right here," he growls, his voice a dark promise. "Where anyone could see us. Where everyone will know exactly what you do to me, what I do to you."
"We can't," I protest weakly, even as I arch into his touch, my body betraying my words.
"We can," he contradicts, his fingers finding the edge of my panties, slipping beneath to discover the wetness there. "You're soaked for me, little one. Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind still doubts."
I bite my lip to stifle a moan as his fingers circle my most sensitive spot, his touch expert and relentless. "Someone will see," I gasp.
His smile is almost cruel in its satisfaction. "Let them," he says, pushing two fingers inside me without warning, making my knees buckle. "Let them see you wrecked for me. Let them see what they can never have."
He works me with ruthless efficiency, his thumb circling my clit as his fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. His other hand covers my mouth, muffling my cries as pleasure builds with embarrassing speed.
"That's it," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine, watching every flicker of emotion cross my face. "Give it to me, Cecily. Show me who you belong to."
The orgasm crashes over me without warning, my body clenching around his fingers, my muffled cries absorbed by his palm. He works me through it, only slowing when the aftershocks begin to subside.
When he finally withdraws his hand, his eyes are dark with hungry satisfaction. He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean in a gesture so erotic it nearly sends me over the edge again.
"Mine," he says simply.
And in this moment, disheveled and trembling in a darkened alcove of a fancy hotel, I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I don't belong in this world of wealth and power, of sharp smiles and sharper ambitions.
But I belong to Sutton. And somehow, that's enough.