Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
I'm arranging flowers in the living room—a skill I've been teaching myself from YouTube videos to fill the empty hours when Sutton is at work—when the landline phone rings.
The sound startles me, making me prick my finger on a rose thorn.
Almost no one calls the penthouse landline.
Sutton conducts all his business on his cell phone, and I have no one who would call me.
I suck the drop of blood from my fingertip as I move to check the caller ID, curious rather than concerned.
Until I see the name displayed on the screen: PARKER, RAYMOND.
My blood turns to ice water in my veins, the room spinning slightly as I stare at those eleven letters that spell out the nightmare I thought I'd escaped.
How is this possible? Raymond is in prison.
He shouldn't be able to reach me here, shouldn't even know where I am.
Yet there's his name, glowing on the display as the phone continues its insistent ringing.
I back away from it as if it might bite, bumping into the coffee table and nearly knocking over the half-arranged bouquet.
The door to Sutton's home office opens, and he emerges with a questioning look that transforms instantly to concern when he sees my face.
"What is it?" he asks, crossing the room in long strides.
I can't speak, can only point at the still-ringing phone. His eyes follow my gesture, narrowing dangerously when he sees the name on the display. Without a word, he picks up the receiver, his face transforming into a mask of cold fury that makes my skin prickle with apprehension.
"You have five seconds to explain how you got this number before I hang up and make sure you regret it," he says by way of greeting, his voice calm in a way that's more frightening than any shouting could be.
I can't hear Raymond's response, can only see the effect it has on Sutton. His knuckles whiten around the receiver, his jaw clenching so hard I fear his teeth might crack. Whatever Raymond is saying, it's making Sutton angrier by the second.
"Listen carefully," Sutton interrupts, his voice dropping to a register I've never heard before, so cold it raises goosebumps on my arms. "She's mine now.
She will always be mine. If you contact her again—if you so much as think her name—I will ensure that your remaining years in prison are filled with the kind of suffering you can't even imagine.
" A pause as Raymond presumably responds.
"You think you know what power is? You think you understand the reach of true influence?
" Another pause, shorter this time. "You just signed your death warrant. "
He sets the receiver down with deliberate care, a control that seems more terrifying than if he'd slammed it.
For a long moment, he doesn't move, his back to me, his shoulders rigid with contained rage.
I'm frozen in place, unable to approach him, unable to retreat, caught in the gravitational pull of his anger.
When he finally turns to face me, his expression makes my breath catch—raw, primal fury barely contained beneath a veneer of control. This is a side of Sutton I've glimpsed only in fragments before, the true depth of his possessiveness, the lengths to which he'll go to keep what he considers his.
"How did he get this number?" I ask, my voice small in the charged silence of the room.
"He didn't," Sutton says, moving toward me with that predatory grace that still makes my heart race.
"He contacted my secretary, claimed he had information about a business deal that required immediate attention.
She put him through because she didn't know better.
" His eyes darken further. "She'll be fired by the end of the day. "
"Don't," I say, surprising myself with the plea. "Don't punish her for my past."
He stops a few feet away from me, studying my face with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. "Your past is my concern now," he says, his voice softening slightly though the dangerous edge remains. "Everything about you is my concern."
A tremor runs through me—fear, yes, but something else too, something darker and more primal. There's something terrifying yet thrilling about being the focus of such all-consuming possession, about knowing there's nothing Sutton wouldn't do to keep me as his.
"What did he want?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
Sutton closes the remaining distance between us, his hand coming up to cup my face, his touch gentle despite the fury still evident in his eyes. "It doesn't matter what he wanted," he says. "He won't bother you again. I've made sure of it."
The certainty in his voice, the absolute confidence that he can control even this aspect of reality, should frighten me. Instead, it sends a wave of heat through my body, a shameful arousal at being so completely protected, so thoroughly possessed.
"He scared you," Sutton observes, his thumb tracing my lower lip, feeling the slight tremble there. "Don't be afraid, little one. Nothing from your past can touch you now. No one can come between us."
The possessiveness in his voice, in his touch, ignites something in me—a need to be claimed, to be reminded that I belong to him now, not to the ghosts of my past.
Without conscious thought, I press myself against him, my mouth seeking his in a kiss that's desperate, needy.
He responds instantly, his control shattering as his arms band around me, lifting me as if I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me across the room, pressing me against the wall with a force that should hurt but only fuels my desire.
"Mine," he growls against my mouth, the word a claim and a promise all at once. "Say it, Cecily. Tell me who you belong to."
"Yours," I gasp as his mouth leaves mine to trail burning kisses down my neck, lingering on the pulse point that betrays how rapidly my heart is beating. "Only yours, Sutton. Always."
His hand finds the hem of my dress, pushing it up my thighs, bunching it around my waist. "No one will ever take you from me," he says, his voice rough with a possessiveness that borders on obsession. "No one will ever come between us. I'd burn the world to ashes before I let that happen."
The dark promise should terrify me. Instead, it sends a flood of heat to my core, my body reacting to his words with a shameful, desperate arousal. His fingers find the edge of my panties, pushing them aside without bothering to remove them, finding me already wet for him.
"So ready," he murmurs, satisfaction heavy in his voice as his fingers explore me. "So eager to be reminded who you belong to."
"Please," I whimper, beyond pride, beyond everything but the desperate need for him to claim me, to erase the fear Raymond's call instilled with the overwhelming pleasure only Sutton can give me.
He doesn't make me wait. With efficient movements, he frees himself from his trousers, positions himself at my entrance, and thrusts home in one powerful stroke that makes me cry out—not in pain but in the exquisite relief of having him fill me so completely.
"Look at me," he commands, waiting until my eyes meet his before he begins to move. "I want to see your face while I remind you who owns this body. Who owns your pleasure."
His thrusts are hard, almost punishing, each one driving me higher toward a peak I can already feel building. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his possession, his eyes never leaving mine as he claims me against the wall of his penthouse.
"No one else will ever touch you like this," he promises, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining some control. "No one else will ever make you feel like this. You're mine, Cecily. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to own."
"Yes," I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my body meeting each of his thrusts with equal fervor. "Yours, Sutton. Only yours."
One of his hands leaves my thigh to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his hungry mouth. He bites down on the sensitive junction of my neck and shoulder, hard enough to mark but not to truly hurt, and the possessive gesture pushes me closer to the edge.
"That's it," he growls against my skin. "Come for me. Show me who owns your pleasure."
His thumb finds that bundle of nerves between my legs, circling it in counterpoint to his thrusts, and the dual sensation sends me hurtling over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves that seem endless, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
He follows a moment later, his release hot inside me as my name tears from his throat in a hoarse cry. He stays buried within me as we both come down from the heights of pleasure, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"I would kill for you," he murmurs, the confession so quiet I almost miss it. "I would destroy anyone who tried to take you from me."
The words should send me running. Instead, they make me feel safe, protected, valued beyond measure. In Sutton's world, this is love—possessive, all-consuming, dangerous in its intensity. And God help me, I want it. Want him, with all his darkness, all his obsession.
"I know," I whisper back, my hand coming up to cup his face. "And I would let you."
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I understand him so completely, that I accept this darkest aspect of his nature without judgment or fear. Then his mouth claims mine again, the kiss surprisingly tender after the fierce passion of moments before.
"No one will ever come between us," he promises against my lips. "Not Raymond. Not anyone."
And as he carries me to our bedroom, still joined, still unwilling to separate even for the short journey, I believe him. Because Sutton has shown me time and again that his promises are absolute, his protection unwavering, his possession complete.
For better or worse, I am his. And nothing—not Raymond, not the ghosts of my past, not even my own doubts—can change that now.