Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
I sit on the edge of our bed—his bed, really, though he insists on calling it ours—watching the sun set through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.
The city below transforms as darkness falls, buildings becoming constellations of light against the deepening blue of evening.
It's beautiful, mesmerizing, and completely unreachable from my golden prison.
Two months have passed since Sutton found me in the rain, since he brought me into his world and claimed me as his own.
Two months of pleasure and protection, of being cherished and controlled in ways I never imagined possible.
But something has shifted in the past week, since Raymond's phone call.
Sutton's possessiveness, always intense, has taken on a new edge—sharper, harder, almost desperate in its fervor.
He's fired three members of his staff for perceived failures in keeping me secure.
He's installed new security systems in the penthouse.
He tracks my movements through an app on my phone that he thinks I don't know about.
And last night, I caught him watching me sleep, his expression a mixture of adoration and fear that made my blood run cold.
The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam that precedes Sutton into the bedroom.
He's freshly showered, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to the hard planes of his chest. Despite my troubled thoughts, my body responds to the sight of him with embarrassing predictability—heart racing, skin flushing, a familiar heat pooling between my legs.
"You're thinking too hard," he says, moving to stand before me, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. "I can practically hear the gears turning in that beautiful head of yours."
I catch his hand, holding it against my cheek, drawing courage from the contact. "Sutton," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel, "are you going too far?"
His expression doesn't change, but I feel the slight tension that enters his body at my question. "What do you mean?"
"The new security system. The tracking app on my phone. Firing people who've worked for you for years." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to ask the question that's been haunting me. "Should I be afraid of you?"
For a long moment, he doesn't respond. His eyes search mine, dark and unreadable, his thumb tracing small circles on my cheekbone in a gesture that's both soothing and possessive.
"Are you?" he finally asks, his voice soft. "Afraid of me?"
It's not an answer, and we both know it. "Sometimes," I admit, the confession harder than I expected. "Not that you'll hurt me, exactly. But that... that there might not be any limits to what you'd do to keep me."
A small smile curves his lips, not reaching his eyes. "There aren't," he confirms, the simple statement more frightening in its matter-of-factness than any threat could be. "Does that scare you?"
I should say yes. Any sane person would be terrified by such an admission. But the truth is more complicated, more shameful. "It should," I whisper. "But it doesn't. Not the way it's supposed to."
His smile deepens, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"Because you like it," he says, not a question but a statement of fact.
His hand slides from my cheek to my throat, resting there lightly, a reminder of his strength, his control.
"You like being mine, don't you? Like knowing there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you. "
Heat floods my cheeks at his accurate assessment, at the way my body responds to his touch even as my mind grapples with the implications of his obsession. "That's not healthy," I manage, though the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Says who?" he challenges, his hand still at my throat, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse.
"The same society that stood by while your stepfather abused you?
The same world that offers freedom but not protection?
" His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You and I, we make our own rules, Cecily. Create our own definition of healthy."
His words are seductive, wrapping around me like silk bonds, making it hard to remember why I was concerned in the first place. His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting it toward his.
"You like being mine," he repeats, his eyes holding mine captive. "You like belonging to me. And you hate yourself a little for it, don't you? For wanting something that goes against everything you've been taught about independence and autonomy."
I swallow hard, unable to deny the truth in his words. "Yes," I whisper, the admission like a weight lifted from my chest.
His smile turns triumphant, predatory. "Let me show you why that's not something to fear or be ashamed of," he murmurs, leaning down to capture my lips in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle given the intensity of our conversation.
I respond despite myself, my body already conditioned to crave his touch, to open for him without hesitation.
His hands slide down to my shoulders, pushing me back onto the bed with firm but careful pressure.
I go willingly, watching as he straightens and drops the towel, revealing his already hard length.
"You're mine," he says, crawling over me, his powerful body caging me against the mattress. "And I'm yours. That's the part you're missing, little one. This isn't just about my possession of you. It's about my complete devotion to you."
His words make my heart stutter in my chest, unexpected emotion welling up at this new framing of our relationship. Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, more demanding this time, his tongue seeking entrance I readily grant.
As he kisses me, his hands work at removing my clothes—the simple t-shirt and shorts I wear around the penthouse—until I'm as naked as he is. Only then does he break the kiss, lifting himself slightly to look down at me, spread beneath him like an offering.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes roaming over me with possessive appreciation. "So perfect. So made for me."
His hand slides down my body, over the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, to rest low on my abdomen.
"Do you want to know how I know you like being mine?
" he asks, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to send heat pooling between my legs.
"How I know you're not really afraid of my possessiveness? "
I nod, beyond words, caught in the spell of his touch, his voice, his overwhelming presence.
"Because of how your body responds to me," he says, his hand sliding lower, finding the evidence of my arousal with unerring accuracy. "See how wet you are? How ready for me? Your mind might have doubts, but your body knows the truth."
His fingers explore me with practiced skill, finding all the places that make me gasp, that make my hips rise involuntarily to chase his touch. He watches my face as he plays my body like an instrument, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and triumph.
"Tell me," he commands softly, sliding one finger inside me, then another, curling them to find that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. "Tell me you like being mine."
I bite my lip, a last futile attempt at resistance. His thumb circles my clit in response, drawing a moan from my throat that I can't suppress.
"Say it," he presses, his fingers working me with merciless precision. "Admit what we both know is true."
"I like being yours," I gasp, the confession torn from me by the pleasure building under his skilled touch. "God help me, I like it."
His smile is pure male satisfaction. He withdraws his fingers, positioning himself between my thighs, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance without pushing in.
"And if I'm going too far?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "If my possessiveness crosses some arbitrary line of what's considered normal or healthy?"
I look up at him, at this beautiful, dangerous man who has remade my world in his image, who has given me safety and pleasure and a twisted form of freedom I never knew existed.
"I don't care," I whisper, the truth of it resonating through me like a struck bell. "I don't care if it's wrong or unhealthy or too much. I just want to be yours."
That's all he needs to hear. He thrusts forward, entering me in one powerful stroke that makes me cry out—not in pain but in the relief of having him fill me so completely.
He pauses when he's fully seated within me, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with a need that matches my own. "While I'm inside you. While I'm claiming you. Say you like being mine."
"I like being yours," I repeat, my hands sliding up his arms, feeling the coiled strength beneath his skin. "I love being yours."
The last word slips out unbidden, surprising both of us. Love. We've never used that word, never named this consuming thing between us. It hangs in the air between us for a moment, charged with significance.
Then Sutton begins to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. "Say it again," he commands, but this time I know he's asking for that other word, that admission I didn't mean to make.
"I love being yours," I say again, watching his eyes darken further at the repetition. "I love how it feels to belong to you completely."
It's not quite a declaration, but it's close enough for now. He rewards me with a particularly deep thrust that hits a spot inside me that makes me gasp.
"And I love owning you," he says, the words a vow and a confession all at once. "Love knowing that no matter what happens, you're mine. That no one else will ever touch you, ever have you, ever know you the way I do."
His pace increases, his control slipping as passion overtakes him. One hand slides down to grip my hip, angling me to take him deeper, while the other tangles in my hair, holding me in place for his consuming kiss.
"No more doubts," he murmurs against my lips. "No more questions about whether this is too much, whether you should be afraid. This is what we are, Cecily. This is what we want. What we need."
And as his thrusts drive me higher toward that peak of pleasure only he has ever shown me, I can't deny the truth in his words. This consuming possession, this total belonging—it's exactly what I want, what I crave, what I've been searching for without knowing it.
"Mine," he growls as he feels me tightening around him, my release approaching. "Say it. One more time."
"Yours," I gasp as pleasure crashes over me in waves, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper. "Always yours."
He follows a moment later, his release hot inside me as my name tears from his throat in a hoarse cry. We stay connected as the aftershocks subside, his weight a welcome pressure, his breath hot against my neck.
When he finally lifts his head to look at me, there's something vulnerable in his eyes that I've never seen before—a brief glimpse behind the mask of control and confidence he always wears.
"I don't know how to be less than I am," he says quietly. "Less possessive. Less obsessed. Less consuming. This is who I am, Cecily. Who I've always been."
I reach up to touch his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw. "I don't want you to be less," I tell him, the admission both liberating and terrifying. "I just needed to understand. To know that I'm not wrong for wanting this. For wanting you, exactly as you are."
Relief washes over his features, quickly masked by his usual confidence. He pulls me into his arms, arranging us so that I'm cradled against his chest, my head tucked under his chin.
"You're not wrong," he assures me, his hand stroking my back in long, soothing motions. "We're not wrong. We're just... different. Outside the boundaries of what most people understand or accept."
I nod against his chest, comforted by his certainty even as a small part of me continues to wonder if I've simply exchanged one form of captivity for another, one master for another.
But if this is captivity, it's a gilded cage I've chosen for myself, one lined with pleasure and protection and a twisted form of love I never expected to find.
And for now, at least, that's enough.