Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
I drift up from the depths of sleep, pulled by a strange sensation on my left hand.
Something cool and heavy encircles my ring finger, unfamiliar and unexpected.
My eyes flutter open to the gray predawn light that filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sutton's—our—bedroom.
For a moment, I'm disoriented, caught between dreams and reality.
Then I lift my hand before my face and freeze, breath catching in my throat.
A diamond glints back at me, massive and brilliant even in the dim light, perched on a band of what must be platinum.
The stone is easily three carats, maybe more, surrounded by smaller diamonds that catch what little light there is and throw it back in rainbow fragments.
An engagement ring. One I wasn't wearing when I fell asleep.
My heart stutters in my chest, a confusing mixture of emotions washing over me—surprise, wonder, a flicker of unease at having such a significant decision made while I was unconscious.
I turn my hand slightly, watching the diamond catch the light, its facets throwing prisms across my skin.
It's stunning, exactly what I would have chosen if given the opportunity—which I wasn't. The realization should bother me more than it does.
Once, I would have been furious at such a high-handed gesture.
Now, I find myself oddly touched by its presumptiveness, by the absolute certainty behind it.
"Mine," a voice whispers against my inner thigh, and I jolt, suddenly aware that the covers have been pulled back, that Sutton is already between my legs, his breath warm against my most intimate parts.
I didn't even notice him moving down my body, too captivated by the ring he placed on my finger while I slept.
Before I can form a coherent response, his mouth is on me, his tongue finding that bundle of nerves with unerring accuracy. I gasp, my back arching off the bed, my hand—the one now bearing his ring—instinctively reaching down to tangle in his hair.
"Sutton," I breathe, his name half question, half plea. "What are you—"
"Worshipping my fiancée," he murmurs against my sensitive flesh, the vibration of his words sending shivers up my spine. "Claiming what's mine. What has always been mine."
The dual possession—of my body with his mouth, of my future with his ring—sends a wave of heat through me, pooling where his tongue works its magic against my core.
I should ask questions, should demand explanations for this unilateral decision, but all rational thought dissolves under the skilled ministrations of his mouth.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his exploration, his tongue alternating between long, slow strokes and quick, targeted circles that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
I'm already close—embarrassingly so—my body responding to him with the same eager desperation it always has, as if programmed at the cellular level to crave his touch.
Just as I approach the edge, he pulls back, his mouth leaving me with a deliberate slowness that makes me whimper in frustration. He rises onto his knees between my spread thighs, his eyes dark with possession as they roam over my naked body.
"Do you like your ring?" he asks, his voice rough with desire despite the deceptively casual question.
I lift my hand again, examining the diamond that now marks me as his. "It's beautiful," I admit, because it is, regardless of the circumstances of its appearance on my finger.
"Not as beautiful as you," he counters, his hands sliding up my thighs, over my hips, to my waist. "Nothing could be as beautiful as you, spread out in my bed, wearing my ring, wet and ready for me."
Heat floods my cheeks at his crude assessment, but I don't deny it. Can't deny the evidence of my desire that I know he can see, can smell, can taste on his tongue.
"You didn't ask me," I say, finding my voice at last, though it comes out breathier than intended. "Isn't that customary? Asking before putting a ring on someone's finger?"
A slight smile curves his lips, predatory and satisfied. "When have we ever been bound by custom, little one?" His hands continue their journey up my body, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling the nipples until they peak beneath his touch. "Besides, I already know your answer."
"Do you?" I challenge, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the way I arch into his touch, my body betraying my attempt at indignation.
"Yes," he says simply, his confidence absolute.
One hand leaves my breast to trace a path down my stomach, back to where I'm still aching from his earlier attention.
"Your body never lies to me, Cecily. It always tells me exactly what you want, what you need.
" His fingers find my slick entrance, circling but not penetrating.
"And what you want, what you need, is to be mine. Completely. Legally. Permanently."
I can't deny the truth in his words, can't pretend I haven't dreamed of exactly this—being bound to him in ways that can't be easily broken, that announce to the world that I belong to him and he to me.
"Yes," I whisper, the admission surprisingly easy despite the unconventional proposal. "I want to be yours."
His eyes darken further, triumph and desire making them almost black in the dim light. "Say it properly," he demands, his fingers finally sliding inside me, curling to find that spot that makes my back arch off the bed. "Say you'll marry me."
"I'll marry you," I gasp as his thumb circles my clit in counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers. "Yes, Sutton, I'll marry you."
His smile is beautiful in its ferocity, in its absolute satisfaction. He withdraws his fingers, positioning himself at my entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against me without pushing in.
"Look at me," he commands, waiting until my eyes lock with his. "I want to see your face when I claim you as my fiancée. When I seal our engagement in the most basic, primal way possible."
He thrusts forward then, entering me in one powerful stroke that makes me cry out—not in pain but in the overwhelming pleasure of being filled so completely. He pauses when he's fully seated within me, giving me time to adjust, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Mine," he says again, the word both a statement and a vow. "My fiancée. My future wife. The future mother of my children. Mine in every way that matters, and soon to be mine in the eyes of the law as well."
The possessiveness in his words, in his gaze, should frighten me. Instead, it sends a flood of warmth through my body, a sense of belonging so profound it brings tears to my eyes.
"Yours," I agree, my hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath his skin. "All yours, Sutton. Always."
He begins to move then, each thrust deep and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something different about this time—a new level of intensity, of connection, as if the ring on my finger has somehow deepened the bond between us.
"I've wanted this since the moment I saw you standing in the rain," he confesses, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Knew you were meant to be mine. Knew I would do whatever it took to make you mine forever."
His rhythm increases, his control slipping as passion overtakes him. One hand slides beneath me, gripping my hip to angle me for deeper penetration, 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 right, whether you belong with me.
This ring—" he captures my left hand, brings it to his lips, kisses the diamond now marking me as his, "—is just the physical manifestation of what we've both known from the beginning.
We were made for each other, Cecily. Destined for each other. "
And as his thrusts drive me higher, as pleasure builds like a gathering storm in my core, I can't deny the truth in his words. From that first night, when he found me lost and desperate in the rain, there's been an inevitability to our connection, a sense that this was always where we were headed.
"Tell me you feel it too," he demands, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you know we were meant for this."
"I feel it," I gasp, my body tightening around him as my release approaches. "I've always felt it. Like I was waiting for you my whole life without knowing it."
My words push him closer to the edge, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. His hand leaves my hip to slide between us, finding that bundle of nerves that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Come for me," he commands, his eyes burning into mine. "Come around me while wearing my ring. Show me you're mine completely."
His fingers circle my clit with merciless precision, his thrusts deep and relentless, and I shatter, pleasure crashing over me in waves that seem endless. I cry out his name as my inner muscles clench around him, pulling him deeper.
"Mine," he growls as his own release follows, hot and pulsing deep inside me. "Forever mine."
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 a vulnerability in his eyes that I've rarely seen—a brief glimpse behind the mask of control and confidence he usually wears.
"I should have asked properly," he admits, his voice softer than usual. "Gone down on one knee, made some romantic speech. You deserve that."
I reach up to touch his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw. "This was more us," I tell him, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "More honest. More real."
Relief washes over his features, quickly masked by his usual confidence. He rolls to his side, taking me with him, arranging us so that I'm cradled against his chest, my head tucked under his chin.
"We'll be married within the month," he says, not a question but a statement of fact. "No long engagement. No reason to wait."
I should protest the high-handedness, should insist on having some say in the timeline of our wedding. But the truth is, I want what he wants—to be bound to him as quickly and completely as possible, to make official what we both already know to be true.
"Okay," I agree, my left hand resting on his chest, the diamond catching the first true rays of dawn now filtering through the windows.
His arm tightens around me, his lips pressing against my hair. "No one will ever take you from me now," he murmurs, the words carrying a weight beyond simple possessiveness. "No one can ever separate us once you're my wife."
There's something almost desperate in his tone, a hint of the obsession that drives him, that has driven him from the moment he found me. It should worry me, this all-consuming need he has to possess me completely. But all I feel is a profound sense of security, of being valued beyond measure.
Because in Sutton's world, possession isn't about diminishing value but about recognizing it, protecting it, treasuring it. And wearing his ring, becoming his wife, is the ultimate recognition of my worth in his eyes.
"I can't wait to be your wife," I whisper, and the words feel like both a promise and a surrender—to him, to us, to the future we're creating together, one possessive act at a time.