CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
The silence stretches between us, thick and volatile, like the air before a lightning strike.
I had come undone all over his mask—legs shaking, breath ragged, thighs slick with proof of my surrender.
But he isn’t done with me.
Not even close.
He rises to his full height, and the room feels smaller with him towering over me—his breath still hot through the slats of the mask, his body thrumming with restraint.
Then his hands touch me.
God, his hands.
They skim up my ribcage, rough and greedy, fingertips dragging heat over my sweat-slick skin. His thumbs shove beneath the swell of my breasts, groping and claiming.
I arch hard into his touch like a live wire, needy and aching, helpless as he takes what he wants—touching me like I’m his to ruin.
He gives me what I crave without hesitation. His palms cup my breasts, full and firm, as the calluses on his fingers scrape deliciously over my skin. His thumbs flick across my nipples, teasing and testing, making them pebble and ache with every slow, practiced sweep.
A gasp breaks from my lips, sharp and breathless.
The friction sends heat spiraling low in my belly, already molten and greedy for more.
He leans in close, the rigid front of his mask grazing my cheekbone as he lowers his head to my ear.
“I want you to fall apart for me,” he says, voice thick, dark, and commanding. “Again.”
I tremble beneath him.
Then his hands are sliding lower—down my belly, down between my thighs—parting them with a dominance that doesn’t require words. I open for him without thought, soaked and aching and already so far gone it hurts.
He doesn’t speak.
His finger slides slowly through my slick heat, gliding over my swollen, aching flesh. A deep, guttural groan tears from his throat, raw and tortured, like the feel of me is unraveling him.
“You’re drenched for me,” he rasps, voice thick with hunger and something deeper. His mask brushes my ear, warm and possessive. “So wet…so ready. God, I love how your body responds to me.”
He lingers there, teasing my entrance with slow, torturous strokes, drawing out the aching need until I’m trembling against him. Then, without warning, two thick fingers push inside me—hard, deep, and stretching me open in one smooth thrust.
A possessive growl vibrates against my neck as he curls them inside me.
“Now,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough, “you’re going to come exactly how I want…when I want. Because this sweet pussy belongs to me and only me.”
My head falls back against the wall with a dull thud as his fingers fill me in one smooth, possessive stroke. My hips jerk helplessly against his hand, chasing the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming feel of him inside me.
He curls his fingers deep, stroking that perfect spot with devastating precision. A broken moan spills from my lips.
He starts slow, savoring every second — pressing deep, dragging his fingers out torturously, then sliding back in even deeper. Each thrust is deliberate, intimate, like he’s learning me, owning me, worshipping me with every movement.
“Say it,” he growls.
“Y-yes,” I gasp, falling apart, back bowing under the pressure. “I—I want—”
His palm grinds down against my clit, firm and relentless.
“Say it, baby.”
“Please, sir. I’m going to come.”
“Not until you say it, Starling. Say who you belong to.”
“Y-you,” I choke out, the words trembling just like my thighs. My mind barely holds onto the edge of sanity as heat coils low and sharp. “I belong to you.”
“That’s right,” he hisses against my ear, the gravel of his voice scraping down my spine. “My good girl. My perfect fucking girl. My sweet rose.”
The fingers inside me curl just right, unrelenting, dragging me to the brink again while his thumb moves in tight, cruel circles. My body is no longer mine—it hasn’t been since he touched me. Since he owned me.
“Now come,” he commands, low and final. “Show me who you belong to.”
And I shatter—utterly, entirely—his name, a raw, breathless cry on my lips as everything inside me unravels in his hands.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and consuming, my body locking around his fingers, thighs quaking, mouth open on a scream that never fully forms. I cling to him—forearm, shirt, anything I could grasp—while my world unravels in waves of heat and helpless pleasure.
He doesn’t stop.
He works me through it, slow and merciless, letting me ride out every tremor, every aftershock, until I sag against him—ruined and whimpering, limp in his grip like a sacrifice laid bare.
Then, without a word, he gathers me into his arms.
He carries me like I weigh nothing. Like I am something precious.
Something breakable.
He lays me across the bed, my skin still flushed and humming, my body pulsing with afterglow. One knee presses between mine, keeping me open while his hands trail over my thighs, my hips, and my belly like he can’t help but worship every inch.
But when I reach up to touch him—to find the edge of the mask, to peel it away and see him—he stills.
The air between us shifts.
Then his hand reaches past me.
Click.
The room plunges into darkness.
He is on me again—his weight pressing into the mattress, his body settling between my thighs like it belongs there.
And God, it does.
I feel him. All of him.
His hard and hot velvet-steel length dragging against my slick entrance. The pressure is maddening—barely-there friction that has me writhing, desperate for more. I can’t see him, but I can feel the mask. The edges of it brushing my cheek, my jaw, the top of my breast as he hovers close.
I reach for him again—blindly, needing to touch. But he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head with one strong hand.
“You reach for what isn’t yours,” he murmurs. “But I’ll give you everything else.”
And then he is there.
At my entrance.
The thick, blunt head of his cock nudges against me, parting me slowly. Claiming me. I hold my breath, every muscle going taut as he pushes forward—inch by inch—stretching me wide around him.
The burn is exquisite.
He doesn’t rush. He sinks in slowly, letting me feel every maddening inch. My body clenches around him, greedy, desperate, and he groans low in his throat like the tight heat of me is undoing him.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You were made for this. For me.”
When he bottoms out, fully seated, hips flush against mine, I can barely think. My legs tremble around his waist. My fingers flex against his grip.
“You feel it?” He growls. “How deep I am?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I feel all of you.”
“You’ll take more.”
He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then drives into me with a brutal snap of his hips. I cry out, arching beneath him, my back bowing off the bed as stars burst behind my eyes.
Again.
Again.
Again.
He fucks me like he owns me—his thrusts deep and punishing. His heavy shaft dragging against every sensitive nerve inside me. The wet, filthy sounds of our bodies fill the room, echoed by my whimpers, his groans, the rhythm of the bed creaking beneath us.
He lets go of my wrists only to grab my thighs and shoves them wider apart, forcing me open even more. He angles my hips, tilts me just right, and when he thrusts again, the angle hits something devastating.
“Oh—oh God—”
“Right there,” he grits. “You come on my cock. Now.”
His hand drops to where our bodies meet. Two fingers circle my clit with ruthless precision, rubbing fast, tight strokes while he drives up into me again and again, relentless and unyielding.
I break.
My climax hits like a tidal wave, ripping through me with violent pleasure. My body clamps down around him, muscles locking tight, toes curling, fingers clawing at the sheets as I scream—no title, no “sir,” just raw, unfiltered need.
And still he doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, dragging every last tremor out of me, until my body goes limp beneath him, my mind shattered and soaked in heat and ache and afterglow.
Then he follows—his pace faltering, breath ragged, one final thrust burying him so deep I swear I can feel him in my throat.
He comes with a guttural, strangled groan, the sound torn from deep in his chest, muffled by the mask but unmistakably real.
He stays like that for a long moment. Inside me. Over me. Breathing hard.
Neither of us speak.
Eventually, he slips free, leaving me empty and aching. My body trembles, thighs slick and shaky, a helpless whimper catching in my throat.
I collapse back onto the mattress, chest heaving as I try to catch my breath.
He stays above me, caging me in with his body.
His hand runs slowly down my torso, tracing between my breasts and over my stomach, then lower.
With a firm grip, he pushes my thighs wider apart, spreading me open so he can look down at the mess he’s made of me.
“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick and rough with lust. “Look at you…dripping for me.”
A soft, needy moan escapes me.
He leans down over me again, pressing his chest against mine, the heat of his body branding my skin. His breath brushes hot against the shell of my ear as his weight settles over me.
“Turn over,” he demands. “We’re not done.”
His hands slide down my spine after I move to my stomach, warm and commanding, until he grips my hips again and spreads me open, exposing everything. I flinch, breath hitching as I feel the heat of his cock—still hard—pressing against the cleft of my ass.
My head turns, breath catching. “Wait—”
He leans over me, voice low and dark in my ear. “You trust me?”
I swallow. Nod. Barely.
“Good girl.”
One hand slides forward, pressing between my thighs.
His fingers stroke my clit in slow, teasing circles, each pass sending sparks of pleasure racing through me.
His other hand holds me open, completely exposed to him.
Behind me, his thick, hard length rocks slowly between my cheeks, spreading the warm, slick evidence of my earlier release over my skin.
Every touch is controlled, precise, and meant to disarm.
“You can take it,” he whispers. “You’ll be so fucking tight. So perfect.”
I moan, uncertain, aching, yet wanting. The shame makes it hotter. The fear, the anticipation—it melts into something deeper.
He reaches for the bottle beside the bed—he’s come prepared, of course—and I shiver as the slick coolness of lube coats his fingers.
“Relax for me,” he says, rubbing slow circles over the tight ring of muscle, teasing me open. “Just like that.”
One finger breaches me—slow, careful, but firm. I gasp, hips twitching, the stretch unfamiliar but not unbearable. He works it deeper, then pulls back, circles again, adding more slickness before pressing in a second.
The burn is sharper this time. I whimper into the pillow.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the nape of my neck. “You’re doing so fucking good.”
By the time he pulls his fingers free, I am shaking—needy and wrecked, panting into the sheets, too far gone to think, too desperate to care.
Then I feel him—hot, thick, and relentless—nudging at the tight entrance, coating himself in more slick before lining up.
“This might sting,” he warns. “But I promise you’ll like it.”
And then he pushes in.
My whole body tenses, breath catches on a sob as the thick head breaches me. He holds there, letting me adjust, one hand still stroking my clit in slow, lazy circles while the other grips my hip like a tether.
“Breathe, my rose,” he whispers. “Let me in.”
I do—slowly, shakily—and he keeps pushing, inch by inch, until he bottoms out, buried to the hilt inside the tightest part of me.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice shaking. “So tight. So fucking good.”
I whimper, unsure if I am begging him to stop or move—but then he does move. He pulls back just enough, then pushes in again. Deeper. Harder.
The pressure is intense, a full-body invasion that steals my breath and scatters my thoughts. His cock drags against nerves I didn’t know I had, his rhythm slow and grinding, keeping one hand on my clit to anchor me in sensation.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Taking it like a good girl. Letting me ruin every part of you.”
And I am ruined—wrecked and raw and utterly his.
The pleasure creeps in slowly, curling around the stretch and the burn until I am moaning beneath him, hips rocking back to meet each thrust, shame giving way to something feral.
“You gonna come like this?” he hisses. “Let me fuck your ass while I make you come on my fingers?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. But my body does—tightening, clenching, even shuddering hard as I cry out, coming with a broken sob while his fingers work me through it.
He fucks me through the aftershocks, pace stuttering as he chases his own release.
“Fuck—Starling—”
He drives in deep one last time, jerking against me as he comes again, cock pulsing thick and hot inside me, both of us trembling, wrecked, lost in it.
Then he leans over, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck as he whispers, “Mine.”
“Who are you?” I whisper. My voice cracks on the words, thick with want, with need, with fear I can’t name.
He stills—but doesn’t pull away.
“I can’t tell you that,” he says, voice raw.
Ragged. “Because once I do, there’s no going back for you.”
“There is no going back anyway,” I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion.
“I am yours, sir. Heart and soul and mind. There will never be anyone else for me. Even if I somehow left this place, you would still live in my dreams, in every memory, in every beat of my heart. You already own all of me.”
He makes a sound like it hurts to hear that—like it tears something open inside him.