Page 51 of His to Hunt

My jaw tightens at his presumption.

This whole situation would be so much easier if he could just stop being an ass for 0.5 seconds.

"You didn't buy me."

He smirks—slow and sharp, a predator enjoying the game. "Didn't I?"

"You can dress me. You can claim me. But you don't own the rest of me."

"That's adorable," he says softly, voice velvet over steel, "considering how wet you were when I made you beg for my cock last night."

My cheeks flush with the memory of his fingers inside me, of the sounds I couldn't hold back. I hate that he sees it, hate that even now, my body betrays me.

"I'm a person. Not an object," I snap, trying to regain ground.

"Hmm," he says, pushing himself upright, his full height unfolding like a promise and a threat all at once. "You're the prize I hunted. The reward I claimed. The Possession I own. A piece in my collection." His eyes never leave mine. "You think the dress changes that?"

I glare up at him, refusing to be intimidated. "I think it proves you like your toys soft and quiet."

He steps closer, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're neither."

My breath catches in my throat.

His palm lifts—slow, deliberate—and brushes one finger down the strap of my dress where it rests against my shoulder. The touch is barely there, yet I feel it everywhere.

"But I'll make you both," he says, voice lowering to something that slides under my skin and settles in my bones.

"You can try," I challenge, though the waver in my voice betrays me.

His lips curve into a half-smile. "I don't try, Luna. I succeed."

He steps in behind me, one hand sliding around my waist with possessive ease. The heat of him presses against my back—solid, certain—and his fingers find the curve of my hip through the silk like he's traced this path a hundred times before.

I go still, fighting the instinct to lean into him.

But he doesn't pause. He leans in, lips just behind my ear, his voice low enough to hum beneath my skin. "Sit."

I hesitate—just for a beat. But his hand doesn't tighten. He doesn't force me. He simply waits, confident in my eventual compliance.

So I do. I turn slowly, and he's already sitting again, legs spread wide on the stool like it's a throne he's made specifically for me to climbonto.

His eyes never leave mine as I straddle him, the dress rising up my thighs with every inch I sink down. The fabric catches against my skin until I'm perched above his cock, with only his thin pajama pants and my tattered pride as barriers between us.

And Jesus, how is he so hard already?

His hands settle on my hips—not tight, not rough, just there. Anchoring. Claiming.

"You look so fucking good in this dress," he murmurs, eyes darkening as they trace my curves. "But I like it better bunched around your waist."

I don't respond. I won't give him that satisfaction, won't let him know how his words affect me.

But my breath stutters when he shifts his hips, just enough to drag me across the thick length of him. The friction steals every coherent thought from my head, leaving only sensation.

He groans softly, the sound hot against my neck. "You feel that?" he whispers, lips brushing my skin. "How hard you make me without even trying?"

I swallow, unable to form words as heat pools between my legs. And once again I find myself filling with desire so thick and heavy, all my plans for escape just evaporate.

His hands guide me again—slowly this time, with a gentleness that feels more dangerous than force. A careful rock of my hips forward, then back, pressing my core against the bulge beneath me. The pressure is perfect. Constant. Just enough to make me crave more without giving me release.

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