And then he comes.
Hard.
His cock pulses inside me, filling me with his cum, marking me all over again.
I feel every drop, my body absorbing it like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
When it’s over, I collapse onto the bed, my body limp and spent, but Trip doesn’t let me go.
He holds me close, his body still covering mine, his cock still buried inside me.
“Mine,” he murmurs again, his lips brushing against my temple.
I don’t have the strength to speak, but I don’t need to.
Heknows.
Because I’m his.
I will always be his.
THIRTY
TRIP
Lydia is mine.
A month has passed since I dragged her out of that fucking factory, and I haven’t let her go since.
Not even for a second.
She’s my oxygen. My fucking lifeline. I can’t breathe without her. Can’tthink. When she isn’t within arm’s reach, the world tilts. My pulse slows. My mind spins with worst-case scenarios.
I see her in that chair again, bound and bleeding, Patrick’s fucking hands on her. And I lose it.
Every. Fucking. Time.
I don’t tell her that, of course. I don’t want her to see how close I am to losing control. But I know she can feel it.
She feels it every time I touch her.
Every time I pin her to the bed, my hands gripping her wrists too tightly, my body covering hers like I can shield her from everything with just my skin. She feels it when I fuck her–harder, deeper, taking everything I can until I’m sure there’s nothing left between us.
And even then…it isn’t enough.
It’sneverenough. I’m addicted to her. Completely. It isn’t just the sex–though fuck, the sex is enough to ruin me. It’s her.
The way her body melts against mine like she belongs there. The way she whispers filthy, desperate things in my ear, begging me to ruin her, to mark her, to own her. The way she looks at me afterward, like I’m her whole fucking world.
Because I am.
Just like she is mine.
I watch her sleep now, her body tangled in the sheets, her hair a mess against the pillow. Her lips are swollen, her skin still flushed from the last time I fucked her.
Twice.
No… three times.