She stares up at me, eyes wide and wet, mouth open around words she cannot form. I lean in, pressing my forehead to hers, letting her feel the heat of my breath, the certainty in my grip. I want her to remember this moment, the exact line where everything changes.
“You’re mine now,” I whisper, the words a promise and a threat. “No more hiding, Talia. No more pretending.”
She trembles beneath my hands, her heart pounding so loud I can feel it through her ribs. Her defiance melts into need, her walls cracking open. Her fingers find my wrist, not to stop me, but to anchor herself, to let herself fall.
I keep my touch gentle, relentless. I want to teach her what it means to surrender. What it means to give up control without losing herself. I watch her face, the flush creeping up her neck, the tremor in her breath as I stroke her through the fabric, slow and deliberate.
“Say it,” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “Tell me who you belong to.”
For a moment, she fights it. Her pride, her plan, her mission—they all war inside her, visible in the tremble of her jaw, the clench of her fists. In the end, it’s her need that wins. She exhales, voice trembling: “You.”
The word breaks something open in both of us. I press harder, the pleasure building in her, her hips moving in helpless rhythm against my hand. She whimpers, lost in sensation, lost in me.
I will not let her go. Not now. Not ever. This is my victory. This is the truth that all her lies could never hide.
“Adrian…”
Hearing her voice—soft, hesitant, giving in to me—flips something hot and volatile in my chest. It is possessiveness, yes, fierce and sudden, but it is also guilt, an ache that pulses beneath my skin.
She is untouched. I know it now, feel it in every tremble, every uncertain gasp that passes her lips. I have ruined women before, left them wanting or wounded or both, but this is different. With Talia, the risk is not only hers.
My own restraint is a fragile thread, stretched nearly to breaking.
Her hands tighten in my shirt, her breath coming fast and shallow. I hover close, so close she can taste my breath but not my mouth, the threat and the promise of a kiss held just out of reach.
My hand slides lower, pressing into the soft heat between her thighs, teasing the silk aside, feeling the slickness I have drawn out of her. She moans, arching toward me, hips seeking relief.
Her eyes are glazed, wide and pleading, caught in a war between pride and need.
I stroke her, slow and measured, watching every reaction, drawing her higher, closer, her control eroding with each pass of my fingers. Her head tips back, lips parting around my name.
The sound is almost enough to break me. To have me take her here and now, to claim every inch of her and erase whatever secret she is keeping from me.
I do not. I wait until she is trembling, her whole body straining for release. Then, just as she tips over the edge, I pull my hand away.
She whimpers, a sound so desperate and broken that it almost undoes me. My jaw clenches, muscles rigid with the effort it takes not to finish what I have started. The possessiveness and heat churn inside me, tangled with something like shame.
I want to ravage her, to bury myself in her until neither of us remembers the world outside this room.
She slumps against the wall, breathless, dress rucked up around her hips, eyes dark and stormy. I look at her for one last, hungry second, memorizing the sight of her undone and waiting, her guard shattered for me and me alone.
Then I turn and walk out, the door clicking softly behind me.
In the hallway, I stop, hands braced on the cold stone. The restraint ripples through me, bitter and electric. I wanted to own her—still want to, more than I can admit. I wanted to wipe away every memory but mine, to take her in a way that would leave no room for whatever cause brought her into my life.
I will not take her that way. Not with that look of surrender, not when I can still taste the innocence I have just begun to tarnish.
Something about her purity, her willingness to stand her ground until I broke her, unsettles everything I thought I knew about myself. It makes me want to ruin her and shield her from every harm in equal measure. She is a contradiction, a temptation I cannot name, and I am caught between the urge to devour her and the need to protect what little is left untouched.
I let out a shuddering breath, forcing my body back under control. I will not lose myself, not yet. There is time. There is always time.
A guard turns the corner, sees my expression, and wisely keeps his head down, moving silently past. I watch the shadows drift across the far end of the corridor, the whole estate quiet except for the thud of my own pulse.
Down the hall, I hear Talia moving. I hear rustling fabric, a faint gasp as she gathers herself. I wonder if she hates me now, if the game has finally tipped too far, if I have lost what fragile trust she might have begun to feel. The thought unsettles me more than I expect.
I want her. I want every lie she keeps, every secret locked behind her careful eyes. But I do not want to break her before she gives me what I need. Her innocence is a weapon, and I will not let her turn it against me. Not when I have waited this long to have her.
I make my way to my own suite, stripping off my jacket and pouring a drink with hands that are not quite steady.