Page 23 of Taken in the Tree Farm
"Stay here," I murmur against her skin. "Don't move."
She makes a small sound of acknowledgment, but I don't think she could move if she wanted to. Her body is boneless, liquid with satisfaction.
I slip off the bed and move to the chest where I've stored everything I need. Water bottles—room temperature, easier to drink than cold. Soft towels. The medical supplies I already used on her feet. A thick robe that will keep her warm.
When I return to the bed, she's exactly where I left her, eyes still closed. I set the supplies on the nightstand and sit beside her, my hand returning to her back.
"Time to get these lights off you," I say, my fingers finding the strand wrapped around her throat.
Her eyes flutter open, tracking my movements with an expression I can't quite read. Wariness mixed with trust. Fear mixed with satisfaction. She's still in that headspace where nothing makes complete sense, where instinct and need override logic.
Perfect.
I unwrap the lights from her neck slowly, letting my fingers brush her skin with each loop. The collar effect disappears, leaving only faint indentations where the strands pressedagainst her throat. I trace those marks with my fingertips, possessive satisfaction warming my chest.
"These are mine," I say, voice low. "Every mark, every bruise, every reminder of tonight. Mine."
She shivers, and I see her nipples tighten despite her exhaustion. Still responsive. Still ready for more, even when her body needs rest.
I move to her wrists next, unwrapping the lights carefully. The velvet rope underneath is damp with sweat, and her skin shows faint red marks where she pulled against the restraints. I bring each wrist to my lips, pressing kisses to the evidence of her struggles.
"You fought so hard," I whisper against her skin. "Put up such a good fight. Made me work for it."
"I lost," she whispers, and there's something raw in her voice.
"No." I meet her eyes. "You surrendered. That takes more courage than fighting ever could."
I see the words land, and watch her as she processes them.
I remove the remaining lights from her body, unwrapping each strand with care, letting my fingers trail over every inch of exposed skin. By the time I'm done, she's covered in faint marks—lines from where the lights pressed against her, scratches from branches during the chase, bruises on her hips where I gripped her too hard.
She's marked inside and out. Claimed as mine.
I reach for one of the water bottles and help her sit up, supporting her weight when she sways. "Drink," I command gently.
She takes the bottle with shaking hands and drinks deeply. I watch her throat work, tracking every swallow. When she's had enough, I take the bottle and set it aside.
"Better?" I ask.
She nods, not quite meeting my eyes. There's a vulnerability in her now that wasn't there during the sex. Like the endorphins are fading and reality is creeping back in, bringing confusion with it.
Can't have that. Not yet.
I reach out and grip her chin, forcing her to look at me. "You did well tonight, sugarplum."
Her eyes widen slightly at the praise. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I ran from you."
"And that's exactly what I wanted." I trace her bottom lip with my thumb. "When you run from me, you get punished. And you like getting punished, don't you?"
She doesn't answer, but the flush spreading across her chest tells me everything I need to know.
"Don't you?" I press, my grip tightening slightly on her chin.
"Yes," she whispers.
"Good girl." I release her chin and stand, reaching for the robe. "Arms up."
She obeys automatically, and I slip the soft fabric over her arms, helping her feed her hands through the sleeves. It swallows her—intentionally bought too large so it would be comfortable, warm, not restrictive. I tie it loosely at her waist and brush hair back from her face.
