Olivia stood in the center of the penthouse’s main living area, her legs trembling. Mariah had dressed her in a soft, cream-colored sweater dress that fell to mid-thigh, white tights, and little leather ankle boots. The outfit was adorable, innocent, a stark contrast to the deep, constant ache between her legs. Every step sent a fresh throb through her core, a reminder of his possession from the night before and again this morning. She walked with a careful, wide-legged waddle, like a penguin on ice.
Alistair watched her from the doorway of his study, a glass of amber whiskey in hand. His eyes tracked her hesitant progress across the marble. “Come here,” he said, his voice low.
She tried to move normally, but the throb intensified, making her breath hitch. She stopped a few feet from him, a faint blush on her freckled cheeks. “Hi.”
“Does it hurt?”
Olivia’s glossy green eyes went wide. She shook her head quickly, her red curls bouncing. “No. I’m okay.”
“Liar.” He set the glass down on a side table with a soft click. “You’re walking like I broke you.”
“You didn’t,” she whispered, but her thighs squeezed together instinctively, a futile attempt to soothe the ache.
Alistair closed the distance between them. His hand, warm and heavy, settled on the curve of her hip. “I told you I’d show you the place. Let’s start.”
He guided her toward the kitchen, a vast space of dark granite and stainless steel. The city lights glittered beyond the windows. “This is where Mariah prepares meals. You’ll eat everything she gives you.”
“Okay,” Olivia said, her fingers brushing the cold stone of the island counter. The surface was smooth, unforgiving.
Alistair’s body pressed against her back from behind, his heat seeping through her dress. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “This is also where I’m going to fuck you first.”
Her breath caught. Not a question. A statement. His hands slid around her waist, hiking up the soft fabric of her dress. The cool air hit her thighs, then the warmth of his palms replaced it, squeezing. He pushed her forward until her hips met the edge of the granite counter. The hard line bit into her pelvis.
“Hold onto the edge,” he murmured, his voice a vibration against her neck.
She obeyed, her fingers splaying on the cold stone. He made quick work of his belt, the buckle clinking, the zipper a harsh sound in the quiet kitchen. She felt him, hot and heavy, against the cleft of her ass. He pushed her tights and underwear down just enough, the elastic stretching tight around her thighs, binding her.
He didn’t ask if she was ready. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance. She was still swollen, sensitive, but desperately wet. The ache twisted into a sharp, welcome burn as he pushed in, slowly, stretching her all over again.
“Oh,” she gasped, her forehead dropping to the cool granite.
“Tight,” he groaned into her hair, his hips flush against her ass. “Still so fucking tight. How?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He set a deep, relentless rhythm, each thrust driving her into the counter. The slap of skin, the wet sound of him moving in her, filled the sterile kitchen. Olivia’s moans were muffled against her arm. The pain was there, a bright thread woven through the overwhelming pleasure, and she couldn’t separate them. Each jolt made her legs shake harder.
Alistair’s hand fisted in her curls, pulling her head back to arch her spine. “Look. Out the window. Everyone down there, living their little lives. And you’re up here, getting fucked on a countertop.”
Tears welled in her eyes from the stretch, from the obscenity of it. She watched the tiny cars, the ant-like people. He was right. She was here. His.
He came with a harsh grunt, pulsing deep inside her, his body rigid against her back. He stayed there, buried, for a long moment, his breath hot on her shoulder. When he pulled out, she sagged against the counter, her legs nearly giving way. A hot trickle slid down her inner thigh.
“Next,” he said, his voice rough. He pulled her clothing back into place, his touch almost clinical now. He took her hand. “The library.”
Walking was worse. The fullness, the slick evidence of him, the renewed ache. She waddled beside him, her grip on his hand white-knuckled. The library was all dark wood and leather, smelling of old paper and cigars. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves reached toward the ceiling.
“My father’s collection,” Alistair said, guiding her to a heavy oak desk. “Useless, mostly.”
He turned her to face him, his blue eyes intent. He lifted her, sitting her on the edge of the polished desk. The leather of her boots scraped the wood. He stepped between her knees, pushing her dress up again. This time, he tore the tights, the rip loud in the quiet room. He didn’t remove them, just left them in ruined bands around her thighs.
He entered her faster this time, her body yielding more easily, already shaped for him. The angle was different, deeper. He braced his hands on the desk on either side of her hips, his face inches from hers. She could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, the sweat at his temples.
“You take it so well,” he whispered, his thrusts measured, brutal. “Like you were made for it. For this.”
Olivia wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles. It pulled him deeper. She cried out, her nails digging into the shoulders of his shirt. She was unravelling, a coil of sensation where pain and bliss were the same color. She came suddenly, a silent, shuddering wave that clenched around him, milking him. He followed her over, his release a hot flood, his mouth crushing hers to swallow her sounds.
When he pulled back, she was boneless, sliding off the desk. Her legs refused to hold her. She crumpled toward the Persian rug.
Alistair caught her under the arms before she hit the floor. He stared down at her, a flicker of something like disbelief in his gaze. “You’re still functioning,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He lifted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her head lolled on his shoulder.
He carried her through a set of double doors into a private screening room, rows of plush velvet seats descending toward a blank screen. He didn’t set her down. He stood in the aisle, her body limp in his arms, and kissed her. It was slow, deep, possessive. His tongue mapped her mouth. One hand supported her back, the other cupped her face.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “This is where I watch things.” He carried her to the back wall, pressing her against it. The textured wallpaper scraped her shoulders through the thin dress. He freed himself again, her weight supported entirely by his body and the wall. He pushed inside, her body accepting him with a wet, willing sigh. This was slower, almost languid, a deep, grinding possession. He watched her face the entire time, watched every flutter of her eyelids, every catch of her breath.
“Who do you belong to, Olivia?”
“You,” she panted, her arms looped around his neck. “My boyfriend.”
The word—boyfriend—made his jaw tighten. His thrusts lost their rhythm, turning frantic. “Mhm,” he hissed, though the sound seemed to cost him. He came again, shuddering, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
He carried her from room to room. The formal dining room, where he bent her over the long, polished table. The sunken living room, where he laid her on the thick rug and drove into her until she sobbed. The balcony access hallway, where he pressed her against the cold glass of the window, the city sprawling beneath them, her breath fogging the pane.
Each time, she grew weaker, more pliant. Each time, her body welcomed him, tight and hot and dripping. The ache was a constant, but it was drowned under the tide of sensation he pulled from her. She lost count of her own climaxes, small ripples and huge, crashing waves.
Finally, in his walk-in closet, a space larger than her old bedroom, lined with suits and shoes, her legs gave out completely. She tried to take a step and her knees buckled. She went down on the plush carpet, unable to rise. She looked up at him, dazed, her dress rucked up, her tights in tatters, her skin flushed and marked.
Alistair looked down at her, his chest heaving. Surprise, and a dark, fervent approval, crossed his face. “Crawling,” he observed, his voice hoarse.
Olivia tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled and failed. She lay there, panting, utterly spent. The throbbing between her legs was a full, heavy pulse, a heartbeat of its own.
He crouched in front of her, tilting her chin up. “Had enough?”
She shook her head, a weak, involuntary movement. She hadn’t. That was the terrifying truth. She wanted the feeling to never end.
A slow smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth but full of heat. “Didn’t think so.” He slid his arms under her, lifting her once more. She nuzzled into his neck, her body a dead weight. He carried her out of the closet, through the bedroom, into the master bathroom. It was all white marble and chrome, with a vast shower behind glass.
He turned on the water, steam beginning to fog the room. He didn’t set her down. He held her under the spray, still fully dressed himself, his clothes soaking through. The hot water sluiced over them. He washed her with a practiced, thorough gentleness that contrasted violently with the last few hours, cleaning the sweat and evidence of their use from her skin.
He wrapped her in a thick, warm towel and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and finally shed his own wet clothes, joining her. He pulled her against him, her back to his chest, his arms locking around her. She was asleep in seconds, a deep, exhausted oblivion.
Alistair lay awake in the dark, feeling the delicate rhythm of her breathing. Her body was a furnace against his. He was hard again, aching, but he let her sleep. The surprise lingered. She hadn’t broken. She hadn’t died from the sheer physical onslaught. Her hole, as he’d felt it that final time in the closet, remained impossibly, addictively tight. She had taken everything and asked for more with her body, if not her words.
He buried his face in her damp, curly hair, inhaling the scent of his soap and her skin. *Boyfriend*. The word echoed, naive and dangerous. She believed it. That belief was the most potent drug of all. It meant she would give him everything, forever, and thank him for it. His arms tightened around her. He would have to be careful. He would have to make sure she never, ever learned the truth.
Olivia woke to a different kind of pain. It wasn’t the sharp, tearing agony of the alley. This was a deep, systemic ache, a saturation of every muscle. She tried to stretch and a whimper escaped her lips. The bedroom was empty, the sheets cool on Alistair’s side. Before she could cover her mouth, her eyes found Mariah across the room, quietly folding laundry.
Her eyes went wide. A silent question passed between them.
“He’s out at work,” Mariah said casually, not looking up from a pillowcase.
The scream that tore from Olivia’s throat was raw, blood-curdling. It echoed off the marble and glass, a sound of pure, animal distress. Mariah flinched, the fabric falling from her hands.
Then the sobs came, great heaving waves that shook Olivia’s battered body. She curled into a ball, her hands flying between her legs, her palm pressing hard against the throbbing, swollen flesh there. “It hurts,” she wailed, her voice cracking. “So much. I want to die.”
Mariah approached the bed slowly. She sat on the edge and placed a firm hand on the back of Olivia’s neck, her touch cool and grounding. “You get fucked, then bathed, then fucked all over again for hours. And you expect your body to stand without pain?”
“It feels… broken.”
“It’s not. I had to clean every room from cum. He seriously fucked your brain out.” Mariah’s voice was matter-of-fact. She leaned closer. “You aren’t bleeding down there, surprisingly. Your vagina got used to his size. That’s a good thing. Means you can take him.”
Olivia cried harder, the reassurance somehow worse. “Why does he… why is he like this?”
“Because he can be,” Mariah said simply. She rubbed Olivia’s neck. “And because you let him. Now, come on. You need to move or you’ll seize up. A hot bath. Food.”
Mariah helped her to the ensuite, running a bath thick with Epsom salts. Olivia sank into the steaming water, hissing as the heat met her soreness. Mariah didn’t leave. She sat on the closed toilet lid, watching Olivia with an unreadable expression. “He’s never done that before,” she said after a while. “The tour. Room to room. It was… thorough.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Olivia whispered to the water, the words a fragile charm.
Mariah just looked at her. She didn’t argue. She handed Olivia a soft washcloth. “Sure.”
Later, dressed in soft, expensive pajamas Mariah had laid out—a silk shorts set in pale pink, clearly chosen by Alistair—Olivia shuffled into the living room. Every step was a reminder. She felt hollowed out, yet hypersensitive. Mariah made her soup and toast, setting it on the coffee table. Olivia ate curled on the couch, knees to her chest, spoon clutched in her hand like a little girl. The city lights twinkled beyond the windows, a distant, indifferent galaxy.
The key in the penthouse door lock was a sharp, metallic sound. Olivia’s head snapped up, a beam of pure, reflexive joy lighting her face before she could stop it.
Alistair stumbled in. He grumbled, rubbing his temples, his head throbbing. He smelled of whiskey and expensive perfume. And he was covered in them. Lipstick stamps—crimson, pink, plum—bloomed on the collar of his white shirt, the side of his neck, even one high on his cheekbone. He didn’t glance at Olivia. He walked past the couch, his gait slightly unsteady, and headed straight for the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.
The beam on Olivia’s face died. She stared at the empty space where he’d been.
“Don’t be so jealous,” Mariah mumbled from the kitchen doorway, drying a glass. She walked over and ruffled Olivia’s curly red hair. “It’s just his life. Clocking out. Get some rest.” She left, the servant’s entrance clicking shut.
Olivia sat frozen, the soup turning cold. The sound of the shower ran. Stopped. Twenty minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, followed by Alistair. He was changed into gray sweatpants and nothing else, his hair damp, his tattoos stark against his sun-kissed skin. The lipstick was gone. But in its place were fresh, dark hickeys on his neck, purple against the gold.
He padded into the living room and sank onto the couch beside her. The cushion dipped deeply under his weight, tilting her toward him. He smelled of his own soap now, clean and masculine.
“Feeling better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. He leaned his head back against the cushions, closing his eyes.
She always looked cute. The pink silk, her freckles, the mint-green eyes wide and fixed on the marks on his skin. She managed a small smile, fragile as glass. “Did you have a fun meeting?” she asked, her voice dripping with a terrible, innocent curiosity.
One blue eye opened, sliding toward her. He studied her face—the forced smile, the eyes glued to his neck. A slow, cold understanding dawned there. He sat up, turning his body to face her. “You think I was at a meeting?”
“You… you went to work.”
“I fucked two women from the club in my office,” he said, the words blunt and clean as a knife. “Then I had a drink with a third. That’s my work.” He reached out and tapped her nose with a single finger. “You’re a fucktoy, Olivia. A live-in one. My personal little doll. The only person in this penthouse who considers us in a relationship is you.”
The words didn’t land like a blow. They seeped in, cold and heavy, filling the hollow places he’d made. Her smile didn’t vanish; it just went stiff, a painted-on thing. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he echoed, mocking her gently. His hand dropped from her nose to her chin, holding it. “Does that hurt more than your pussy does?”
She blinked. A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the faint blush on her cheek. “Then why…” She swallowed. “Why do you want to breed me?”
Alistair went very still. His gaze intensified, focusing on her with a predatory sharpness. He tilted his head, a faint, cruel smile touching his lips. “Why does a collector put a rare doll in a glass case? So no one else can touch it. So it stays perfect. So it’s forever his.” His thumb stroked her jaw. “I put a baby in you, and you’re mine in a way those women with their lipstick will never be. It’s proof. It’s permanent.”
He saw the shiver that went through her. Not just fear. A dark, answering thrill. Her body recognized the claim even as her mind scrambled.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s make sure you remember who you belong to tonight. Since you’re so worried about the other ones.”
His hands were on her, pushing her back into the deep cushions of the couch. The silk shorts were pulled down her thighs, not off, just enough. He didn’t bother removing his sweatpants, just freed his cock, already thick and heavy and fully hard. The sight of it, after the day’s ordeal, made her clench internally with a mix of dread and raw, shameful want.
He pushed her knees apart, settling between them. The broad head of his cock nudged at her entrance, which was still swollen, still tender, but already slick with a traitorous heat. He didn’t ask. He pushed inside.
Olivia cried out, a sharp, broken sound. The stretch was breathtaking, a re-opening of a wound that had just begun to close. He filled her completely, a deep, burning fullness that chased away the cold his words had left. He didn’t move at first, just stayed buried, watching her face contort.
“See?” he breathed, his hips giving a tiny, grinding rock. “This is the only thing that’s real. This fit. This ache. Me, in you.”
He began to move. It wasn’t the frantic pace of the tour. This was deliberate, deep, each withdrawal almost complete before he sank back in to the hilt. It was a relentless reminder. His hands pinned her hips, his rings cold against her skin. The couch cushions swallowed her, the city lights a blurry backdrop behind his shoulders.
“Who do you belong to?” he grunted, his rhythm unwavering.
“You,” she gasped. The pain was subsiding, melting into a familiar, overwhelming pressure. Her body was betraying her again, softening, accepting, fluttering around the invasion.
“Say my name.”
“Alistair.”
“Again.”
“Alistair!” Her voice rose as he angled deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath hot. “And when I come in you, what am I doing?”
She couldn’t speak. Her hips lifted to meet his thrusts, a helpless, involuntary rhythm.
“Breeding you,” he answered for her, his voice guttural. “Filling my doll up. Marking what’s mine.” His pace quickened, turning punishing. The slap of skin, the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining filled the quiet penthouse. “You’ll take it. You’ll take every drop. And you’ll beg for more tomorrow.”
Olivia shattered. An orgasm ripped through her, violent and unexpected, wringing a sob from her throat. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, a fierce, pulsing grip.
It tipped him over the edge. With a harsh groan, he drove in as deep as he could go and held there. She felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release, flooding into her, a claiming so intimate it felt like a brand. He shuddered through it, his body rigid above her.
When he finally collapsed, half on her, half on the couch, he was heavy and spent. He stayed inside her. They lay there in the dark, the only sound their ragged breathing. One of his hands came up, his fingers tracing the tears on her cheeks.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He nuzzled into her neck, right over the pulse point. “My perfect doll.”
Olivia stared at the ceiling, feeling the warm trickle escape between her thighs. The pain was back, a deep, full ache. But beneath it, a terrifying warmth spread. The warmth of being chosen. Of being owned. Of being, in his twisted way, kept.
She turned her head, her lips brushing his damp hair. “Don’t go to the club tomorrow,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could cage them.
Alistair went still. Then a low chuckle vibrated through his chest, against hers. He lifted his head, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. He looked intrigued, and utterly possessive. “Is my doll getting jealous?”
She didn’t answer. She just looked at him, her green eyes wide and wet.
He smiled, a real one this time, full of dark promise. He shifted, pulling out of her slowly, making her gasp at the emptiness. He gathered her limp body into his arms, standing with her as easily as if she were a child. “Maybe I’ll stay home,” he said, carrying her toward the bedroom. “Maybe we’ll start on the nursery.”
• • •
Olivia sat on the cold marble kitchen counter, her hands sticky. She stared at the pearly streaks of cum she’d just wiped on the silk of her skirt. “It’s been… I don’t know how many days, but many days. Can I call my Mama? She probably thinks I got kidnapped.”
Alistair was on his knees before her, sliding a soft leather loafer onto her foot. He didn’t look up. “You *did* get kidnapped.”
“Voluntarily kidnapped,” Olivia corrected, wiggling her toes once the shoe was on.
“Still kidnapped,” he recorrected, securing the other shoe. He rose then, unfolding his height until he towered over her seated form. He planted his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in. “I was wondering when you’d ask me that.”
“Ask you what?” She tilted her head, her curly red hair brushing her shoulders.
“About… something related to sanity,” he stated softly, his gentle blue eyes studying her face.
Olivia blinked her mint-green eyes. “Why are you so fucked up in the head?” he questions.
Alistair flicked her forehead with his thumb. A sharp, little sting. Before she could even gasp, he leaned in and kissed the same spot, his lips soft and lingering. A soothe for the pain he’d just given. As if the failed, clumsy handjob she’d attempted five minutes ago hadn’t happened at all.
“I’m not fucked up in the head,” Olivia said, poking a finger into the hard muscle of his chest. She frowned, but on her freckled face, it just looked like a baby pouting. “I’m fucked up down there. You caused that.”
Alistair’s smirk was instantaneous. He hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her off the counter as if she weighed nothing. He carried her, not toward the bedroom, but down the hall to the empty room he’d cleared. The nursery. He placed her gently in the center of the large, empty crib, the polished white wood stark against the bare walls.
“I swear, my children will be taller than you,” he mumbled, leaning on the rail to watch her.
Olivia lay perfectly still on the thin mattress pad, looking up at him, her green eyes wide and unblinking.
“Why aren’t you moving?” Alistair asked.
She blinked, then shifted her hips a fraction of an inch.
He groaned, running a hand through his half-black, half-blonde hair. “Were you a dog in your past life?”
She furrowed her eyebrows, the expression stupidly adorable. “Huh—Why—?”
“You act like a puppy.”
“That makes you my owner, right?” She smiled, a bright, guileless thing.
“Freak,” Alistair said, rolling his eyes, but the smirk tugged at his lips again. He leaned against the crib rail, the diamond in his ear catching the grey morning light from the window.
“I have to move from this hotel though, like, in a few months,” Alistair sighed, his gaze drifting around the empty room.
Olivia sat up inside the crib, folding her legs beneath her. “Why?”
“I travel. A lot. I told you.”
“Do you sell drugs or something?”
Alistair snorted. “Nah. Just a lot of… property selling, you could say.” He shrugged, the tattoos on his wrists flexing. “Acquisitions. Liquidations. My family’s business. Boring stuff.”
“It doesn’t sound boring. It sounds like a spy movie.”
“It’s paperwork and phone calls in different time zones. The opposite of a spy movie.”
“But you have a penthouse,” she pressed, tracing the grain of the crib wood with a sticky finger.
“I have several. This one’s convenient for now.” He watched her. “Your mother. What would you tell her?”
Olivia’s playful demeanor faded. She looked down at her soiled skirt. “That I’m okay. That I’m… with someone. That I’m safe.”
“Are you?” His voice was neutral, devoid of its usual cruel tease.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. “You feed me. You put shoes on me. You fuck me until I can’t walk. That’s a kind of safe, isn’t it?”
Alistair was silent for a long moment. The city’s distant hum filtered through the glass. “It’s the only kind I know how to give.” He pushed off the crib. “Come on. You’re making the mattress dirty.”
He lifted her out again, but instead of setting her down, he carried her to the adjoining bathroom—a smaller, guest one with grey slate tiles. He set her on the edge of the deep soaking tub and turned on the faucet. Steam began to rise.
“Hands,” he commanded.
She held them out, palms up, the evidence of him drying in shiny patches on her skin. He took her wrists and guided them under the warm stream, using his own fingers to work the slick residue from hers. He was meticulous, cleaning under her nails, between her fingers. The intimacy of it was stranger than the sex.
“You could call her,” he said, not looking at her face, focused on his task. “One call. Five minutes. You tell her you’re traveling with a friend. That you’re fine. That you won’t be reachable for a while.”
“And if she doesn’t believe me?”
“She will. You’ll sound happy. Because you are happy, aren’t you, Olivia?” He finally looked up, his blue eyes holding hers. The question wasn’t gentle. It was a test.
Her throat felt tight. She thought of the crushing loneliness of her old bedroom, of the bus she missed, of the cold alley. She thought of the heat of his skin against hers, the weight of him holding her down, the terrifying warmth that spread through her when he called her his. “Yes,” she whispered. It wasn’t a lie. It was a confession.
He nodded, as if she’d passed. He turned off the water and dried her hands with a towel. Then his hands went to the tie of her silk shorts. He undid it. He peeled the soiled skirt and her underwear down her thighs, letting them pool at her ankles. He left her sitting there, naked from the waist down, as he tested the bathwater.
“In,” he said.
She stepped into the tub, the hot water a shock that quickly melted into relief. She sank down with a sigh, the water covering her hips. He knelt beside the tub, watching her. His gaze was clinical, possessive. He took a washcloth and a bar of sandalwood soap.
He started with her knees, washing away the faint blush that colored them. He moved up her thighs, the cloth rough against her tender skin. She winced, and his touch softened, just for a second. He washed between her legs, not as a lover, but as an owner cleaning his possession. The cloth moved over her folds, and despite the soreness, a low, shameful pulse answered the pressure.
He saw it. The slight flutter. The quickening of her breath. He didn’t comment. He continued, washing her stomach, the curve of her hips. “You will call her today. You will sound light. You will not cry.”
“Okay.”
“If you say one wrong thing, I will know. And I will take the phone. And you will not get another chance. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Alistair.”
He made a sound of approval. He rinsed her, his hands guiding water over her skin. Then he stood, leaving her in the tub. “Don’t get out until I come back.”
He returned a few minutes later with a large, soft t-shirt. He held it out. She stood, water sluicing down her body, and let him pull it over her head. It swallowed her, the hem hitting mid-thigh. It smelled like him—expensive detergent and his own clean, male scent.
He led her, barefoot, back to the main living area. He sat on the couch and pulled her down to sit across his lap. He produced a sleek, black phone from his pocket. He dialed a number, his fingers moving with practiced ease, then put it on speaker. It rang twice.
A woman’s voice, warm and laced with worry, answered. “Livvy? Honey, is that you? Your number came up unknown.”
Olivia’s breath hitched. Alistair’s arm tightened around her waist, a silent command.
“Hi, Mama,” Olivia said, and her voice was miraculously bright, a sunbeam. “Yeah, it’s me! Sorry, my phone broke. I’m borrowing a friend’s.”
“A friend? What friend? You haven’t been answering for days, I was about to file a missing persons report!”
“I know, I’m so sorry. It’s… it’s a guy from the pool party. Remember? He’s really nice. He invited me on a trip, sort of spur of the moment. We’re driving up the coast.” She was babbling. Alistair’s thumb stroked her hip, a warning.
“A trip? Olivia Paige, you can’t just run off with some boy! Who is he? Do I know his family?”
“Mama, it’s fine. He’s perfect. He takes care of everything.” She felt Alistair’s lips press against her temple, a parody of affection. “It’s just for a few weeks. Maybe longer. I’ll… I’ll call when I can, okay? But service might be spotty.”
A long pause. “You sound different.”
“I’m happy,” Olivia said, and the truth in it made her voice crack. She cleared her throat. “Really happy. Don’t worry about me.”
Another silence. “Alright, baby. If you’re sure. You call me the second you can. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Alistair reached over and ended the call. The line went dead. The penthouse was suddenly, profoundly quiet.
Olivia didn’t move. She stared at the black screen of the phone. A single tear escaped, rolling down her cheek and onto the collar of Alistair’s shirt.
He didn’t chastise her for it. He turned her face toward his with two fingers under her chin. He studied her, his gaze tracing the tear’s path over her freckles. “You did well,” he said, his voice low. It was the closest thing to praise he’d ever given her today.
Then he kissed her. It wasn’t brutal or claiming. It was slow, deep, and searching. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she tasted the coffee he’d drunk earlier. Her hands came up to clutch at his shoulders. When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
“See?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers. “You’re mine. And you’re safe. And you’re happy. All three things can be true.”
He shifted her on his lap, until she was straddling him. The soft cotton of the t-shirt rode up. He was already hard beneath his sweatpants, the thick length of him pressing against her through the fabric. He didn’t rush. He just held her there, letting her feel the insistent pressure against her core.
“You belong to me,” he said, not a question, but a ritual.
“I belong to you,” she repeated, the words a sigh against his mouth.
He gripped her hips and guided her, helping her rock against him, a slow, grinding friction that made her whimper. The soreness was still there, a deep ache, but it was being overwritten by a sharper, more urgent need. The t-shirt was in his way. He gathered the fabric in his fists and pulled it up and over her head, tossing it aside. She was naked in his lap now, her pale skin flushed, her red curls a messy halo.
He leaned forward and took one peaked nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, his tongue circling the tight bud. She cried out, her back arching, offering herself more completely. His hands slid down to grip the full curves of her ass, kneading the flesh as he lavished attention on her breasts, first one, then the other, until they were both pink and wet from his mouth.
He leaned back, his blue eyes dark with hunger. He freed himself from his sweatpants, his cock springing out, thick and veined and already leaking at the tip. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, then positioned the broad head at her entrance. He didn’t push her down. He waited.
“Take it,” he ordered, his voice rough. “Take what’s yours.”
Her eyes locked on his. She lowered herself, slowly, feeling the exquisite, burning stretch as he filled her. She was so tight, still swollen from his earlier use, and the sensation was overwhelming—a perfect, painful fullness. She sank all the way down until she was seated fully in his lap, him buried to the hilt inside her. A broken sob escaped her lips.
He let her adjust, his hands steadying her trembling thighs. Then he began to move her, lifting her almost off him before pulling her back down. He set a slow, devastating rhythm, each descent a claiming, each withdrawal a promise of return. His rings were cold against her hot skin.
“This,” he grunted, his hips meeting her downward stroke. “This is where you live now. Right here.”
She could only nod, her head falling forward, her forehead resting against his. Her world narrowed to the slide of him inside her, the slap of their skin, the guttural sounds he made in his throat. The orgasm built not in a rush, but as a slow, inevitable tide. It started deep in her belly, a coiling heat that spread outward until her entire body was taut with need.
“Alistair,” she gasped, a warning, a plea.
“Come for me, doll,” he whispered, his hands tightening on her ass, driving her down onto him harder, faster. “Come on my cock. Show me how happy you are.”
The command shattered her. The climax ripped through her, violent and consuming, wringing a raw, continuous cry from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched around him in frantic, fluttering pulses, milking him.
It dragged his release from him. With a harsh groan, he thrust up into her, holding her down as he emptied himself. She felt the hot, urgent jets of his cum flooding her depths, a searing claim that seemed to go on and on. He shuddered through it, his body rigid beneath hers.
They stayed like that, locked together, breathing in ragged unison. Slowly, he softened inside her, but he didn’t let her go. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, her sweat-slicked skin pressed to his clothed chest. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, his lips against her pulse.
“My perfect, fucked-up doll,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her skin. “All mine.”
Outside, the city went about its day. Inside, in the sterile, beautiful penthouse, Olivia Paige clung to the man who had ruined her, and in the wreckage, she had never felt more found.