Her fingers wraped around his wrist. Her touch was desperate, her grip surprisingly strong. She didn't look away from his burning blue eyes as she guided his hand from where it hovered, back down the trembling plane of her stomach, and pressed his palm firmly against the aching, swollen center of her need.
His breath hissed out between his teeth. He let her move him, his arm yielding to her direction, but the moment her own hand fell away, his fingers curled. He didn't rub. He just held his hand there, a hot, heavy pressure, his fingertips digging slightly into her inner thighs. “Here?” he growled, the word a vibration in the charged air between them.
She nodded, a frantic jerk of her chin. Her hips rolled up, seeking friction against the unyielding cage of his hand. A silent, physical plea.
He rewarded her. His thumb found her clit, a slow, deliberate circle that made her spine arch off the white blanket. Her mouth opened on a soundless cry. He watched it happen, watched her face shatter, his own expression one of rapt, intense study. “You don’t hide it,” he murmured. “Not from me.” his thumb continued its maddening, perfect circles. “Your body begs in a language I understand perfectly.”
He added a second finger, sliding them through her slickness, coating them thoroughly before returning to that tight, desperate bud. The rhythm changed, firmer now, insistent. Elena’s hands scrabbled at the blanket, her head thrashing side to side. The coil in her belly pulled taut, a searing line of fire connecting his touch to every nerve ending. The world narrowed to the rough pad of his thumb, the wet sound of her arousal, the animal gasps she couldn’t contain.
“Liam—” It was a broken syllable, half-sob, half-prayer. The pressure building up again, ready to release.
“Cum.” His voice was grit, a barely controlled thing. He increased the pressure. “Cum for me. I want to see you fall apart on my hand.”
The command undid her. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and blinding, rushing through her in a violent, shuddering wave. Her back bowed off the bed, a raw, ragged cry tearing from her throat. She clenched around nothing, her inner muscles fluttering wildly, her hips bucking against his relentless hand as he worked her through it, drawing out every pulse, every aftershock until she was limp and trembling, tears leaking from the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes.
He slowly withdrew his hand. She heard the soft, wet sound as he lifted it. She forced her eyes open, her vision blurred. He was bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth again, his gaze locked on her ravished face as he slowly sucked them clean. A deep groan rumbled in his chest. “Even sweeter the second time.”
Before the last tremor had left her thighs, he shifted. The broad, condom-covered head of his cock nudged insistently at her entrance, still wet and sensitized from her climax. The pressure was different now—a desire inside that was begging to be sated.
“Wait—,” her voice cut in.
Liam’s body froze, preparing to stop.
“I just needed to tell you first—” Her voice cut off. Her face turned even redder. “I've never done this before.” She blurted out.
He froze mid-motion. The rhythm of the moment halted as if the air itself had thickened. His gaze locked on hers, sharp and unreadable, the blue of his eyes suddenly cooler, more piercing. A faint hitch in his breath betrayed the fraction of surprise before it was sealed back under layers of steel.
For a long heartbeat, he said nothing. His hand remained steady at her hip, firm, deliberate, but every movement seemed measured now, as if recalibrating.
“You’re still a virgin,” he murmured, voice low, more a statement than a question. The words were weighed, digested. He let them hang, letting the truth of it sink between them.
Then he exhaled quietly, a sound almost too low to hear. The control returned immediately, the predator reasserting itself, but now there was something else under the surface: a flicker of respect, of recognition, that she had given herself to him despite her fear and inexperience.
“Yet you chose this,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate, each word carrying weight. His hand shifted slightly, pressing against her with quiet insistence. The pause drew a new line between them—choice acknowledged, power maintained, and the tension sharpened, but now threaded with an almost invisible human pulse beneath the dominance.
“I will be gentle,” Liam whispers gently, his presence becoming softer and gentle. His hands resume their work mapping her trembling body with a ruthless, patient precision, skimming over the damp skin of her ribs, palming the weight of her breast until her nipple peaks hard against his callused thumb. He returns his focus to the soaked, swollen flesh between her thighs, but his touch is different now—a slow, maddening exploration that circles her clit without granting direct pressure, that slips two fingers through her slick folds without pushing inside. He was rebuilding the fire that was almost out, stoking it hotter, deeper, until her hips were canting helplessly off the blanket, seeking the relief he deliberately withholds.
“Please,” she gasps, the word torn from her. It’s not even a full thought, just a raw syllable of need. Her hands fist in his hair, not to pull him away but to anchor herself to the source of the torment. “Liam, I’m—I’m ready. Please, now.”
He aligns himself, the condom-sheathed head of his cock pressing insistently against her entrance. He holds there, a silent question in the tension of his stilled hips. At her frantic nod, he pushes forward—not with a thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that makes her breath catch. There is a sharp, burning stretch, a fleeting pinch of pain that makes her eyes screw shut. He freezes immediately, his own breath harsh in her ear. “Breathe, Elena,” he commands, his voice gritted. “Breathe through it and relax. There will be a little pain, but I will help.”
She obeys, a shaky inhale that fills her lungs, and as she exhales, he pushes deeper, a fraction further, the burning stretch yielding to a fuller, stranger pressure. The pain inside was tight and a wall slowly breaking, but it’s woven through the overwhelming tapestry of sensation he’s built—the heat of his skin against hers, the delicious scrape of his stubble on her neck, the relentless, pleasure-soaked memory of his hands. The pain quickly subsides, not gone, but drowned by the sheer reality of him, inside her, filling a space she hadn’t known was so empty.
He sinks the rest of the way with a controlled groan, burying himself to the hilt, their bodies fully joined. He doesn’t move. He wraps his arms around her, crushing her to his chest, his face buried in the sweat-damp waves of her hair. His heart hammers against her sternum, a frantic counter-rhythm to her own. For a long moment, there is only this: the intimate clasp of their bodies, the shared, ragged breath, the wet slip of skin, and the profound, shocking rightness of the fit. It felt right.
Then, with a light shift, he slowly begins to move. It’s a shallow, rocking withdrawal followed by a slow, deep glide back home. The friction is exquisite, a bright spark that chases away the last ghost of pain. Her inner muscles flutter, adjusting, then clinging, as the pleasure builds anew, deeper now, rooted in the very center of her. Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer, her earlier hesitation burned away in the furnace of this primal, merging rhythm.
His mouth finds hers, and the world narrows to the wet heat of the kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s deep, consuming, a raw synchronization of tongues and breath that mirrors the slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips. Her fingers tangle in the short, spiked black hair at his nape, holding on as he moves inside her, each measured thrust echoed by the press of his lips, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow.
He breaks the kiss only to breathe her name against her mouth. “Elena.” It’s not a command. It’s an acknowledgment, guttural and real. His forehead rests against hers, their panting breaths mingling, his blue eyes holding her green ones captive. The connection is a live wire, thrumming from where they are joined up through her core, into her throat, behind her eyes.
His thrusts remain slow, deep, an exploration of fit rather than a race for friction. The initial strangeness is gone, replaced by a profound, unfolding fullness. Each inward stroke brushes a spot deep inside her that makes her muscles clench reflexively around him. A soft, broken sound escapes her lips.
He catches it with his mouth, kissing her again, swallowing the noise as if it’s a prize. His hands slide from her hips up her sides, mapping the tremors that ripple through her slender frame. He thumbs her nipples, already hardened peaks, and the twin points of sensation shoot directly to the core of her, amplifying everything.
“Look at me,” he grates out, his voice strained with the effort of his control.
Her eyelids flutter open. She’s drowning in the intensity of his gaze. The predatory calculation is still there, but beneath it runs a current of something hotter, more primal. Possession, yes, but also a raw kind of wonder. He is watching himself disappear inside her body, watching her take him, and the sight is unraveling them both.
The rhythm builds incrementally. The slow rock becomes a deeper, more purposeful drive. The wet, slick sound of their joining fills the salt-tinged air, a brutally honest soundtrack. Sweat slicks the space between her breasts, glues her long brown hair to her neck and the blanket beneath her. His sweat drips from his chin onto her collarbone.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, his lips moving against the shell of her ear. “How tight you are? How perfectly you hold me?” His breath is hot, his words a filthy, intimate truth. “Your body was made for this. For me.”
It should feel like a claim, a reduction. Instead, in her pleasure-hazed mind, it feels like a revelation. Her hips rise to meet his next thrust, a clumsy but eager mimicry of his motion. A low groan rips from his chest, his control fraying at the edges.
“Again,” he commands, his voice rough. “Take me. Like that.”
She does, finding a rhythm, her legs tightening around his hips. The pleasure coils, deeper and heavier than before, a pressure building from the very root of her sex. It’s different from the sharp climax his fingers gave her. This is a slow, inevitable tide, pulling her under.
His mouth is everywhere—her lips, her jaw, the frantic pulse in her throat. He kisses her like he’s starving, and she answers with equal hunger, biting his lower lip, tasting him. The kiss turned into a battle and a surrender, all at once.
“Liam, I’m—” The words are a gasp, a warning she doesn’t fully understand.
“I know.” His reply is choked. His thrusts lose their measured pace, turning urgent, deeper, harder. The slap of skin grows louder. “Let it go. I’ve got you.”
His arms lock around her, crushing her to him, one hand cradling the back of her head. The position drives him impossibly deeper, pressing into a wall that fills her more with a wonderful sensation. The world dissolves into sensation—the pounding of his heart against hers, the fierce grip of his hands, the brutal, perfect friction, the scent of sex and sea and his skin.
The tide breaks. Her climax surges up, not a detonation but a flood, a warm, rolling wave of release that melts her bones and wrings a long, trembling cry from her throat. She pulses around him, a relentless, fluttering rhythm that milks his length.
It pulls him under with her. A ragged, animal sound tears from him, “You. Are. Mine!” His body locks, his hips driving into her one last, punishing time as he empties himself into the condom with a shudder that runs through his entire frame.
He collapses, his weight pressing into her. They were both slick with sweat, breath coming in harsh, syncopated gulps. He is still inside her, softening, but the intimate clasp remains. His face is buried in the crook of her neck, his breath hot on her damp skin.
For a long time, there is only the sound of the waves outside, lightly crashing on the beach, and their slowing heartbeats. The night was dark now, as their tangled limbs unraveled. He shifts first, careful as he withdraws, disposing of the condom wordlessly before settling beside her on the blanket. He doesn’t pull her to him, but his hand finds hers on the white fabric, his callused fingers lacing through hers.
Elena stares into the dark, her body humming, her mind a silent, stunned blank. The question hangs, unanswered in the air: Is this the real him?
Elena woke in the dark, the deep, perfect ache between her thighs a living memory. It pulsed with every beat of her heart. The dream hadn’t been a dream—it had been a replay, his body moving inside hers, the crushing weight of his possession, the shocking flood of release. Her skin was fever-hot. Her nipples were tight, sensitive points against the rough weave of the blanket. She was still naked.
Liam lay beside her, asleep on his back. The faint moonlight from the cove’s mouth cut across his torso, defining the hard planes of his chest, the dark trail of hair leading down. His face was relaxed in sleep, the ruthless calculation smoothed away, leaving something younger, almost vulnerable. His cock lay soft against his thigh.
Her breath caught. The memory-ache clenched deep inside her, a fresh, slick warmth gathering. She moved without conscious thought, driven by a curiosity that felt detached from fear or strategy. She shifted onto her side, propped on an elbow. Her hand, trembling slightly, hovered over the junction of his legs.
Her fingers brushed him. The skin was soft, surprisingly so, over the firm core of him. She traced the length, from root to tip, a feather-light exploration. He didn’t stir. Emboldened, she closed her hand around him, a loose, tentative circle. Her thumb swept over the head. It was dry, smooth.
She began to stroke, a slow, learning rhythm. The change was immediate. A twitch under her palm. A thickening. She watched, mesmerized, as he grew hard in her hand, the softness giving way to rigid, heated flesh. The veins stood out. He was fully erect in moments, his length pushing insistently against her cupping fingers. The power of it, of watching this happen because of her touch, sent a sharp bolt of desire straight to her core.
“Curious little thing.”
His voice was a sleep-rough growl in the dark. Her gaze snapped to his face. His blue eyes were open, watching her, but the usual predatory sharpness was blurred by sleep and something darker. He didn’t move, letting her keep her hand on him.
“I was just—” she started, but the excuse died.
“I know what you were doing.” His hand shot out, fast as a striking snake, and closed around her wrist. Not to pull her away. To hold her there, her grip firm around him. “Keep going.”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. She resumed the stroke, firmer now, guided by the slight tension of his fingers on her wrist. A low groan vibrated in his chest. His hips lifted off the blanket, pushing up into her fist.
Then he moved. In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled, pinning her beneath him. The blanket scratched her back. His weight settled between her thighs, his hard cock pressing against her damp, swollen flesh. He captured her wrists, pressing them into the blanket above her head. His eyes were black in the moonlight.
“You wake me with your hands on me,” he murmured, his breath hot on her lips. “You don’t get to be shy now.”
He didn’t ask. He reached quickly to the nightstand and pulled out another condom. slippping it onto his shaft. Then he shifted his hips, the broad head of his cock finding her entrance with unerring accuracy. She was wet, so wet, and he slid inside with one deep, sure thrust. There was no pain this time, only a breathtaking fullness that made her cry out, a short, sharp sound of pure sensation.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort. “Quiet,” he ordered, but it was a ragged whisper. He dropped his forehead to hers. “Just feel it.”
Then he began to fuck her. This was different. Not the slow, controlled possession of before. This was raw, rhythmic, and deep. Each withdrawal was nearly complete, each thrust a hard, claiming drive back home. The wet, slapping sound of their joining filled the small space. Her legs locked around his hips, her heels digging into the muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper.
He released her wrists, bracing himself on his elbows to drive into her harder. Her hands flew to his back, nails digging into the hard ridges of muscle. She could feel the sweat slicking his skin. Every nerve ending was alive, singing. The pleasure built in a relentless, coiling wave, deeper and more intense than the first time, because her body knew what to expect, knew what to crave.
“That’s it,” he gritted out, his voice harsh against her ear. “Take it. All of it.”
She was beyond words, reduced to gasps and moans that were swallowed by the night. The world narrowed to the pistoning friction, the crush of his chest against her breasts, the smell of sex and salt and him. Her climax approached not as a surprise, but as an inevitable destination. It broke with a force that stole her vision, her back arching off the blanket, a silent scream on her lips as she pulsed around him in tight, fluttering spasms.
It tore his control from him. With a raw, guttural sound, he drove into her one final, shuddering time and held, his body rigid as he came. The heat of his release was a distant pulse through the condom, but the feeling of him surrendering to it, of his great strength unraveling above her, was more intimate than anything before.
He collapsed, his weight a welcome heaviness. His face was buried in her hair, his breathing a ragged torrent in her ear. His softened cock slipped from her body, a loss that made her clench around emptiness.
He shifted first, first grabbing a towel and quickly disposing of the now second-used condom. Then rolling onto his side and pulling her with him, her chest now lying on his front. His arm wrapped around her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her lower belly. His lips pressed once, softly, to the nape of her neck. No words. Just the heat of him, the salt-taste of his skin on her tongue, and the terrifying, silent understanding blooming in the dark: this was no longer just payment.
The sun was high when Elena woke, a solid beam of heat cutting across her closed eyelids. She was curled against Liam’s back, her cheek pressed to the smooth, warm skin between his shoulder blades. His breathing was deep and even. Her body ached—a deep, thorough ache that pulsed in her thighs, her lower belly, a pleasant soreness that was a map of the night.
He stirred first. She felt the shift of muscle under her cheek, the intake of breath. He rolled onto his back, and she had to lift her head. His blue eyes found hers, sleep-soft but clearing fast. He didn’t smile. His hand came up, his thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth. “Morning.”
His voice was gravelly. Her own throat felt raw. “Morning.”
They lay like that for a moment, the silence not empty but thick with everything that had happened. His arm was heavy across her ribs. She could smell herself on him, on the blanket. Sweat and sex.
“We need to get up,” he said finally, his hand sliding from her face to her hip, giving a brief, possessive squeeze before he sat up. The loss of his warmth was immediate. The cool air hit her sweat-dried skin, raising goosebumps.
Elena moved slowly. Every muscle protested. She stood, the white blanket falling away, and the dull ache sharpened into a specific, tender throb between her legs. She walked stiffly to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
The light was harsh. She braced her hands on the cool porcelain sink and looked down. A faint smear of brownish-red marked her inner thigh. Dried blood. Her stomach tightened. It was just proof, a physical fact, but seeing it made the night solidify in a new, visceral way. She turned on the shower, the water roaring in the tiled stall.
The hot spray hit her skin like a beating. She stepped under it, letting it sluice over her hair, her shoulders, down her sore body. She washed with a clinical focus, her fingers gentle as they passed over the tender flesh. The water at her feet ran pink for a moment, then clear.
The glass door slid open. Steam billowed out. Liam stood there, already dressed in his shorts, his torso bare and gleaming with a light sweat. He didn’t ask. He just leaned into the spray with her, the space suddenly too small, the air too thick.
His hands framed her face, water streaming over his wrists. He kissed her. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming, hot and deep, his tongue pushing into her mouth with a possessiveness that made her knees weak. Her hands grasped for his waist, trying to hold on.
He broke the kiss, leaving her breathing uneven. His gaze dropped, taking in her nakedness under the water, the peaks of her nipples, the curve of her waist, the junction of her thighs. His eyes were black with promise. “If we didn’t have a tide to catch,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the water, “I’d bend you over and take you right here. Make you scream.”
His threat held almost like a promise. A fresh, slick heat answered between her legs, a traitorous pulse that had nothing to do with soreness. He saw it in her face. A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. A predator pleased.
Then he was gone. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, the command back in his voice. He left the bathroom door open.
Elena finished washing on trembling legs. The threat hummed in her veins, mixing with the ache. She dried herself, the towel rough on her sensitive skin. Her clothes from yesterday felt like a costume. She pulled on the shorts, the t-shirt, each movement a reminder.
He was packing when she emerged, folding blankets with a brutal efficiency. The bed was stripped. The evidence of the night was being erased. He didn’t look at her. “Gather anything from the bathroom. We leave in ten.”
She moved through the beach house, collecting the items that were hers. Feeling like a retreat. The magical, terrible isolation of the place was dissolving back into routine, into his control. The silence between them now was different. Charged, but with a new current—an acknowledgment that something had been broken open.
They carried the bags to the boat in the cove’s harsh daylight. He loaded them without ceremony. “Get on.”
The Briar Rose waited, bobbing gently. The transfer from land to boat was quick. Liam stowed their gear below while Elena stood on the deck, her hand on the sun-warmed rail.
He came up, moving past her to the helm. “Cast off the spring line.” His voice held no room for hesitation. She moved, her fingers fumbling with the thick rope before she freed it. The engine growled to life, a deep vibration through the deck. Liam guided the yacht away from the dock with a calm, sure hand.
Elena watched the island shrink, the white beach house becoming a speck against the green. The place where she had drowned. The place where he had saved her. The place where he had taken her, and she had given, and nothing was simple anymore. The wind picked up, catching her long hair, pulling it back like a banner. She didn’t look at Liam. She stared at the widening blue until the island was just a dark smudge on the horizon, and then it was gone.
The wind was a solid force at their backs, filling the mainsail until the canvas strained tight as a drum. The Briar Rose sliced through the water, leaving a churning white wake that pointed like an arrow back toward the mainland. Liam’s hands were loose on the wheel, his blue eyes scanning the horizon. “We have a good tailwind,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the rush of water. “If it holds, we’ll make port just after sunset.”
Elena stood by the port rail, the wind whipping her long brown hair into a wild banner. She gripped the warm teak, feeling the boat’s powerful surge through the soles of her feet. The island was gone. Only open sea ahead and behind.
For an hour, there was only the wind and the water and the sun beating down. Liam moved with a spare economy, adjusting lines, checking the sail’s trim, his body a study of focused motion. Then he locked the wheel in place with a quiet click. The boat held its course, obedient. He walked past her as she leaned against the rail, the deck boards creaking under his weight, and sat on the cushioned bench set into the cockpit. He looked at her.
“Sit.”
It wasn’t a command this time. Or maybe it always was, but the edge was different. She moved from the rail and sat at the opposite end of the bench, leaving a foot of sun-warmed cushion between them. The silence stretched, filled by the wind’s roar and the hull’s steady cut through the sea.
“You never finished college,” he said, not looking at her. A statement. He’d done his homework.
Elena watched the horizon. “I did. Bachelor’s in Art and Business. Dual focus.”
“Why that?”
She shrugged, the cotton of her t-shirt rubbing against her sensitive skin. The skin is energized by the nearby presence of Liam. “I love art. I love the idea of helping other people make things seen. It was always my dream to help get artists started so there was more real art in the world.”
“Real art,” he echoed. A faint trace of something—amusement, judgment—colored the word. “And your dream gallery? What would it be called?”
“The Rossi Collective.” The name felt like ash in her mouth now. “It wasn’t just a gallery. It was ment to built careers. We put a great deal of work into the plan.”
“We?”
“Lisa and I.” She realized she was starting to miss talking with Lisa.
Liam was quiet for a long moment. His gaze was on the sail, but she felt his attention like a physical weight on her skin. “You were good at it. Building up that business. When I saw it, I couldn’t help but be impressed that a woman so young had started all of that.”
Elena watched his face for a long moment, the wind brushing through his hair. The look of the man who not that long ago claimed her. The thought returning a heat inside her.
Then she pushed herself up from the bench. She moved over to him, her movements stiff with the lingering ache, and swung one leg over his thighs, then the other, settling into his lap. Her hands came to rest on his bare shoulders. She felt the solid muscle beneath, the steady beat of his heart.
“So,” she said, her voice low, almost lost in the wind. “We only have a few hours till we return to the mainland. I still have to obey your commands.” She leaned closer, her lips near his ear. “What will the next one be?”
His hands settled on her hips, not pulling her closer, just holding. A brand. His blue eyes were dark, unreadable. “Is that a request?”
“It’s a question.”
“Questions are dangerous,” he said, his thumbs tracing the crest of her hip bones through the thin fabric of her shorts. “You know that.”
She did. The knowledge was a live wire in her chest. She shifted in his lap, a deliberate, grinding motion. The soreness flared, a bright, sweet pain. His breath hitched, just a fraction. A crack in the stone.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
His grip tightened, fingers digging in. “The command is to stay right here.”
“That’s not a command.”
“Someones too smart for her own good,” he growled, but his hands were sliding up her back, under her t-shirt. His palms were rough against her skin. He pulled her flush against him, her breasts pressing into the hard plane of his chest. The heat of him seared through their clothes.
She could feel him, hard and demanding, beneath her. A answering throb echoed deep inside her, a traitorous pulse that drowned out the soreness. Her head fell back, her long brown hair whipping in the salt spray. His mouth found the column of her throat, his teeth scraping, not biting. A promise of violence held in check.
“You want a command?” His voice sensually strong. “Don’t move.”
She went still, every muscle locked. His mouth traveled lower, his tongue tracing her collarbone. He pushed her shirt up, exposing her to the sun and the sea air. Her nipples tightened instantly, pebbled and aching. He didn’t touch them. He just looked, his gaze a physical caress that made her skin burn.
“You gave me your virginity on an island,” he said, his breath hot against her sternum. “A gift. One I’m greatful for.” He finally took a peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling. She cried out, her hands fisting in his short, dark hair. “Now I plan to continue to claim you.” The thought should have made her angry, but instead it felt good, turning her on.
He switched to the other breast, his attention brutal and thorough. Pleasure, sharp and electric, shot straight to her core. She was wet. She could feel it. She started to worry it would soak through her shorts. She rocked against him, helpless, seeking friction.
“I said, don’t move.” He pulled his mouth away with a wet sound, his hand coming up to grip her jaw. He forced her to look at him. His eyes were black with hunger. “Do you understand the difference now, Elena? Between paying a debt and being owned?”
Tears pricked her eyes, not from pain. From the terrifying truth of it. She nodded, a tiny, broken motion.
“Good.” He released her jaw, his hand sliding down between their bodies. He popped the button on her shorts, eased the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud over the wind. He pushed his hand inside, past the damp cotton of her underwear. His fingers found her slick, swollen flesh.
She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily. He stilled her with his other arm banded around her waist, a steel trap. “I decide when you move. I decide when you come.” His finger slid through her wetness, circling her clit with a ruthless, perfect pressure. “This is mine. You gave it to me. You keep giving it to me, and if you want to seek the pleasure you know I can give, you will continue to obey.”
He pushed a finger inside her, slowly, stretching the tender, used muscles. She whimpered, the sensation a blinding mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure. He added a second finger, curling them, finding a spot that made her vision white out. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her mouth open against his skin, panting.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips against her temple. His fingers worked her with a devastating rhythm, in and out, the wet sound swallowed by the sea. “You take it so well. My good girl.”
The endearment shattered her. A sob tore from her throat. Her body coiled tight, every nerve screaming. The orgasm built, a tsunami gathering force deep in her belly. She was shaking, clinging to him, utterly at his mercy.
“Look at me.” His command was soft, absolute.
She dragged her eyes open, meeting his gaze. His face was a mask of fierce possession, his own need etched in the tight line of his jaw. He held her there, on the precipice, his fingers still moving inside her, his thumb pressing her clit. “Come for me,” he said.
She broke. The wave crashed over her, violently running through her nerves. She convulsed around his fingers, a light scream ripped away by the wind. Her body went rigid, then limp, boneless against him. He held her through it, his hand gently holding her trembling body.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers, and sucked them clean. The taste of her. His expression was dark, satisfied, hungry for more.
He carefully fixed her shorts, zipped them, buttoned them. He smoothed her shirt back down. He held her as she regained herself, her breath coming in ragged gulps. The boat surged onward, carrying them toward a world where this would have to mean something else. Here, there was only the wind, and his heartbeat under her ear, and the terrifying knowledge that he was right.
This wasn't just an offer anymore…