Page 15 of Bound to Him

"This will make it easier," I explain, warmingthe liquid between my fingers before touching her again. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."

She says nothing, her face turned to the side, eyes focused on the wall. I work my fingers against her, inside her, preparing her body for what's to come. Eventually, despite her mental resistance, her body begins to respond more noticeably—a slight arch of her back, a catch in her breath that isn't fear.

"There," I murmur approvingly. "See how your body knows what it wants? What it needs?"

When I judge her ready—or as ready as she'll be tonight—I position myself between her thighs. She stiffens again, a fresh wave of fear washing over her features.

"Look at me," I demand, waiting until her eyes meet mine. "Remember this moment, Hannah. Remember that I am the first. The only. That your body belongs to me now, just as surely as the rest of you."

I push forward, feeling the resistance of her virginity, the physical barrier that has kept her pure for me. With one firm thrust, I break through, claiming her in the most primal way possible. She cries out, pain and shock mingling in the sound. I remain still, buried inside her, allowing her body to adjust to the intrusion.

"Mine," I whisper against her ear, the word a vow, a brand, a declaration of ownership more binding than any legal document. "Mine now. Forever."

I begin to move, establishing a rhythm. Her body betrays her pleasure at the way she unconsciously lifts her hips to fuck me back. This is about claiming, about marking territory, about satisfying the hunger that has driven me since I first saw her, but fuck me if I’m not delighted that she’s enjoying it.

She’s motherfucking perfect. “My perfect little virgin,” I groan as I adjust the angle to fuck her more fully.

She gasps when I find her g-spot, and sweet mother of God, the innocent look of pleasure on her face as I focus on stabbing that spot over and over again, the head of my cock kissing it with the precum that leaks out of me uncontrollably.

I’m going to fucking lose it soon if I’m not careful, and I’m not ready for this to be over with yet.

Throughout, I watch her face, memorizing every expression, every tear, every moment of surrender. This is what I've wanted—not just her body, but the knowledge that I've taken something irreplaceable from her, something that can never be given to anyone else.

Her hands clutch at the sheets, knuckles whitewith tension. She doesn't touch me, doesn't participate beyond the involuntary responses of her body. That's acceptable, for now. Participation will come with time, with training, with the gradual reshaping of her understanding of our relationship.

As my pleasure builds, so does my sense of triumph. Each thrust reinforces my ownership, each moment cements her place in my life.

I feel her pussy flutter around me and she cries it as her orgasm grip her, and that’s what does it. The knowledge that I’ve given her her first orgasm sends me toppling over the edge. When I finally reach completion, spilling inside her, marking her internally as well, the satisfaction goes beyond the physical. It’s soul-deep, primal, absolute.

I remain inside her for long moments afterward, unwilling to break this first connection. Her tears have stopped, replaced by a blank expression that speaks of shock, of disassociation. I brush her hair back from her forehead, an almost tender gesture. She’s no doubt confused by how much she liked it considering she’s determined to hate me.

"You did well," I tell her, my voice softer now. "The first time is always the most difficult. It will get easier."

She doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to hear me. I withdraw from her body, noting the evidenceof her virginity on the black silk beneath us—blood mingled with other fluids, a visual confirmation of what's been taken, what's been claimed.

I stand, retrieving a warm washcloth from the bathroom. With careful movements, I clean her, removing the physical evidence of our coupling. She allows this without resistance, her body limp, her mind clearly elsewhere.

"You're in shock," I observe, setting aside the cloth. "That's natural. Your body and mind need time to process what's happened." I pull the covers over her naked form, tucking them around her with care. I want nothing more than to crawl into bed beside her and hold her against my chest all night, but I resist, determined to give the space I think she needs. “Rest now. I'll return in the morning."

I dress quickly, efficiently, restoring my appearance to its usual impeccable standard. Before leaving, I bend to kiss her forehead, a benediction, a claiming as significant as the more intimate one just completed.

"Remember, Hannah," I say against her skin. "You're mine now in every way that matters. There's no going back to who you were before."

She doesn't answer, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her breathing shallow but regular. I'm notconcerned by her retreat into herself—it's a common response to significant trauma, and what's happened tonight is, for her, traumatic. She'll emerge eventually, and when she does, she'll be different. Changed. More fully mine.

As I leave her suite, locking the door behind me, I feel a satisfaction deeper than any I've known before. The claiming of her body is just the beginning. There are so many ways to mark a person, to ensure they understand who they belong to. Tonight was merely the first step in a process that will reshape Hannah completely, binding her to me so thoroughly that freedom becomes not just impossible but unimaginable.

I've taken her virginity—a gift she didn't offer willingly but one I claimed nonetheless. Next will come other firsts, other ways of marking her as exclusively mine. Each one will bind her more tightly to me, until the very concept of existing separately from me becomes foreign to her.

Tonight, I've written my name on her soul in ink that will never fade. And I'm just getting started.

CHAPTER 8

Hannah

Days blend into one another in this golden prison. I've lost track of how long I've been here—weeks, certainly, though it feels like years. My body still aches from that night, from Dante's claiming of me. I wasn't ready; he didn't care. The physical pain has faded to a dull reminder, but the violation remains, a shadow that follows me from room to room in this luxurious cage. I avoid mirrors now. I don't recognize the girl who stares back—hollow-eyed, pale as the sheets Dante insisted on changing himself, preserving the evidence of what he'd taken fromme. I curl deeper into the window seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. It's bulletproof, he told me once, with a smile that suggested he was sharing a secret rather than reminding me of my imprisonment.

The door opens without warning. It always does, my privacy another thing that belongs to Dante now. I don't turn around. I know who it is; no one else ever enters this room.

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