Page 29 of Bound to Him

I set the brush aside, both hands now free to explore her. Through the silk, I trace the outline of her body—shoulders, collarbones, the slight swell of her breasts. Her breathing quickens, though whether from desire or anxiety is irrelevant. Her body responds to my touch regardless of her mind's resistance.

"Stand," I command, stepping back to give her space.

She rises, turning to face me, her hands clasped loosely before her. The posture emphasizes her vulnerability, her acceptance of her position. Good.

I circle her slowly, examining my possession from all angles. The nightgown clings to her still—damp skin in places, turning translucent. The effect is more arousing than complete nudity would be—the suggestion of what lies beneath, the barrier that exists only because I allow it to.

"Remove it," I say when I've completed my circuit.

Her fingers go to the thin straps, sliding them down her shoulders. The silk whispers as it falls, pooling at her feet like water. She stands naked before me, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, her body rigid despite her attempts to appear relaxed.

"Look at me," I instruct.

Her eyes meet mine, dark with emotions she tries to conceal but can't quite manage to—fear, resignation, a hatred she thinks I don't see.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, and it's true. Her beauty has only increased with captivity, with the knowledge that she belongs to me. There's something transcendent about possession this complete, this absolute. "Do you know how many men would kill to have what I have? To own what I own?"

"No," she whispers.

"Everyone who sees you wants you," I continue, stepping closer, close enough to feel the heat emanating from her skin. "But only I have you. Only I ever will."

I reach out, tracing the outline of my name tattooed on her hip. The letters are dark against herpale skin—DANTE, a permanent declaration of ownership. "Mine," I murmur, more to myself than to her. "In every way that matters."

My hand slides lower, between her thighs, finding her dry despite my touch. This doesn't anger me. Physical responses can be coaxed, manufactured. The mind may resist, but the body can be trained.

"On the bed," I direct, already unbuttoning my shirt. "On your back."

She complies, movements mechanical but graceful. The sheets—black, always black, to emphasize the paleness of her skin—billow around her as she positions herself. I remove my clothing methodically, never taking my eyes from her. She doesn't look away—doesn't have permission to.

When I join her on the bed, her body tenses despite her efforts to hide it. I hover over her, supporting my weight on my arms, studying her face. "You're still afraid of me," I observe. "After all this time."

"Sometimes," she admits, the honesty surprising both of us.

“You don’t need to fear me,” I say, lowering my head to brush my lips against hers. “I can give you pleasure like you’ve never known.”

I kiss her properly then, deeply, possessively.She responds as she's been taught, her lips parting, her body arching slightly toward mine. I've trained her well in the physical aspects of our relationship, if not yet the emotional ones.

My hands explore her body with the confidence of ownership. This territory is mapped, known, conquered. Every inch of her skin has felt my touch, every curve and hollow claimed by my fingers, my mouth. There are no mysteries here, no uncharted regions. Just the endless pleasure of possession.

I prepare her body with practiced efficiency, my fingers creating the wetness her mind refuses to provide. Her resistance—that small, stubborn part of her that still fights my ownership—only enhances my arousal. Breaking her completely would diminish my pleasure; it's the continuing struggle that makes each claiming meaningful.

When I finally enter her, the sensation is exquisite—tight heat enveloping me, her body accepting what her mind still rejects. I establish a rhythm that prioritizes my pleasure over hers, though I'm not indifferent to her responses. I note each gasp, each involuntary arch, filing them away as data points in my ongoing study of her body.

"Who do you belong to?" I demand, the question a ritual between us now.

Her eyes close briefly, that small resistance, before meeting mine again. "You," she whispers.

"Say my name," I command, driving deeper, my hand tightening in her hair.

"Dante," she breathes, the word extracted like a confession.

"Again," I insist, increasing the pace, feeling the familiar tightening that signals approaching climax.

"Dante," she repeats, louder this time.

My name on her lips, my body inside hers, my mark on her skin—the trinity of possession sends me over the edge. I spill inside her, marking her internally in the most primal way possible. In this moment, my ownership feels absolute, perfect, transcendent.

Afterward, I remain inside her, prolonging the connection, unwilling to separate just yet. Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow. I trace the contours of her face with one finger—eyebrows, cheekbones, the curve of her lower lip.

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