Page 32 of Bound to Him

"See?" he says, fingers exploring, teasing. "Your body knows the truth your mind still denies."

I close my eyes, trying to separate myself from the sensations he's creating, but it's becomingharder, more impossible with each visit. In the beginning, I could retreat into my mind, could pretend I was elsewhere while he used my body. Now the line between mind and body blurs, the physical pleasure infiltrating my mental defenses, making escape more difficult.

His mouth travels lower, across my stomach, lingering at the tattoo on my hip. His name, permanent and stark against my skin. He traces the letters with his tongue, a ritual he performs often, reinforcing his ownership.

"Perfect," he murmurs against my skin. "You were made for me, Hannah. Created to be mine."

I say nothing, knowing any response would be inadequate, would either fuel his possessiveness or provoke his anger. Instead, I focus on breathing, on managing the sensations building within me, on maintaining some semblance of separation between what my body feels and what my mind allows.

But Dante has other plans. His mouth continues its journey, settling between my thighs, his tongue finding the center of my pleasure with unerring accuracy. I gasp, hands fisting in the sheets, body betraying me yet again as heat floods through me.

"That's it," he encourages, lifting his head briefly. "Feel it. Accept it. This is what you were made for."

His words should disgust me, should strengthen my resistance. Instead, they push me closer to the edge, the forbidden thrill of surrender calling to some dark, hidden part of me that I refuse to acknowledge in daylight. His tongue resumes its work, skilled and relentless, and I feel myself approaching climax despite my best efforts to remain detached.

When it hits, the pleasure is almost painful in its intensity, waves of sensation that crash through my defenses, leaving me gasping, trembling, exposed in the most fundamental way. Dante watches my face as I come apart, his expression triumphant, possessive.

"Beautiful," he says, moving up my body, positioning himself between my thighs. "Now acknowledge who gives you this pleasure. Who owns this body."

"You," I whisper, the admission torn from me in this moment of vulnerability when lies are impossible. "You do."

His smile is predatory, satisfied. "Say my name. When I enter you, say my name."

He pushes inside me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely, the sensation both familiar and overwhelming. "Dante," I gasp, the name falling from my lips unbidden, honest in thismoment when mind and body align in their surrender.

His rhythm is demanding, possessive, each thrust a claiming, a reminder of ownership. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, angling me to take him deeper, to accept more of him. I wrap my legs around his waist, not by choice but by instinct, by the body's natural response to pleasure.

"Mine," he growls, his pace increasing, his control slipping—one of the few times I see the carefully constructed facade fall away, revealing the raw obsession beneath. "Say it. Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," I say, the words both truth and lie—true in this moment of physical connection, false in the deeper places of my soul where resistance still lives. But the distinction blurs with each claiming, with each moment of unwilling pleasure. How long before the lie becomes truth, before I lose the ability to separate what my body wants from what my mind rejects?

His thrusts become erratic, his breathing harsh as he approaches his own climax. One hand moves from my hip to my throat, not squeezing but resting there, a reminder of his power over my very breath. The other slides between us, fingers findingthe sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with practiced skill.

"Come for me again," he commands. "Come while I'm inside you, while I'm marking you as mine."

My body obeys before my mind can resist, a second orgasm crashing through me, more intense than the first. I cry out, the sound torn from my throat, my inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. Dante groans, his own release following mine, his body shuddering as he spills inside me, marking me internally in the most primal way.

For long moments afterward, we remain connected, our breathing gradually slowing, our bodies cooling. Dante's weight presses me into the mattress, a physical manifestation of the way his presence in my life has pressed me into new shapes, new behaviors, new understandings of myself. Some I recognize, some I fear.

Eventually, he withdraws, rolling to lie beside me, one arm draped possessively across my waist. This is new—this lingering afterward. Usually, he leaves once he's satisfied, returning to his own chambers. Tonight, something is different. The change makes me uneasy, suggesting an escalation in his expectations, in his claiming of me.

"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

I hesitate, unsure what answer will satisfy without revealing too much. "Nothing important," I finally say, the safest response.

His fingers still, then move to grip my chin, turning my face toward his. "Lie to me again and there will be consequences," he says, his voice soft but threaded with steel. "What were you thinking just now?"

Trapped, I opt for a partial truth. "I was wondering why you're staying. You usually leave afterward."

He studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. "Perhaps I'm not finished with you yet," he says finally, his hand sliding from my chin down my throat, to my breast. "Perhaps I want more than your body tonight."

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of his touch. More than my body? What else is there to take? He's already claimed my freedom, my future, my physical autonomy. What remains?

As if reading my thoughts, he continues, "Your mind, Hannah. Your heart. Your soul. I want all of you, not just this." His hand moves lower, betweenmy thighs, fingers brushing through the evidence of our coupling. "Though this is certainly a pleasant beginning."

"You can't force someone to love you," I say before I can stop myself, the words dangerously honest.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he speaks. "Can't I? I think you'll find, Hannah, that given enough time, enough conditioning, enough isolation, the human heart can be guided to feel whatever its owner wishes it to feel." His fingers press inside me, making me gasp. "And make no mistake. I am your owner, in every sense of the word."

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