Page 11 of Taken By the Outlaw

I remain still, letting her adjust, my forehead pressed against hers, our breath mingling. "Are you okay?"

She nods, shifting experimentally beneath me, causing a friction that makes me grit my teeth.

"It hurts," she admits. "But I like it. I like feeling you inside me."

Her words nearly undo me. I begin to move, slowly at first, shallow thrusts designed to ease her discomfort. But soon her body responds, hips lifting to meet mine, small sounds of pleasure escaping her throat. I increase my pace, still mindful of her inexperience but unable to hold back completely.

The sight of her beneath me—flushed, eyes half-closed in pleasure, lips parted—is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I've taken what no one else has had, claimed her in a way that has marked us both.

"Mine," I growl against her neck, the word torn from somewhere primal inside me. "Say it, Emilia. Say you're mine."

"Yours," she gasps as I thrust deeper. "I'm yours, Clark."

The admission pushes me closer to the edge. I slide a hand between us, finding the bundle of nerves that will send her over, circling it with my thumb. Her reaction is immediate—back arching, a cry escaping her lips as her inner walls tighten around me.

"That's it," I encourage her. "Let go for me, beautiful. Let me feel you come."

Her orgasm takes her by surprise, her body clenching around me, face transformed by pleasure. The sight of her coming apart beneath me triggers my own release, and I bury myself deep inside her, groaning her name as I empty myself.

In the aftermath, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my arms around her. I stroke her hair absently, mind racing. One night, I told myself. One night to get her out of my system.

But as her breathing evens out, as she drifts toward sleep in my arms, my suspicions are confirmed. I know it was a lie. One night will never be enough. Not with her.

I've had countless women, seeking pleasure without attachment, satisfaction without complication. But none of them crawled under my skin like this librarian with her quiet strength and surprising passion. None of them made me want to be better than I am, made me imagine a different kind of life.

Emilia shifts in her sleep, pressing closer to me, trusting in her vulnerability. Something protective and possessive surges through me. The world I inhabit is dangerous, violent, not made for someone like her. But I can't let her go. Won't let her go.

My life has been built on taking what I want without apology. And I want Emilia West—not just her body, but all of her. Her mind. Her heart. Her future.

Our deal was one night for her freedom. But as I watch her sleep, peaceful in my arms, I know I'll break that promise. The risk she poses to my operation is too great—or that's what I'll tell myself, what I'll tell the crew.

The truth is simpler, more frightening: I'm keeping her because I can't imagine letting her walk away.

In one night, this innocent librarian has done what no one else has managed in all my years of violence and power.

She's made The Wolf want to be tamed.

five

Emilia

I waketo sunlight warming my face and an unfamiliar ache between my thighs. For one blissful moment, I exist in the limbo between dreams and reality, floating in the lingering sensation of strong hands and whispered promises. Then memory crashes over me like a wave—Clark, his bedroom, my decision, his body moving above mine, inside me, claiming me in ways I never imagined possible. I'm alone in his bed, the sheets tangled around my naked body, bearing the scent of him and sex and things I didn't know existed twenty-four hours ago. I press my face into his pillow, breathing in his essence, confused by how much I want him to be here beside me.

I sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness—a physical reminder of what I've given away. Given to him. My virginity, held close for nineteen years, surrendered in a single night to a dangerous man who took me hostage. What was I thinking?

But I know exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about freedom. About his eyes, the way they burn when they look at me. About his hands, gentle despite their strength. About the way he made me feel—desirable, powerful, alive in a way I've never been before.

The room looks different in daylight—larger, less intimate. It's sparsely furnished but high-quality, nothing like the concrete cell where I spent my first night. A king-sized bed dominates the space, flanked by simple nightstands. A dresser stands against one wall, a leather jacket thrown carelessly across its top. There's a desk in the corner, papers neatly stacked, a laptop closed beside them. Everything orderly, controlled—just like Clark himself.

My clothes are folded at the foot of the bed, a consideration I didn't expect. I dress quickly, feeling strangely vulnerable despite being alone. My body feels different—marked, changed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the closet door and barely recognize the woman staring back. My hair is a mess of tangled waves, my lips swollen from his kisses, a small bruise forming at the junction of my neck and shoulder where his mouth claimed me. I look...used. Claimed. And underneath the shock, there's something else in my expression—a satisfaction I've never seen before.

I should be free now. That was our deal. One night for my freedom. I should be walking out of here, returning to my life, my responsibilities. To normalcy.

But there's no one here to release me. No open door. No sign of Clark.

The realization sends a chill through me. Did he lie? Was this all just a way to get what he wanted? The thought brings a flush of anger, hot and unexpected. I've never been one for confrontation, always the peacemaker, the one who accommodates. But something about Clark—about last night—has shifted something fundamental inside me.

I find the bathroom attached to his bedroom, wincing again as I use the facilities. There's a new toothbrush still in its packaging beside the sink, another unexpected consideration. I use it, then splash water on my face, trying to gather my thoughts. My reflection shows someone caught between who she was and who she's becoming—someone I don't quite recognize yet.

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