Page 9 of Taken By the Outlaw

"Of me?"

A small pause. "Of how you make me feel."

The honesty in her answer stirs something dangerous in my chest. I trail my fingers down her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. She's wearing a delicate silver chain with a tiny book charm—the kind of sentimental jewelry a young girl would cherish. I rub the charm between my fingers.

"Tell me about this," I say, needing to ease her into what's coming, to build a bridge between her world and mine.

She looks surprised by the question. "My father gave it to me, before he left. I was twelve." Her hand comes up to touch the pendant, brushing against mine. "It's from 'The Little Prince.' It was our favorite book to read together."

I nod, filing away this piece of her history. "And now you surround yourself with books. Building walls of words between you and the world."

Her eyes widen slightly. "I've never thought of it that way."

"Haven't you?" I step closer, invading her space deliberately. "Safe inside your library. Everything categorized, understood, contained. Unlike real life. Unlike me."

She swallows hard. "You're definitely not contained in any category I understand."

I smile at that, a real smile that feels strange on my face. "Good."

I take her hand and lead her to my room. She looks around when we step inside, eyes wide. Her gaze meets mine, and she swallows.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

My hands find her waist, and I guide her deeper into the room, toward the bed. She moves with me, trembling slightly but not resisting. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she stops, uncertainty flashing across her face.

"I don't—I don't know what to do," she admits, voice barely above a whisper.

"You don't have to do anything," I tell her, my own voice rougher than intended. "Tonight is about what I'm going to do to you."

Her breath catches, cheeks flushing with that pink I'm already addicted to.

"Can I—" She hesitates. "Can I touch you?"

The request nearly undoes me. I've had countless women, experienced hands that knew exactly what I like, how to please me. None of them affected me like this simple question from Emilia's lips.

"Yes," I manage to say. "Wherever you want."

Her hands come up hesitantly, fingers brushing across my chest, exploring tentatively. She's wearing a curious expression, like she's reading a new book, trying to decipher its meaning. Her touch is light, almost reverent, tracing the contours of muscle beneath my shirt.

"You're so strong," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

I capture one of her hands, bringing it to my lips, kissing her palm. The gesture is oddly intimate, more tender than I intended. Her eyes dart up to mine, surprise and something deeper reflected there.

"Tonight," I tell her, "I'm going to show you what it means to belong to someone. To belong to me."

She shivers, but not from fear. "Is that what this is? Belonging?"

"Yes." I reach for the hem of her cardigan, slowly pulling it up. "Arms."

She raises her arms obediently, letting me draw the garment over her head. Beneath it, she wears a simple t-shirt that clings to modest but perfect curves. Her bra is visible beneath—white cotton, practical, innocent. The sight of it makes my cock throb.

I let my hands slide down her sides, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric. "You're beautiful."

She looks down, disbelieving. "I'm not?—"

"Don't," I cut her off. "Don't contradict me. Not tonight." I lift her chin with my finger, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Tonight, you're exactly what I say you are. And you're beautiful, Emilia. Perfect."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise giving way to wonder, to the first hints of desire. Good. I want her willing. Want her desperate.

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