Page 41 of The Marriage Debt

I press her wrists to the mattress above her head, my weight pinning her down. Her chest rises and falls erratically, dark lashes casting flecks of shadows over those eyes I could drown in and still want more of. “What filthy little thing do you want me to do first?” I ask, low and dangerous. Her answer is a choked sound caught in her throat.

With one hand, I hold her in place. With the other, I undo the single button on her nightgown and slide the neckline lower, exposing a breast. Her nipple is hard, pebbled against my palm as I knead it. She squirms, spreading her legs as I press a knee between them.

“You going to pretend you don’t need this again?” I ask her as I lower my lips to close around her nipple.

I can feel her fighting the pull of me through every stiff muscle in her body. She hates herself for it. Hates me more so. But that’s where we both thrive—in complementary loathing.

I tongue her nipple with a groan, the sound vibrating through her body. Her heels dig in, but I don’t give her an inch of space as I suck harder, teeth grazing her puckered flesh. She moans, and I release my grip on her wrists just enough to cup the back of her head, my other hand moving to my tie, which I loosen and pull off.

When I draw up, her eyes study me curiously. “What are you doing?” she asks in almost a whisper.

The tie in my hands coils around her right wrist, then her left, binding them in place above her head. I leave just enough slack to remind her that she could stop this if she really wanted to. Then I slip off the bed, keeping my grip on the binding, and drag her across the bed until her hands hit the bedpost. The tie hooks easily around it, and I crawl on top of her, straddling her, and tear the front of her gown open.

She hasn’t worn panties, which tells me she hoped this would happen, or maybe that she didn’t want me to ruin another pair. It makes my cock rock hard instantly.

I leave her there exposed to my eyes as I stand back and undress. Her thighs glisten with moisture, and I can’t wait to turn that pretty pink pussy bright red with engorgement and handprints.

“Look me in the eye and tell me I don’t own you.” I step out of my pants, leave my socks and shoes heaped on the ground. Her eyes trace over my body, my tattoos and scars.

“Fuck you,” she snips, but she doesn’t mean it. It’s an invitation.

The illusion she's been clinging to drops away, and I see the real Lila emerge. The one who likes it rough, who bites her lip when she's aroused, who moans my name like it's a curse when she comes. She belongs to me—heart and soul—no matter how much she wants to deny it. Her defiance only makes it hotter.

“Say it,” I correct her, running a fingernail down her stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her breath hitches as I get closer. “I own you.”

“You don’t fucking own me. I’m not your whore.” Her eyes flicker with defiance, but her body betrays her with its delicious shivers and swollen depths.

“Really?” I chuckle sardonically and grip her ankles, spreading her legs. She acts tough, but she doesn't fight me, doesn’t try to put them back together as I kneel between them.

With a familiar moisture pooling between her legs, Lila takes a steadying breath and hisses out the words. “You don't own me, you son of a bitch. I am not some object you can claim when it suits you.”

I smile a cold, cruel smile as I stroke my hardened cock, swollen with need for her. "We both know that isn't true, Lila," I say, crawling over her again "You want me and you like making it a challenge.” My cock slides up and down her slit through her moisture.

Her eyes are daggers, but they drop to my erection before flicking back up to meet my gaze. My other hand slides between her legs, delving into her moisture, finding her entrance. She moans in spite of herself. I smile wider.

“Tell me I don’t own you,” I say, spreading her wetness over my cock and then over her nipple before dipping my head to suck the drippings from her chest.

Lila gasps, and she looks away but doesn't deny it. She can't. In this moment, we both know the truth—that she's mine, mind, body, and soul.

I take her like I own her—hard, relentless, and rough. Her legs wrap around my waist, her hands wrapping around the corner post. The bed shakes, her body jostles with every thrust, and her core tightens around me like a vise. My grip on her tit tightens, careful not to bruise as I drive into her again and again. She's so wet, so damn wet, and I never grow tired of the sound of our bodies coming together in this collision of lust.

The air is filled with shallow gasps, our harsh breathing, and the creak of the bedframe counterpoint to our frantic rhythm. Her whimpers and the soft pleas for more don’t escape my ears.

"Look at me," I command, and she does. Her eyes lock on mine as our gazes collide, eyes flared with passion and defiance, but no less aroused for it. The two of us are a powder keg just waiting for the spark to ignite and consume us both. “Say I own you…”

“Fuck…” she gasps, but it’s not a protest. She’s so close. I can see it in her eyes.

“Say it!” I bark, feeling the urge in my body to blow any second.

“Damn you, ” she curses before she surrenders. “You own me, alright? I’m yours."

In that instant, my control breaks, and I drive home over and over as I come inside her. I’m unyielding, unforgiving, and she shatters around me. She clenches around me, her legs gripping my waist as she shudders through her orgasm, her breathing ragged in my ear.

The tears are hot on her cheeks but she blinks a few back. I pump into her slower now, placing soft kisses on her shoulders and neck. No woman has ever cried with me during sex.

“You’re a liar,” I say softly. The full length of my body presses down on her as I slide my hand up her arms to find the tie still secure. Her fingers lace through mine. It feels like our heartbeats are one.

When we both come down, I don’t let go right away. Instead, I hold her wrists firmly in place until her heartbeat slows and the tremors subside. Only then do I unhook the ties and pull out of her. Her body protests the loss, but she doesn't say anything as I discard the tie to the side and reach to my nightstand to grab a handkerchief from the drawer.

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