Page 44 of Purchased

“You thought I was some other girl to be purchased for your amusement.”

“Not my amusement, for the rest of my life.”

“Mhm.”

“So cynical,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and pressing his lips to mine. “So beautiful. So brave. So bold.”

For a week, we have avoided discussing the part where he purchased me and dragged me out of the orphanage. He is so civilized in his everyday life. Like now, in this village. Pretending we are normal people enjoying a normal day. He wants so badly for me to play along with him.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

Because I see what he is underneath the veneer. I’ve seen him kill a man. I’ve seen him abduct a woman. The woman was me, and it was a week ago. So.

His kiss ignites that animal chemistry we always have, but my mind is not entirely dulled by it. He’s dangerous. I know that. It turns me on, but I’m not blind. I’m not going to believe in his happy little world when I have already seen and felt so much darkness.

That’s why there’s tension between us, a battle of wills that never really ceases. We put the hostilities aside for cake, or sex, but I think we both know that my status as purchased captive is never going to result in anything happy or healthy.

He kisses me again, more roughly, with more desire. He wishes I would just submit and be happy. He wishes this could be easy, the same way everything has always been easy for him.

I might be his first big, bad problem. He’s not ready for me. Not really. He still thinks I’m a helpless broken little orphan. I am all of those things, but I am more besides. Does he know that? Does he even begin to sense it? I don’t know.

I play small, because that’s what he wants right now.

I melt into him, because that’s what I want right now.

We play pretend together, that he is in control of me, and that I am controllable. We pretend that he knows me, and we pretend that I am known.

In the alley of a picturesque French town, we make love. Sweet, passionate, romantic, almost human love, rutting secretively against the wall of the ancient building in a quiet little alley that sees no foot traffic. Armand pins me against the wall, picking me up and holding me in place, pulling my panties to the side and sliding his cock in and out of me with devastatingly slow, gliding strokes that make me want to moan except for the knowledge that we have to be quiet. The world is going on all around us, and we are stealing pleasure and connection in the middle of its mundane play.

All the while he is fucking me, his cock swelling into the knot that will trap us together until nature declares me good and properly bred. I feel orgasm building inside me every time his hips surge up and the hard mound of his pubic bone grinds my hungry clit for a second or two before sliding away so he can slide inside me again.

Faster and faster, harder and harder until there are almost no breaks and he is just deep inside me, cock thick and knotted, his seed pumping inside my pussy and my clit grinding against him as I submit to him, to orgasm, to the impromptu afternoon breeding.

“You are such a good girl,” he praises me, dropping kisses all over my face as he holds me in place afterward, the knot slowly deflating between us. I am stretched lewdly wide, my inner walls forced to take the unnatural girth of him as my clit continues to tingle, lubricated with sweat and seed as I stay in place against that wall.

“I’ve never been a good girl,” I breathe back between his kisses.

“You’re perfect,” he says. “You are everything I ever dreamed of and more. I love you, Trixie.”

He shortens my name, makes it smaller, cuter, sweeter, all while my well-fucked pussy soaks in his seed. I like it. I like him. Alright, I love him too.

“I love you too,” I tell him. “But I’m not perfect.”

“Quiet,” he says. “Maîtrehas declared you perfect, so you are perfect. I will not brook any argument on that front.”

His cock slides from me, a gush of our desire runs down my thighs, and he slides my underwear back into place, the gusset instantly soaking with cum that I will have to wear.

“I’m so messy,” I say.

“Yes, you are.” He rubs his hand between my legs, pressing the wet fabric against my still sensitive clit. “You’re going to feel that, aren’t you, Trixie. You’re going to remember how it felt to be claimed by your alpha. And later, when I breed you again, you’re going to be wet and ready for me, aren’t you?”

I know exactly what he wants to hear.

“Yes,Maître.”

His eyes flash as I use the pack term for him, he pats my semen-soaked pussy with a possessive tap and settles my skirt back into place. “Good girl,” he says. “Very, very good girl.”

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