Page 61 of Watching You
Iarch.
Because this is what I wanted.
Not punishment.
Proof.
“You’re mine,” he says, dragging his fingers over the welts clinging to my skin. “And next time you want to show off—do it where only I can see.”
I hear the sound of his zipper.
It’s deliberate. Loud in the hush of the maze. A warning. A promise.
Then the soft rustle of fabric falling, his pants hitting the hay-dusted ground behind me. My breath catches, not from fear, but from knowing. From the weight of what’s coming. From the way my body answers his without hesitation.
His hands are already on my hips again, rougher now, grounding me. The rope above my head creaks as I shift, wrists still bound, lace gloves brushing the hilt of the blade he stabbed into the bale.
I’m exposed. Waiting.His.
And I’ve never felt more powerful.
“I’d carve your name into my soul if it meant you’d never leave.”
He says it like a vow. Like a confession. Like he’s already done it.
And I believe him.
Because Kane doesn’t love softly. He doesn’t touch without claiming. He doesn’t watch without wanting to own every breath I take.
I feel cold air against my thighs where he tore the skirt and panties away. But none of it matters.
Because his voice is low and reverent, andmine.
I turn my head as he throws the mask to the ground. I can see enough, eyes dark, jaw tense, hands still gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper.
And I mean it.
Because if he carved my name into his soul, I’d carve his into mine.
His fingers dig into my hips, hard enough to leave bruises. I want them. I want marks on my skin that match the ones he’s already carved into my soul—proof that I’m his, that I chose this, that I never want to forget.
Then I feel him.
Hard. Hot. Pressing against me from behind, the heat of him cutting through the October chill like a brand. My breath catches, but I don’t pull away. I arch instead, offering myself up like something sacred. Because I want this. I want him. Rough. Unprotected. Possessive.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t hesitate. He pushes inside me, no warning, no preparation, but I’m already ready. I’ve been ready since he first spoke my name like a promise. The stretch is sudden, sharp, a breath-stealing intrusion that borders on pain. A gasp tears from my throat, half pleasure, half shock, my body instinctively clenching around him.
My bound wrists strain against the rope, the blade above me groaning with the movement. The hay scratches my thighs, the cold bites at my skin, but all I feel is him—his grip, his heat, his claim.
His hand wraps around my throat, not to silence, not to punish, but to own.
The pressure is deliberate, possessive. His thumb brushes the pulse beneath my jaw, and I know he’s not checking if I’m alive. He’s reminding me who I belong to.
“Breathe, sunflower,” he commands, voice low and authoritative, a growl that vibrates through my entire body.
My lungs seize, my body a battlefield of sensation, a war between the old rules that scream this is wrong and the new truth that whispers this is right. Then he moves, a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves me empty, aching, desperate, followed by a punishing thrust that fills me completely, steals the air from my lungs, and sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered pleasure through every vein. Again. And again. And again. Each thrust a claim. Each movement is a brand. Each ragged breath is a testament to the fact that I am his, and he is mine.
