"Yes," she gasps, hands clutching at my shoulders, nails digging in. "Yours, Sabien. Only yours."
The words fuel me, drive me harder, deeper. I lift her legs higher, opening her completely to me. The new angle makes her cry out, eyes rolling back.
"So wet for me," I praise, feeling her juices coating my cock, dripping down my balls. "Such a good girl. Taking Daddy's cock so well."
She whimpers, walls fluttering around me. She's close already. So responsive. So perfect.
"Going to fill you again," I promise, voice rough with exertion and need. "Breed you until you're round with my child. Would you like that, baby? My cum deep inside you, my baby growing in your belly?"
Her eyes fly open, pupils blown with lust. "Yes," she moans. "Please, daddy.”
That single word destroys me. I fuck her harder, faster, feeling my release building at the base of my spine. "Come for me," I order. "Come on my cock, Clara. Show me who you belong to."
She comes with a scream, clenching around me so tight it's almost painful. Her body convulses, back arching, nails breaking skin on my shoulders. The sight, the sound, the feel of her coming apart beneath me sends me over the edge.
I empty inside her with a roar, holding her hips tight against mine, grinding deep to ensure not a drop escapes. I fill her with everything I have, marking her from within. Mine. Only mine.
As the pleasure fades, I collapse on top of her, careful to brace my weight on my forearms. Her heart thunders against mine, our breath mingling as we gasp for air. I brush sweaty hair from her face, marveling at her beauty, her perfect submission, her complete acceptance of me.
She smiles up at me, soft and sweet despite the roughness of our coupling. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispers, as if reading my earlier fears.
I brush my lips against hers, tender now that the beast is temporarily sated. "Good," I murmur against her mouth. "Because I'm never letting you go."
epilogue
. . .
Sabien
One year later
It's beenone year since I claimed Clara as mine, and she still takes my breath away every damn time I look at her.
I stand in the shadowed corner of the gallery, champagne flute untouched in my hand, watching her work the room like she was born for it. Every painting in this solo show has a red dot beside it. Sold out. The entire collection gone before the night is halfway through. My chest swells with a pride so fierce it almost hurts—but it's nothing compared to the constant, low-burning hunger that never leaves me when she's in my sight.
She's wearing that sleek black dress I chose for her, the one that clings to every curve I know by heart. She's laughing at something some pretentious curator is saying, head tilted just so, and my cock is already hard, straining against the wool of my trousers. Mine. Still mine. Always mine.
The gallery is thick with New York's elite—collectors, critics, influencers—all clamoring for a piece of the brilliant young artist who's taken the art world by storm in under a year. None of themknow the strings I pulled behind the scenes: the calls to the right people, the quiet investments in the right galleries, the attention I made sure the critics paid. Clara believes it was all her talent—and it was. I just cleared every obstacle so the world could finally see what I saw the moment I laid eyes on her: extraordinary vision, raw and undeniable.
She catches my eye across the crowded room. That secret smile passes between us—the one that says everything without a single word. She excuses herself from the admirer with polite grace and makes her way toward me, moving through the sea of people with a confidence she didn't have twelve months ago. My ring glints on her finger as she walks—five-carat cushion cut, platinum setting. The wedding was small. Private. Just us and a judge in a quiet room. No one else needed to witness what was already sealed between us.
"You're lurking," she teases when she reaches me, sliding her arm through mine like it's the most natural place in the world.
"I'm observing," I correct, pressing a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. "You're magnificent."
She blushes—still so easily undone by my praise—and murmurs, "It's all because of you."
"No." I turn her to face me, tilting her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. "This is all you, Clara. Your talent. Your vision. Your hard work."
Her eyes shine with tears and gratitude, and the urge to drag her somewhere private right now—to bend her over the nearest surface and remind her exactly who she belongs to—nearly overpowers me. My cock throbs painfully at the thought.
"Take me home," she whispers, reading my mind the way she always does now. "I want to celebrate properly."
I don't need to be told twice.
Back in our penthouse—oursnow, not just mine—I watch her kick off her heels with a soft sigh of relief. The city sparkles beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the same view that once made her eyes go wide with wonder. So much has changed since that first night. Her career. Her confidence. The way she carries herself like she knows exactly what she wants—and what she wants is me.
I loosen my tie, shrug off my jacket, and stay where I am, drinking her in. That look she gives me—half heat, half adoration—still makes something primal snap inside my chest.