Page 47

"And what happens," she whispers, "when there's nothing left to break?"

I smile, slow and certain. "Then I put you back together for me."

I tuck my cock back into my pants like nothing significant has happened. But we both know something cracked wide open. Her mind. Her control. Whatever piece of her still thought she could resist me—shattered on the floor between her knees.

"Go clean yourself up," I tell her, turning back to my desk. "I have work to do. And you have a lesson to remember."

She rises slowly, legs unsteady, lips still swollen.

"There's coffee on the counter. Food's in the kitchen. Help yourself," I say as she steps through the door and back into the penthouse.

She pauses for only a moment, the only acknowledgement I get she heard me. She doesn't speak again. But as she turns to leave, I catch the smallest tremor in her fingers—not fear. Hunger. Like her body hasn't caught up with what her mind's still trying to deny. Like she's starving for more of what just destroyed her.

And that? That's not submission.

That's a woman realizing her fight isn't against me—it's against how fucking badly she wants to kneel.

Twenty

BECKETT

Once she'sout of sight and her footsteps fade behind the corner, I reach for my phone. With a few quick taps, the line connects within two rings.

"Morning, Mr. Sinclair," my assistant chirps, her voice carrying that professional brightness that borders on irritating this early.

"Clothes delivery is still on schedule?" I keep my tone neutral, already moving to my desk.

"Yes, sir. Ten minutes out. Designer pieces. Full sizing range. Shoes, underthings, makeup, skincare. Everything's been vetted as requested."

I glance toward the doorway where Luna disappeared. "Add paint supplies. Full professional kit. Easel, oils, canvas, brushes. Top shelf only. I want it here by noon."

There's a slight hesitation on the other end. "Yes, sir. Priority courier. ShouldI?—"

"Handle it," I cut her off, ending the call with a decisive click.

I toss the phone onto the desk and lean back into the chair, letting the familiar rhythm of screens and silence settle around me. It should feel like a return to normal, a reclaiming of control.

It doesn't.

My fingers hover over the keyboard while my eyes scan the code scrolling in front of me, but nothing holds my attention. Not like her. The image of Luna on her knees, lips parted, gagging and moaning while taking me like she was made for it, plays on repeat behind my eyes.

I exhale sharply and roll my neck, trying to shake the image loose. It doesn't work.

God, her mouth. The way she looked up at me like she hated every second of it—while choking it down like she was starving. It should've been a release. Instead, it rewired my fucking brain.

A minute later, movement catches at the edge of my vision. She walks past the office door, still barefoot, still wearing my shirt, still unmistakably mine. Every line of code I've written suddenly looks like nonsense.

I try to focus, forcing my attention back to the screen where bright lines of code stack with precision, the architecture clean and correct—except it isn't. My fingers hover above the keys, but nothing lands where it's supposed to.

I blink, sit back, and exhale through my nose before pushing my glasses higher. I need to concentrate. This code matters. This project matters. I don't take on clients lightly, and this one is high-tier. Private. Confidential. Risk mitigation built into every line. If I fuck it up, it won't just cost me—it'll make noise.

And I don't like noise.

The cursor blinks expectantly. My fingers type out a single command, then stop as her image overrides everything else. Her mouth. Her moan. The way she tried not to want it—and failed.

I clench my jaw and shift in the chair, still hard, still fucking aching. It's not just the sex. It's her.

The fight in her. The fire.