Page 19 of Bought (BOUGHT TRILOGY #1)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Erin

He lays me back on the bed, his weight settling beside mine. The room shrinks to the sound of his movements. The feel of my breath is ragged, uneven, and strung tight with everything we’ve been holding back.

I was naive to believe my plan was simple, that the man I was meeting would mean nothing to me, as easily forgotten as yesterday’s breakfast.

I’ve accepted how wrong I was.

But the moment he grabs my arms, lifts them above my head, circles my wrists with just his forefinger and thumb, and pins me to the bed with one hoarse word, “Mine.”

I know this man will burn me to the ground.

And he hasn’t even been inside me yet.

His lips are warm, breath soft, the kisses he trails down my neck feel like absolute heaven, sending that indescribable feeling of deliciousness all over my skin.

His free hand skims down my side, over the curve of my hip, stopping at the edge of my dress. He looks at me like he’s asking and commanding all at once.

“Take this off,” he murmurs.

And for once, I don’t have a saucy comeback for him.

He lets me go. My arms drop to my sides, palms pressing against the bed as I sit up. The dress has a zipper on the side, impossible to unzip while sitting.

Shyness overwhelms me.

He lies on his side, elbow on the bed, his handsome face cradled in his powerful hand.

My fingers tremble as I grab for the zipper, but his free hand flies out, catches my wrist, steadying it.

“Slow,” he orders, his eyes dangerous. “I want to watch.”

Gone is the brazen nerve I had that first night, demanding he undress first.

“You’re trembling,” he says.

“I know.”

His grip tightens, a band of fire around my wrist. “I’m still going to claim you. Every inch all for myself.” He drops his hand onto the bed.

Heat sears through me. I slowly unzip the gauzy fabric, loosening it around me. When I push the sleeves off my shoulders, the top pools around my waist.

Lucky for him, this dress didn’t look good with a bra. Take that, Cassandra. My almost B-cups are driving the most gorgeous man in this city wild.

His gaze darkens, jaw clenched, as if he’s struggling to hold back. “God damn, you’re a beautiful woman.”

His words unravel me, and I don’t try to stop them. Whether they’re true doesn’t matter. He fully believes them, so I do too.

“Come here, baby.” He leans up off the bed, sitting on the edge, pulling me into him with strong hands.

His mouth is on me then, kissing, tasting, devouring my breasts, taking each nipple in turn.

As his weight settles over me, I feel the full power of him. Solid, immovable, dangerous. And it turns me to jelly.

Yet I’m not afraid. Not of him. The only thing I fear is how much I want to give him everything.

He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “Say it.”

“What?” My voice is broken, breathless.

“That you want this.”

Shame burns my cheeks, but the truth is louder than my pride. “I want this. I want you.”

He groans, the sound low and wrecked, and then he takes me. Slow, controlled, and powerful. It’s not the effortless thing you see in movies or read about in books.

His body strains against mine as he pushes in slowly, carefully. I feel the pressure first, sharp and intense, and then he stills, his eyes locked on mine.

Checking me. Grounding me.

“Breathe,” he says, low and ragged, brushing a kiss to my cheek as if trying to soothe the ache burning through me.

I inhale shakily, trying to relax, to trust him. I glance down. Just the tip, and I’m already trembling. I thought that had to be most of him. My body swore it was.

Not even close.

He pushes in deeper, slow and steady, his hand on my hip holding me in place. A whimper escapes me, turning into a desperate moan. He doesn’t stop.

He’ll never stop

Instead, he soothes, he kisses, he whispers soft, reverent things against my skin.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathes, lips brushing my neck. “So fucking good for me.”

And somehow, despite the painful stretching, I want more. The deep achy burn turns to a burning ache. We keep going until he’s nearly entirely inside me.

I feel him in places I didn’t know existed.

It’s overwhelming. Intimate. Earth-shattering.

I’d only worried about the physical aspect before this night, the unknown of how it would all go.

I never even thought of the emotional side.

It’s the way he touches me as if I am something sacred. The way he looks into my eyes as if he sees all of me and desires every guarded piece.

He kisses me then. Deep and slow. And tells me how beautiful I am. How good I feel. How much he wants this.

I believe him.

I’ve never felt more raw, more full, or more profoundly protected than I do right now.

His hand finds mine, pinning it above my head, our fingers locked. “You okay, baby?”

“Yes,” I gasp.

His other hand cups my hip, guiding me into his rhythm, teaching me to surrender with every movement. The world dissolves into heat and sensation. Pain melts into pleasure, nerves into need.

His hands are firm, guiding me, pressing me down when I arch, pulling me closer when I try to breathe. I lose myself in the rhythm of him.

Demand and reward.

Every thrust is a brand, marking me as his. “Good girl. You’re all mine. You still okay?” His words are husky with restraint. He’s still not moving, waiting for me, holding everything back.

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me.”

“I’m okay,” I breathe. “More than okay.”

His jaw clenches. His control is a taut wire between us, frayed and close to snapping. I can feel the tension in every muscle of his body, coiled and shaking.

“You’re so damn tight,” he growls, like the words cost him to say. “Like you were made for me.”

And then he goes harder. The sensation rips a moan from my lips. It’s too much and not enough, pleasure wrapped in pain, and still I arch into him, desperate for more.

He keeps his gaze locked on mine, like he needs to see every reaction, every tremble, every ounce of surrender I give him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I whisper, barely audible. “Please… don’t stop.”

Something in him shatters. The restraint gives way.

My nails dig into his back. I can feel the sweat slicking our skin, the sounds of our bodies filling the room, the sheets twisting beneath us. He leans down, pressing kisses along my neck, my collarbone, my shoulder.

Reverent but filthy.

“I’m not letting you go, after this,” he mutters against my skin. “You understand me? I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

My breath catches. The words shouldn’t thrill me, but they do.

And when I fall apart beneath him, I’m shaking, gasping, and clinging to him like he’s the only real thing in the world. He follows with a low groan, burying himself deep, holding me tight as his release hits.

And he fills me up in a way I’ve never been able to imagine, but now I know.

There’s a pause that’s comfortable and warm but says the words we’re leaving unsaid.

We crossed a line we can’t uncross.

He kisses me again—this time soft, slow, and sweet.

And I know.

This isn’t just about sex anymore.

It never was.