Page 45 of Held-

My breath catches, heat flooding low in my belly. My thighs clench around him as he pushes them apart again with a quiet grunt. He drags the head of his cock along my soaked entrance, just enough to make my hips jerk. I’m already slick, already aching, but he doesn’t push in. Not yet.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say who you’re begging for.”

“Brayden.” His name falls from my lips, breathless. Not nearly enough.

He slaps the head of his cock against my clit, just once.

“Not good enough.”

I look at him, fire burning in my chest, my cheeks, my thighs. And I give him what he wants.

“I’m praying to you.”

He smiles, and it’s not kind. It’s hunger. Triumph. Possession. “That’s right. Say your prayers, Cece.” Then he thrusts into me.

All the air leaves my lungs. My body stretches around him, shocked and greedy all at once. I cry out, legs instinctively locking around his hips, grounding myself as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn't move. He waits, watching me take him.

“You feel that?” His hand wraps around my throat, not tight, just there. A promise. “That’s your new religion.”

I nod, mouth open, chest heaving, absolutely undone.

“Good girl,” he says. Then he starts to move.

He starts to move, slow at first, just enough to let me feel the weight of him dragging against every nerve ending inside me. Each thrust is deliberate, grinding, his hips rolling with lethal control. Not fucking. Not yet. This is a claiming.

“You still praying?” he asks, lips brushing the edge of my jaw.

I can't speak. I nod, barely.

He pulls back and drives in harder. My breath punches out of me as if he knocked it from my lungs.

“Use your words, angel.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “I’m praying.”

“To who?”

“You.”

He groans like I just made him lose control. One hand fists the sheets beside my head, the other tightens just slightly at mythroat—not to choke, just to hold me there, to make me feel owned.

“That’s right. Say it again.”

I moan as he drives into me again, rougher this time, the sound of our bodies meeting loud in the quiet room. The preacher’s daughter, legs spread, back arched, begging to be ruined by a man who doesn’t play by rules. A man who would burn churches down before ever kneeling in one.

“You,” I breathe. “I’m praying to you, Brayden. I want all of it.”

His mouth crashes into mine. This kiss isn’t tender. It’s possessive, wet, and consuming, as if he wants to swallow every lie I was ever told about what love is supposed to look like.

“You’ve been waiting your whole life for this,” he growls, dragging his teeth down my throat. “For someone to take what’s theirs.”

“Yes,” I whimper, rocking up to meet him.

“For me to take what’s mine.”

He shifts, deeper now, angling his hips until he hits a spot that makes me cry out. He does it again. And again.

“That's it,” he grits out, sweat starting to slick across his chest. “You feel that? This is where you break.”