Page 17 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)
Sixteen
BECKETT
The moment she thinks I've left, I can see her relax.
She's still under the water, letting it cascade over her like absolution.
Steam coils around her body like smoke. Her head tilts back beneath the spray, eyes closed in momentary peace, lips slightly parted as if trying to catch her breath in a world suddenly too heavy with meaning.
She looks like something I shouldn't touch again—a masterpiece already marked, already sore, already claimed. And I know I should leave her be. Let her breathe. Let her pretend the last few hours didn't strip her to the bone.
But the longer I stand here watching her fingertips trail down the curves I've already mapped, the tighter my grip becomes on the doorframe.
My knuckles whiten as water slicks down her legs, glides over the perfect rise of her breasts, traces patterns across her throat where my hand had been mere hours before.
She doesn't know I'm still watching. She thinks she's alone with the steam and her thoughts. She thinks I'm finished with her.
And something in me snaps—low in my spine, sharp and brutal.
"Fuck it," I growl, the words barely audible above the shower's rhythm.
I push the glass door the rest of the way open without hesitation, stepping in fully clothed—jeans, boots, everything—like a man possessed. The water hits me immediately, soaking through the denim, dragging the fabric heavy against my legs, plastering it to my skin like a second layer I don't need.
She spins at the sound, eyes widening in surprise as she takes me in—this fully dressed man invading her moment of solitude. Her lips part, ready to protest, but I don't give her time to form the words.
I cross the distance between us in one fluid motion, one hand tangling in her wet hair while the other locks around her waist with undeniable purpose. Then I claim her mouth with mine—hard, open, unapologetic.
I kiss her like I'm starving for her. Like she's oxygen and I've been drowning. Like her mouth was carved from the beginning of time specifically for mine and I've been waiting my entire goddamn life to taste it.
She gasps against my lips—soft, startled—but there's no resistance in her body. Instead, her fingers press against my chest as her bare legs brush against the rough denim clinging to mine.
"What are you—" she begins, words turning to steam between us .
"Finishing what we started," I murmur against her mouth.
I press her back against the stone shower wall, her body arching instinctively as water courses between us. She's slick and wet and perfect, and the thin barrier of clothes between us feels like an offense against nature.
I grind against her, a groan tearing from my throat as I fumble with my zipper, shoving my jeans down just enough to free my cock. The sound she makes when she feels me—hard and ready against her thigh—nearly shatters my remaining control.
"Beckett," she breathes, my name a question and submission all at once.
One hand grips her thigh, lifting it to open her pussy to me while the other captures both her wrists, pinning them above her head against the slick tile. Her eyes lock with mine, pupils blown wide with desire despite her exhaustion.
"You knew I wasn't done with you," I breathe against her mouth, watching water droplets cling to her lashes.
She shudders beneath me, her body remembering what her mind might want to forget. "I should've locked the door," she whispers, challenge and invitation tangled in those five simple words.
"And miss this?" I ask, positioning myself at her entrance. "Never."
And then I'm inside her again—deep, rough, right where I left off—reclaiming territory already conquered but somehow still undiscovered. Her cry breaks open in my chest, the sound of it vibrating through both our bodies as I lose myself in her.
Because this isn't careful. This isn't soft. This is a primal necessity—Beckett Sinclair fucking his Possession against a wall, still wearing goddamn shoes for fuck's sake, under scalding water, like the world owes him this moment and he's not giving it back.
"How—" she gasps between thrusts, "—are you still?—"
"Hard for you?" I finish for her, teeth grazing her neck. "I'll always be hard for you. Could fuck you for days and never get enough."
She doesn't even try to pretend she doesn't want this.
Her body melts into mine, her nails digging half-moons into my arms as I thrust into her again.
Each stroke goes deeper, slower, more deliberate than the last as I hold her up with one hand supporting her weight and the other still keeping her wrists pinned above her head.
Water pours over us, creating rivers between our bodies. Her hair sticks to her face in dark tendrils, and her mouth falls open against my shoulder, breath hitching with each movement as I grind into her. Every inch of my cock is buried inside her like it's found its home.
She's shaking beneath me—wrecked, overwhelmed, and so fucking perfect it makes my jaw ache with the need to consume her completely.
I lean in close, my lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear, voice rough and saturated with want. "Look at you," I murmur, feeling her clench around me at the words. "Dripping on my cock like you forgot how to say no."
A whimper escapes her, the sound so broken and beautiful it only fuels my hunger.
"Wrapped around me like this pussy was made for it," I continue, punctuating each word with a slow, deep thrust. "Tight, soaked, still fucking twitching every time I talk. You feel that? How your body responds to my voice?"
"I hate you," she gasps, but her hips roll to meet mine, betraying her words .
I slam deeper, drawing a sharp cry from her throat. "No, you don't. You hate that you love this. You hate that I could fuck you senseless in every position and it still wouldn't be enough." My voice drops lower, more dangerous. "You're going to take everything I give you and beg for more."
Another thrust. Another broken cry.
"And when I'm done," I promise darkly, "I'll leave you so full you'll still be dripping down your thighs the next time someone even thinks about touching you. They'll know who you belong to without me saying a word."
She moans—the sound wrecked and breathless—her body surrendering even as her mind struggles to maintain some semblance of control.
The water beats against my back, steam continuing to fill the surrounding space, but all I can focus on is her—the way she feels around me, the way her body responds to every word, every touch, every demand.
"You know why you're trembling?" I growl, adjusting my angle to hit that spot inside her that makes her see the stars in ultra HD. "Because your body figured it out before you did. You belong to me now. This cunt? This mouth? This fucking soul? Mine."
She's breaking beneath me—and not once does she try to escape.
The fight is still there, twitching beneath the surface of her submission, but it's fading with each thrust. I can feel it in the way her breath stutters against my throat, in the way her cunt clenches around me like it's trying to hold me there, keep me inside her longer, deeper—like it knows this is where I belong.
"Is it—always like this—with you?" she manages between ragged breaths .
I smile against her skin. "No, little thief. This is just for you."
She's not resisting anymore. She's surviving it, surrendering to it, perhaps even starting to crave it as I do. Her lashes flutter as her head tips back against the tile, a ragged sound catching in her throat that's neither protest nor pain.
Her gaze drifts toward the ceiling—unfocused, lost in sensation—just for a second.
"Eyes on me," I command, my voice cutting through the water's noise and whatever remains of her pride.
She startles at the order, then obeys, her gaze locking with mine like I've thrown her a lifeline in a storm she's drowning in.
"Good girl," I praise, the words a reward and reminder in equal measure.
I don't slow my pace. I don't ease up. I keep driving into her like her body was made to take me—because it was. And I want her to feel that truth in her bones, to carry it with her long after we've left this room.
"You come with your eyes on me," I murmur, lips brushing hers in what could almost be called tenderness if not for the relentless power behind each thrust. "You fall apart for the man who owns you. No one else gets to see you like this."
She makes a sound—small, broken, desperate—but her cunt clenches around me like it believes my words more than she ever could. She's close. So close I can feel her trembling on the edge.
"Say it," I demand.
Her eyes flash defiance even as her body surrenders. She shakes her head, denial her last remaining weapon.
So I fuck her harder—deep, deliberate strokes that pull another gasp from her chest, that make her fingers claw at my wrists where I still hold her captive.
"Say it, Luna," I insist, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "While I'm still being gentle."
The threat implicit in those words makes her eyes widen. She chokes on my name, resistance finally crumbling.
"I'm—fuck—I'm yours—" Her voice breaks on the admission.
I pause—just a beat—and growl, "Louder. I want to hear you claim it."
Her head drops back against the wall, defeat and desire warring in her expression as her voice rises, barely holding together.
"I'm yours, Beckett," she confesses, each word dragged from somewhere deep inside her. "I'm yours."
And then she breaks around me, coming hard with a cry that bounces off the shower walls. Her body locks tight, her cunt squeezing my cock like it's trying to brand itself with my shape, her moans long and raw and beautiful in the way only true surrender can be.
She doesn't hold back. Doesn't fight it. She simply lets the pleasure consume her, wash through her like the water still cascading over our bodies.
And fuck, she's perfect like this—shaking, trembling, falling apart for me like it's the only thing she's ever been good at, the only thing that's ever made sense.
"Good fucking girl," I breathe, the praise slipping out unbidden, my voice low and rough as I hold her through her climax, thrusting once more—slow and deep—to prolong the waves coursing through her.
"That's how you come for me," I tell her, watching her face as aftershocks ripple through her. "Wrecked. Owned. Silenced without needing a single command."
I stay inside her, feeling the last tremors of her orgasm flutter around my cock. Only when she stills, boneless and spent in my arms, do I chase my own release.
I bury myself to the hilt and come hard, a groan tearing from my throat as I empty inside her—slow, hot, relentless—making sure she knows that whatever parts of her still believe they're free, they're not. Not anymore.
She's still shaking when I finally pull out and lower her feet to the tile floor.
Not carefully. Not cruelly. Just... enough.
Her knees nearly buckle beneath her weight. She reaches for the wall without thinking, steadying herself while the water continues to run over every part of her I've already claimed, already marked, already ruined for anyone else.
Her breath catches sharply, as if the absence of me hurts more than the taking itself. Her pussy twitching around nothing, like it's mourning the loss, still clinging to the last of what I gave her.
I don't look away from the evidence of my possession. My hand moves between her thighs, spreading her open just enough to drag my fingers through the mess I've left inside her.
"Feel that?" I murmur, voice low and controlled despite the storm still raging beneath my skin. "That's what happens when I own something. That's what belonging looks like."
Her chest rises and falls unevenly with each breath, her eyes half-lidded but still watching me. I tilt her chin up with my thumb, not with gentleness—just precision. Something flickers in her gaze that I haven't named yet, something that makes her far more dangerous than she looks .
I lean in close, letting my mouth brush her ear, my words soft but absolute in their certainty.
"You're going to feel me tomorrow," I promise against her skin. "Every time you move. Every time you breathe. Every second you think you've forgotten, your body will remind you who you belong to now."
She doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Her silence says everything words would only diminish.
I kiss her once more—firm and deliberate. There's no sweetness in it, no romance, just the seal of a contract neither of us signed but both are bound by nonetheless.
I step back, water streaming from my clothes as I zip up my jeans. The scent of her clings to my skin like heat that won't leave, like a fever I've caught and have no desire to cure.
She remains slumped against the shower wall, too wrung out to move, too full of what I've given her to think clearly. I take one last look, memorizing this moment—her knees parted, skin flushed pink from heat and use, my cum already sliding down her thighs in thin rivulets.
And then I lean in one last time—low enough for only her to hear me, voice steady, quiet, lethal in its promise.
"You thought the Hunt was over, little thief?" My lips brush her ear, just barely grazing the sensitive skin there. "It's just beginning."
With those words hanging in the steam between us, I turn and walk away, leaving her to contemplate exactly what she's become a part of—and who she now belongs to.