Page 20 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Nineteen

BECKETT

I don't wait for her answer. I walk back to the desk, my bare feet silent against the polished floor. I lower myself into the chair, my body still relaxed, posture still controlled. The glow of the monitors dances across my skin as I look at her and wait.

Her brows lift—confused, maybe. Cautious. Good. Confusion is the first step toward surrender.

I lean back in the chair, letting my eyes move over her slowly.

Long legs bare. Thin fabric clinging to her curves.

Defiance simmering just beneath the surface like a flame she doesn't realize is already dying.

I can still see the marks I left on her throat, fading now but present.

A reminder of how she sounded when she begged me to take her in the woods.

My cock thickens, already hard from our little exchange. I spread my knees slightly and rest my hands on the arms of the chair. "Get on your knees. "

She blinks. Her eyes widen slightly, then narrow as the realization of what I'm asking settles in.

Her arms cross tightly over her chest. Her jaw locks. "I'm not?—"

"You are," I cut in, calm. Certain. "Or we can skip the words and I can put you there myself."

Her eyes narrow, heat flickering behind them like she's ready to burn something down. She shifts her weight, a subtle tell that she's considering running. But where would she go? In my home, in my shirt, with my marks still on her skin?

"So this is how it's going to be?" she asks, voice low. "You give me nothing, and I give you everything?"

"I've given you more than most would," I reply. "Safety. Protection. A collar that keeps the wolves at bay."

"A cage is still a cage, no matter how pretty the bars," she counters.

I smile slowly. "You say that like I promised you freedom. I didn't. I promised you ownership. There's a difference."

She doesn't move. Not yet. She stands there like she's weighing the last piece of pride she hasn't spent. And for a moment, I let her. Because watching her choose submission is worth more than dragging it out of her by force.

Her fingers flex at her sides, like she's weighing the price of defiance. I tilt my head.

"I gave you space to speak," I say softly. "Now you're going to show me what else that mouth is good at."

Her throat works around a breath. She doesn't argue. Doesn't make some clever retort. She just drops.

Not gracefully. Not quickly. But with intention. Controlled.

She hesitates. Not long. Not visibly. But I see it. The flex of her hands. The tightening of her jaw. The war behind her eyes as she weighs her pride against the inevitability of me.

That's what I'm enjoying most. She doesn't fall into submission. She claws her way toward it. And watching her get on her knees—slow, deliberate, like she's still pretending it's her choice—it does something to me.

Makes my cock unbearably hard.

It's not just her beauty, because even now—with no makeup and no hope—she looks like a goddess in the glow of my monitors.

It's the fire behind her hazel eyes. It's knowing what this costs her. And knowing she's giving it to me anyway.

That's the moment I feel it. Not softness. Not care. Power. That sharp, bone-deep satisfaction that comes from watching something wild lower itself—not because it's been broken, but because it's starting to understand who it belongs to.

"You're learning," I murmur, watching as she settles between my legs, her eyes never leaving mine. "Not obedient yet. But the beginnings of it."

"Don't mistake necessity for submission," she says, her voice quiet but edged. "I'm choosing battles I can win."

I laugh softly. "Still thinking there's a way to defeat me. Adorable."

"Isn't there?" she challenges, hands resting lightly on my thighs.

"No," I answer simply. "There's only the question of how long you'll fight before you realize every single piece of you belongs to me."

She's daring me to see her as weak.

I don't.

I see her exactly as she is. My Possession. On her knees. Ready to be used .

I push the waistband of my thin pants down and pull my cock free. The sight of her kneeling before me, defiance still burning in her eyes even as she prepares to take me, is more intoxicating than any fantasy.

"Open."

Her lips twitch, hesitation trembling on the edge of defiance—then they part, slow and shaky, like she knows she's about to lose this war. Those lips that argued and challenged and denied me not minutes ago, now opening for my pleasure.

And I slide into her mouth.

Her mouth is warm, lips soft and hesitant as they close around me. She starts slow, tentative.

Which tells me everything I need to know. She still thinks this is something she can control. Still thinks her pace matters. That I'll let her take her time, like this is for her, not for me.

I let it happen. Just long enough to feel her tongue slide against the underside of my cock. Long enough to hear her breathe through her nose and fight the instinct to pull back when I press in deeper.

Then I reach down. Fist my hand in her hair.

And I take the fuck over.

Her eyes widen as I hold her still, the base of her skull cupped in my palm, guiding—not gently—her mouth where I want it.

"Relax your throat," I murmur, voice low, controlled.

I pull her in slow at first, letting her adjust to the depth. Her fingers curl against my thighs. Her brows pinch as I slide further in.

She gags, eyes watering. And I don't fucking stop. This isn't cruelty—it's a reminder. Her throat, her obedience, her whole goddamn body. Mine .

She adjusts, barely. Swallows. I feel it ripple around me, and it only spurs me on.

"That's it," I encourage, my voice rougher now. "Take me deeper. Show me how sorry you are for thinking you had a choice."

I start moving. Not violently. Not gently. Rhythmic. Unforgiving. My hips shift forward, each thrust guided by the handful of hair clenched in my grip. Her lips stretch wide. Her throat tightens. Her spit coats the base of my cock as she chokes on every inch I give her.

And, fuck. She feels so fucking good I could live the rest of my days with her mouth on my cock.

She moans around me—soft at first, almost accidental. But it's there. Low and needy and completely fucking involuntary.

Her thighs shift where she kneels, her hands flexing against my legs like she needs more, like she's aching from the inside out.

"You look so good like this," I murmur, not stopping. "Down where you belong. Choking on what you tried to control."

Her breath hitches. I thrust deeper.

"Don't blink. I want you to see exactly what you gave up the second you opened your mouth and thought you had a say."

She gags again—sharp, wet, messy. I groan, the sound low in my chest, heavy with satisfaction. Her lips stretch wider, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of being used this way.

"I could keep you like this," I growl, my cock buried deep in her mouth. "On your knees, drooling, gagging, ruined. Just a warm, wet hole waiting to be used—whenever I fucking want. "

I lean in, voice a breath against her ear. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? Being nothing but my pretty little fucktoy."

She takes it. All of it. Barely holding herself upright, hands scrambling for something to hold onto, some kind of anchor.

But I'm her anchor, and the sooner she realizes, the better.

"Next time you think about arguing with me," I say, not slowing my pace. "Remember this moment. Remember what happens when you forget."

I slow only when the pleasure coils tight—deep, low, unstoppable. When I know I'm right there, teeth gritted, every muscle locked. When I know she's taken enough of me to feel it long after I'm gone.

Then I bury myself deeper, one last thrust against the back of her throat, and I come. Hard. Long. Brutal. My release hits her in waves, and she takes it like she was made for it. No flinching. No pulling away. Just soft, open obedience as I empty every last drop into her mouth.

The taste of me will linger for hours—I make sure of it.

When I finally pull out, her lips are slick, her chin wet, her chest rising fast. I reach down and wipe her mouth with my thumb, slow and deliberate. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't move. Just stares up at me like she wants more.

And I want to give it to her. Again. Rougher. Deeper. Worse.

Because there's no going back from this. She's tasted me now.

And I'm not done feeding her.

I lean in, thumb still pressed to her lips. "Don't mistake silence for mercy. You opened your mouth, and I reminded you what it's for."

"Is that all I am to you?" she asks, voice raw from use. "Just a body to control? "

I cup her face. The desire that had shown in her eyes moments ago has faded completely. Replaced with the fight I enjoy seeing so much. "No, Luna. You're more than that. You're mine to ruin. Mine to rebuild. Mine to shape into exactly what I need."

Her eyes flare with something—not just defiance now, but understanding. The beginning of acceptance, perhaps.

"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.