Page 32 of His Verdict

I can’t resist. I am too tired, too thoroughly fucked-out, and my body is too conditioned to his touch. Resisting him feels like resisting my own heartbeat.

He slides one hand down my stomach, his fingers tangling in my pubic hair before finding my clit. He begins to rub a slow, steady circle, his thumb perfectly in sync with the deep, unhurried thrusts of his cock. My breath hitches. A low moan escapes my lips, a sound of pure, unwilling pleasure.

It doesn't take long. My body is already on a hair trigger, perpetually humming with a low-grade arousal he has instilled in me. The climax builds quickly, a hot, pulling tide in my womb. I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists in the sheets as my orgasm washes over me, a deep, shuddering, internal pulse that makes my inner muscles clench and milk him. He groans, a rough, guttural sound against my hair, and I feel him spill his hot seed deep inside me, his own body shuddering with the force of it.

After a few final, convulsive thrusts, he is still. He pulls out of me with a wet, slick sound and his breathing evens out, returning to the slow rhythm of sleep.

I lie there for a long moment, my own body trembling with aftershocks, his seed a warm pool inside me. As soon as I am sure he is deeply asleep again, I slip out of the bed. This time, he doesn't stir. I move silently, grabbing a clean towel and retreating to the bathroom, the one place that feels remotely like my own territory.

I stand under the scalding spray of the shower for a long time, scrubbing, letting the water wash everything away. When I get out and towel off, I inspect my body in the steamed-up mirror. He was careful this time. The angry, purple marks on my hips have faded to pale yellow ghosts. But there are new marks. Small, dark love bites clustered on the tops of my breasts, on the soft skin of my inner thighs, on the curve of my ass. None ofthem will be visible in the clothes he bought me. They are private brands, a secret map of his possession that only he and I will know is there.

The weekend passed in a strange, disorienting fog. After he announced that I no longer have my own apartment, I was too stunned to fight anymore. I simply… existed. In his space. In his world. It was a blur of domesticity and debauchery. He cooks incredible meals, things I’ve only ever read about on menus I can’t afford. We drink expensive wine and talk. He asks me questions about law, about cases, about my opinions, listening with that unnerving intensity of his. It feels dangerously like being treated as an equal, a partner.

And then there is the sex. Constant, insatiable, and varied. Angry, punishing fucking against the glass walls of his penthouse overlooking the city lights. Slow, tender lovemaking in the middle of the afternoon. A quick, frantic blowjob in the kitchen while he waits for water to boil. He has systematically explored every inch of my body, learning my responses, my limits, and then pushing past them. He has wrecked me, over and over, until I am a raw, open nerve of pure sensation.

My body has now recalibrated to a new normal. A constant state of low-level arousal. I’ll be reading a book on his sofa and a random memory of his mouth between my legs flashes in my mind, and I feel a hot, wet clench between my thighs. My panties are perpetually damp. It’s humiliating.

I need to buy panty liners. The practical, mundane thought is a strange island of clarity in the sea of my confusion. I’m going to ruin all this expensive underwear he bought me if I can’t get myself under control.

The thought itself is a form of surrender. An acceptance of my new reality.

I’m brushing my teeth, staring at my own alien reflection in the mirror, when the bathroom door opens. Jasper stands there, wearing only a pair of soft, gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His chest is bare, his hair is a mess from sleep, and he looks sinfully, infuriatingly handsome.

He comes up behind me without a word, his body pressing against my back. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me against his groin. I can feel his morning erection, hard and insistent, against the curve of my ass. He lowers his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot on my neck just below my ear. He kisses me, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that sends a shiver down my spine.

His hands start to wander, one sliding up to cup my breast, the other sliding down over the front of my towel.

“Jasper,” I mumble, my mouth full of toothpaste.

“Hmm?” he murmurs against my skin, his hand starting to edge its way under the towel.

I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth quickly. I turn in his arms, putting a hand flat against his chest. “We can’t,” I say, trying to sound firm. “We have that meeting today, remember?”

He just looks down at me, a lazy, sensual smile playing on his lips. “It can wait,” he says, leaning in to kiss me again.

I put my hands on his shoulders and push, a gesture that is more symbolic than effective. “No,” I insist. “You are a sex-fiend. A menace. Go take a shower. A cold one.”

To my surprise, he laughs. A real, deep, genuine laugh. It transforms his face, erasing the cold, calculating predator and replacing him with someone charmingly, dangerously human.

“Alright, alright,” he says, releasing me and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You win this round, counselor.” He winks at me, then turns and steps into the massive, glass-walled shower.

I stand there for a moment, my heart doing a strange little flutter. The playfulness is new. The easy surrender is new. It’s disarming.

I finish getting ready, choosing the navy sheath dress and the tailored blazer. I look the part. I look like I belong. When I emerge from the bathroom, dressed and ready, he is already out of the shower, a towel slung around his waist, coffee brewing in the kitchen. The routine of it is starting to feel unnervingly normal.

The ride down in the elevator is silent. The car waits for us. As we pull out into the morning traffic, he places his hand on my thigh, high up, his fingers just brushing the hem of my dress. It is a casual, possessive gesture.

I smack his hand. Not hard, but with a sharp, definite tap. “Hands to yourself,” I say, my voice a low, mock-scolding tone. “We’re on our way to a business meeting.”

I expect him to get angry, to grab my hand, to assert his dominance. Instead, he just laughs again, that same easy, amused sound. He removes his hand, a roguish glint in his eye. “Yes ma’am.”

This is a game. A new game, with new rules that I am only just beginning to understand. And the most terrifying part is, I think I am starting to enjoy playing.

The town car glides to a stop before the familiar blade of black glass and chrome. This time, as we enter the grand, marble-floored lobby, I feel a strange sense of belonging, a disquieting feeling that this is my new reality.

When the doors open directly into his office, the receptionist greets us, her expression perfectly neutral as she takes in my presence at Jasper's side, but her eyes are sharp and intelligent. "Good morning, Mr. Donovan," she says, her voice crisp and professional. She holds out a thin, leather-bound folio. "The executive officers from Meridian have arrived. I've shown them to the main conference room."

My feet stop moving. My brain feels like it’s short-circuited.Mr. Donovan.Not Wolfe. The firm name is one thing—a holding, a subsidiary, a legal fiction. But the name… the name is different.