Page 109 of House Rules

“Please fuck me. I need it. I need your cock. Please… hard and fast. I need?—”

I cut her off with a sharp slap to her ass.

“We’ll see about that.”

Gripping her hips, I drive into her without warning. No time to adjust—she hasn’t earned it. I fuck her brutally, pouring every ounce of anger, betrayal, and desire into her body.

She comes once, twice, three times—her whimpers ignored as I listen for a safe word that never comes.

She takes it all, and I know—God, I know—she belongs here.

After her fourth orgasm, she braces her hands on the table and pushes back into me, lifting one knee to the table and tiptoeing on the other foot, forcing me deeper.

Most women can’t take all of me. Phoenix demands it.

She’s going to be the death of me—and I’ll die happy.

I reach under and pinch her clit, pulling one last scream from her as she collapses against the table and I fill her.

“Is she still alive?” Maverick calls.

Phoenix raises a thumbs-up without looking back, making all of us laugh.

“Okay, princess,” I say, gathering her into my arms. “Your punishment’s over. You did so good.”

I carry her to my room, set her on the toilet, and run a hot bath, dumping in half a bottle of lilac chamomile bubbles Maverick gave me as a joke.

When I lower her into the water, she moans. I’m tempted to get in with her, but I know I’d fuck her again if I did—and this is about her, not me.

I kneel on the tile and work the tension from her body, from her feet up to her back, until every knot is gone. When she’s clean and loose, I wrap her in a thick towel and carry her to the couch.

She curls against me, asleep within minutes.

Having her in my arms like this—trusting me enough to sleep—is almost as dangerous as what just happened.

This woman will either strengthen us, turning arrogant boys into powerful men… or she’ll destroy us.

The power she holds terrifies me almost as much as the thought of losing her.

33

Atticus

After our littlesession with Phoenix, it takes longer than usual for me to put my head back on straight.

Usually, I’ll take any excuse not to do aftercare. Not that I’ve ever refused to take care of a scene partner afterward—but if she was going to make an excuse to run, I wasn’t going to fucking stop her. I’ve seen women get that wide-eyed look, the one that means they’re already halfway to the door. I’ve let them go.

Hell, sometimes I’ve encouraged it. Less work for me.

So why doesnothaving Phoenix in my arms right now—after one of the most charged scenes I’ve ever been part of—bother me sodamn much?

The absence feels like a phantom limb. I can still sense her weight, her breath, the tremble in her thighs when she was trying to hold herself together. My fingers twitch at the memory, like they’re still wrapped around her hips.

I’ve heard people say aftercare is just as much for the dom as it is for the sub. I always thought that was complete bullshit—something weak men tell themselves so they can pretend the caretaking is for them. I’ve laughed in more than one person’s face over it.

Now I’m not laughing. Now I wonder if there’s some truth to it, because there’s a hollowness in my chest that didn’t used to be there after a scene.

Soon, I’m going to have to play with Phoenix on my own. No distractions. No one else touching her. Just me, start to finish. I want to see what she looks like after I’ve taken her apart and put her back together again, and I want to be the one to do that.