Page 23

Before I can respond, Gabe guides me firmly toward the bedroom. I glance back to see Hank shaking his head with a knowing smile.

“I’ll wait here,” Hank says, settling against the counter with an understanding look.

“You’re not coming?” I ask, glancing back at him.

Gabe’s voice is rough near my ear. “He gives me space when I’m like this.”

“Like what?” The question barely leaves my lips.

“Feral.”

Everything else falls away as Gabe’s hand presses against the small of my back, urgent and possessive. His touch has something different—an edge, a rawness that wasn’t there before. My words unleashed something wild in him that he’s been keeping carefully leashed.

The bedroom door slams closed behind us. In seconds, I’m backed against the wall, his hands pinning my wrists above my head. My shirt tears under his impatient fingers.

Gabe’s grip tightens as he hauls me against him, his breath hot at my ear. “You talk about being a slave, sweetheart? You have no idea what that means.”

My pulse stutters, my body caught between anticipation and the raw hunger in his voice. Something primal flashes in his eyes—something I’ve never seen before. The careful restraint he always maintains is crumbling before me.

He drags his lips along my jaw, slow and deliberate. “A master doesn’t take. He owns. Controls. Makes you beg for what only he can give.” His teeth scrape my throat, making me shudder. “You want to play at words, throw them around like a tease?”

His hand tightens in my hair, tipping my head back to expose my neck. His other hand grips my hip, fingers digging in, possessive.

“You say you’re our slave?” His voice is a dark promise, vibrating against my skin. “Let’s see if you can handle what that means.”

Heat coils low in my belly, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. I started this game, but Gabe is finishing it, and there’s no mistaking it—he intends to win.

He presses against me, his body hard and demanding, stealing my breath. This isn’t the controlled Gabe I’ve come to know—this is wild and untamed. A man consumed by desire, pushing at the edges of his control. The air between us crackles with tension, with possibility, with danger.

“I’ve been holding back,” he says, teeth grazing my collarbone. “Being gentle. Considerate.” His eyes meet mine, pupils blown wide, something feral lurking behind them. “Civilized.” His hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head back to expose my neck to him. “Not anymore.”

The last word falls like a bomb between us. My heart hammers against my ribs, not with fear but with exhilaration. This is what I wanted—to see what lies beneath his careful exterior, to push him beyond the boundaries he’s set.

His kiss is bruising, possessive, taking rather than asking. Every movement screams of ownership, of possession. His intensity overwhelms me—the single-minded focus with which he chases his pleasure consumes everything. He lifts me effortlessly, wrapping my legs around his waist.

“Is this what you want?” he demands, his voice a rasp of need. “To see what happens when I stop holding back? When I no longer pretend to be tame? You want to be taken? Used?”

A nod is all I can manage, breathless under the onslaught of his passion. This Gabe is a force of nature—overwhelming, unstoppable.

His eyes lock with mine, a predator’s gaze. “Don’t push me if you aren’t ready for the consequences, sweetheart.” His voice is barely recognizable, stripped to pure instinct. “This is what happens when you tease a man who’s been holding back.”

“I didn’t know—” I gasp as his hand finds the bare skin at my waist.

“Now you do.” His smile is dangerous and thrilling. “It’s too late to back out now.”

The look in his eyes makes me feel like prey—wanted, hunted, desired. And yet, beneath the wildness, I see a question there.

A silent check-in.

I answer by pressing closer, a willing sacrifice to whatever storm is building inside him.

His hands are everywhere at once, claiming, possessing. Before I can catch my breath, he lifts me bodily from the wall, carrying me to the bed in three powerful strides. The mattress gives beneath my back, but I’m there only mere moments.

“Turn over,” he commands, his voice like gravel.

When I don’t move quickly enough, he does it for me, strong hands flipping me. My heart hammers against my ribs as he grips my hips, positioning me exactly how he wants.

He takes me like that, relentless and demanding, the gentleness of previous nights nowhere to be found. When he’s satisfied with one position, he moves me to another, spinning me around to face him, then lifting me against the wall again, his muscles tensing with the effort of supporting my weight.

“Look at me,” he demands, and I force my eyes open to meet his gaze .

What I see there steals my breath—pure, unfiltered desire focused entirely on me.

“You still with me?” he growls against my ear, voice rough, but the question—gentle, grounding.

“Yes,” I breathe, the word barely a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

He stills, tension coiling tight in his body. His grip in my hair tightens, tilting my head until I’m forced to look up at him, eyes locked.

“Yes?” His voice is low, dangerous.

My pulse stutters. Heat flares through me, sharp and blinding. This is just a game—a shared fantasy, two consenting adults playing with power, control, surrender. That’s all this is.

But God, it feels real. The way he looks at me, like I’m his, like I belong to him, hits somewhere deep, a place I didn’t know was empty until now. A thrill rushes through me—ownership, devotion, need—all tangled together, overwhelming in its intensity.

My voice shakes, not from fear, but from the weight of this moment, from how much I want to be his.

“Yes, please.” My reply is a breathless whisper.

A feral growl vibrates in his chest. His mouth crashes into mine, hard and claiming, erasing any last line between fantasy and something more. Something real.

His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back as he drags his lips down my throat, biting, tasting, owning. His breath scorches my skin, and then he’s moving again—gripping my thighs, lifting me with animalistic strength, slamming me against the wall like he can’t get deep enough, fast enough.

“Mine,” he snarls against my neck, hips driving into me with brutal precision. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp, the word ripped from me as pleasure coils tight, a storm threatening to consume.

“Louder.” His hand slips between us, fingers finding that sensitive spot, circling, demanding. “Let the whole damn world hear who you belong to.”

I gasp, barely able to think, to breathe—but he doesn’t let up. His other hand clamps around my hip, hard, fingers digging deep into flesh with bruising force. There will be marks.

I feel it.

Pain radiates through me, sharp and perfect, only adding to the pleasure as he slams into me again, relentlessly.

“Say it,” he growls, voice guttural, feral. “Say it while I own you.”

His restraint is gone—obliterated. He’s pure dominance, his grip punishing, his body forcing mine to take every brutal thrust, every inch. I cry out, the sound ripped from my throat, but it’s not a protest—it’s need, white-hot and wild.

Each movement is rough, unyielding, his fingers in my flesh like brands, holding me exactly where he wants me. Where I need to be. Pain and pleasure crash together, sparking through every nerve, and I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“You love this,” he snarls, his voice savage against my ear, breath hot and ragged. “You need this. Me using you, taking you, breaking you, giving you everything.”

My head falls back against the wall, nails raking down his back, desperate to ground myself, but he gives me no room, no reprieve—just more.

His pace is punishing.

His fingers between my legs are ruthless.

“Beg for it,” he demands, the command like a whip. “Beg me to let you come.”

“Please…” The words rip free, strangled and raw, lost in the overwhelming surge of heat and need and him.

“Come for me.”

My body shatters, convulsing around him as the orgasm hits—violent, consuming, dragged from me with no mercy. My cry echoes, but he catches it with his mouth, kissing me hard, brutal, devouring every sound, every tremor.

Gabe’s rhythm falters, a guttural sound ripping from deep in his chest as his release crashes over him. His grip bruises, hips driving into me one final time as he comes with a hoarse shout, his body locked, every muscle straining. He holds me there, pinned, shaking with the force of it.

For a long moment, neither of us moves—our bodies tangled, slick with sweat, breath harsh and broken. His forehead drops to my shoulder, and I feel his chest rise and fall against mine, his heart hammering like it might explode.

Pain throbs along my hips, sharp where his fingers bit into my skin. I’ll wear his marks for days—and I love it. The sting, the ache, the memory of being his. It’s raw and real and so much more than play.

His arms tighten around me—not possessive, but protective , almost… tender. One hand brushes damp hair from my face, the gesture starkly contrasting the ferocity he unleashed.

“You okay?” His voice is rough, low, and still breathless.

I nod—barely—then before I can think, before I can stop myself, I fling my arms around his neck, clinging to him like I’ll drown if I let go. My face buries against his throat, the heat of him grounding me, anchoring me in the chaos of what we just did, what I feel.

I nod again, frantic, tears spilling before I realize they’re there. My shoulders shake, quiet sobs tearing free—raw, gasping, real.

Not from pain.

Not from regret.

Just too much—pleasure, release, the intensity of surrender, and the overwhelming crash of being cherished in the most brutal, beautiful way.

His arms wrap around me tighter, one hand sliding up my spine, cradling the back of my head as if he knows. As if he feels it too.

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips against my hair. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

“That didn’t feel like a fantasy.” The words are shaky, muffled against his skin. It felt like truth.

He pulls back enough to look at me, fingers brushing my jaw, eyes dark and open.

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” he says, voice low, fierce.

And I believe him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing—heavy, uneven—the air thick with the aftermath of what just happened. My body hums, nerves still raw, the ache between my thighs a pulsing reminder of him—his strength, his hunger, his claim.

Then, without a word, he pulls back. His hands linger on my hips, fingers tightening like he doesn’t want to let go.

I stay frozen, trying to catch my breath, legs trembling from the force of him. From the way he took me, marked me. My chest still heaves, my heart racing as I force myself to move, pushing up on unsteady limbs.

I barely get my bearings before his hand grips my chin, firm, unyielding. He tilts my face up, forcing my eyes to his. His thumb brushes my swollen lips, slow, deliberate. Almost tender. But his gaze—dark, intense—burns straight through me.

“Watch your words next time, sweetheart.” His voice is low, rough with restraint. “You said something that triggered me—made me lose control.” His eyes search mine, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. “That won’t happen again.”

The air thickens, his thumb pressing harder against my lip, anchoring me, holding me still.

“If this”—his gaze flicks over me, naked, wrecked, claimed—“if this is something you want, something you need later… you’ll have to ask for it.” His voice drops to a growl, the threat and promise wrapped in every syllable. “Until then, be careful what you say.” He leans in, breath hot against my cheek, a final warning wrapped in heat. “Words have power.”

Then he lets go, leaving me feeling the full weight of what happened.

Of what could happen again if I ask for it.

He steps back, leaving me to get dressed, the space between us suddenly cold without him. I watch him, heart pounding, still trying to process everything—the way he stripped me down, not just my body, but my soul. But he doesn’t look back. Just grabs his jacket, shrugs it on, and heads for the door .

As we step outside, the silence between us hums, charged and heavy, yet somehow comforting.

By the time we walk out to the SUV, the air between us is quiet.

Not tense.

Not awkward.

Just … charged.

Like lightning waiting to strike.

I glance at his profile, at the hard set of his jaw, the tension still visible in the cords of his neck. He feels my gaze and turns until I can see the storm still brewing behind his eyes.

The SUV idles. Hank waits in the driver’s seat, his gaze straight ahead, giving nothing away.

Gabe moves ahead of me, strides purposeful, controlled—but there’s tension in his shoulders like the storm inside him hasn’t fully passed. He reaches the car first, pulls open the door, and then turns to me.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the world stills.

No words. Just the heat of his gaze, the way his hand reaches for mine—steady, warm, real. Fingers brushing mine, a soft touch in stark contrast to everything before. A spark arcs between us, sharp and sudden, igniting something I can’t name but feel in every inch of me.

A silent acknowledgment of what just happened.

What we shared.

I slip into the seat, heart thudding as he closes the door with a solid thunk. Then he climbs into the passenger seat.