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She takes me deeper, her tongue flat against the underside of my cock, and I can’t stop my hips from jerking forward slightly. She gags, her hands coming up to brace against my thighs, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she adjusts, relaxing her throat, taking me deeper still.

My fingers tighten in her hair, not guiding, just holding, anchoring myself as much as her. The sight of her like this—on her knees, her mouth full of me, her eyes closed in concentration—is almost too much to bear.

“Look at me,” I command, my voice rough with desire.

Her eyes open, meeting mine, and the connection is electric, a current passing between us that transcends the physical act. In this moment, she’s mine completely, willingly, despite the circumstances that brought us here.

I watch her as she works me with her mouth, her movements becoming more confident, more purposeful. She’s learning what I like, what makes my breath catch, what draws those involuntary sounds from my throat.

The knowledge that Noah is watching, that he’s witnessing this ultimate surrender, only heightens my arousal. Let him see. Let all of them see that she belongs to me, that she submits to me, that she services me on her knees.

The pressure builds at the base of my spine, pleasure spiraling tighter with each bob of her head, each swirl of her tongue. I’m close, so close, but I don’t want it to end like this. Not yet.

“Stop,” I growl, pulling back, my cock slipping from her mouth with an obscene, wet sound.

She looks up at me, confusion in her flushed face, her lips red and swollen from her efforts. “What—”

“Stand up,” I interrupt, already tucking myself back into my jeans, though I don’t bother with the zipper or belt. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, and for a moment, I think she might refuse again.

But then she rises, her movements fluid despite having been on her knees on the hard concrete.

She turns away from me, toward the blank wall, and places her palms flat against it, her back to me, her head bowed slightly between her outstretched arms.

The position pushes her ass out toward me, the simple cotton panties doing little to hide the curve of her, the slight dampness at the crotch betraying her arousal despite her reluctance. I step closer, my hands coming to rest on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric.

“Tell me you want this,” I say, my voice lower now, intimate. “Tell me you want me.”

She’s silent for a long moment, her breathing the only sound in the room. Then, so quietly I have to strain to hear, she whispers, “I want this.”

It’s not quite what I asked for, but it’s close enough for now.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties and pull them down, revealing the smooth, pale curve of her ass, the hint of pink between her thighs.

She steps out of them without being asked, her compliance sending another surge of arousal through me.

I run a hand over the newly exposed skin, feeling her shiver under my touch. She’s wet, ready for me despite everything, and the knowledge is intoxicating. I trace a finger along her seam, gathering that wetness, spreading it, preparing her.

“Thatcher,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, a plea or a protest—I’m not sure which.

“Shhh,” I soothe, leaning forward to press my lips against the nape of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. “I’m going to take care of you, Dove. I’m going to keep you safe.”

I free myself from my jeans again, positioning the head of my cock at her entrance. She tenses, her body rigid with anticipation or fear, and I pause, allowing her a moment to adjust to the idea of what’s about to happen.

“Relax,” I murmur against her ear, one hand stroking her hip in gentle circles. “Let me in.”

Slowly, I feel the tension begin to leave her, her muscles loosening incrementally until she’s ready. Only then do I push forward, entering her in one smooth thrust that has both of us gasping.

She’s tight, so fucking tight around me, the heat of her encompassing, overwhelming. I have to still for a moment, buried deep inside her, fighting for control. She’s breathing hard, her forehead pressed against the wall, her hands flat against the concrete on either side of her head.

“Okay?” I ask, the word strained, every fiber of my being screaming at me to move, to take, to claim.

She nods, a small, jerky movement, and it’s all the permission I need. I withdraw almost completely before thrusting back in, setting a rhythm that’s measured at first, controlled, but quickly grows more demanding as pleasure builds between us.

My hands grip her hips, guiding her movements to meet mine, the sound of flesh against flesh echoing in the chamber along with our ragged breathing. She’s stopped fighting it now, stopped pretending she doesn’t want this, her body moving with mine, seeking the same release.

I slide one hand around to her front, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it in time with my thrusts. She moans, the sound so raw and honest it sends a shudder through me.

“That’s it,” I encourage, my lips at her ear, my breath hot against her skin. “Let me hear you.”

She does, all pretense abandoned as pleasure takes over, her voice rising in a series of gasps and moans that drive me closer to the edge. I can feel her tightening around me, her body tensing in a different way now, building toward her release.

“Come for me, Dove,” I command, my fingers working faster, my thrusts deeper. “Show me you’re mine.”

As if waiting for those words, she shatters, a cry tearing from her throat as her inner walls clench around me, pulsing with her orgasm.

The feel of her coming undone is too much, pushing me over the edge after her.

My own release hits with blinding intensity, my vision narrowing, my world reduced to the feel of her body around mine, the sound of her pleasure mingling with my own.

For a moment, we stay like that, connected in the most primal way, both of us breathing hard, coming down from the high of shared ecstasy. Then, slowly, I withdraw, my hands gentle now as I help her straighten, as I turn her to face me.

Her face is flushed, her eyes bright, her lips parted as she catches her breath. She looks thoroughly claimed, thoroughly mine, and the sight fills me with a satisfaction deeper than the physical release.

“Good girl,” I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, my touch gentle despite the roughness of what just transpired. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t pull away either, allowing me this moment of tenderness, this brief connection before reality intrudes once more. I can see the questions in her eyes, the uncertainty, but now isn’t the time for explanations.

“Get dressed,” I say softly, stepping back to give her space. “We’re leaving.”

Relief flashes across her face, quickly masked but unmistakable. She believed me when I said she was safe, when I promised to protect her. Good. Trust is the foundation of ownership, after all.

As she gathers her scattered clothing, I adjust my own, making myself presentable again. By the time she’s fully dressed, I’ve composed myself completely, my expression controlled once more, betraying nothing of the storm of emotions still swirling inside me.

I move to the door, holding it open for her, gesturing for her to follow. “After you, Dove.”

She hesitates for just a moment, searching my face for... something. Reassurance, maybe, or a hint of what comes next. Then she straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and walks through the door, her dignity intact despite everything.

I follow, feeling the weight of Noah’s gaze on us as we pass the surveillance room. Let him see. Let him understand. Rhea is mine now, completely and irrevocably. And I protect what’s mine.