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Gillian

“Y ou always give in eventually.” His voice is low, indulgent. Like this is inevitable.

I want to protest. I don’t.

His other hand moves lower, fingers brushing the inside of my thigh. Teasing. Testing. Knowing.

“You don’t even remember how many times you’ve done this, do you?”

I swallow, holding back the words.

He smiles, slow and satisfied. “Maybe we should change that. Maybe I should make you remember…”

His hands push my dress higher, his fingers finding bare skin, sliding, claiming, parting.

I inhale sharply as his touch finds me—slow, deliberate, a cruel tease. Heat blooms between my legs.

Oh fuck.

I don’t think. I just react.

He exhales, a quiet, knowing sound. “There you go.”

His fingers move—precise, relentless.

Slow circles, a drag of his thumb, pushing me to the edge.

I bite my lip, trying to hold back.

Ellis slows, dragging it out. Denying me.

“Say my name.”

I don’t even know if I can remember it.

His free hand grips my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

“You know better than that.”

His fingers stroke deeper, and I gasp.

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “Say it.”

I know what he wants. But I can’t give it to him.

“Always so defiant.”

He doesn’t stop. His fingers move with unforgiving precision, finding the spot that breaks me. I try to hold back. I fail.

A moan escapes—soft, ruined. He smiles, satisfied.

His fingers keep moving, coaxing another sound from me, then another.

I dig my nails into his hand, desperate for control, but he drags me under.

He grabs my wrist, twisting it behind my back. Then I remember—he’s not a fan of pain.

He strokes me through my release, making sure I feel every second of it.

He doesn’t stop until I slump against him, spent.

And not even then.

His fingers linger, tracing the heat between my thighs.

“See how easy that was?”

He lifts his hand, dragging his fingers up my inner thigh—a reminder.

Then he grips my hips, lifting me effortlessly.

I barely have time to catch my breath before I feel the hard, heavy press of him between my legs. He kisses me, deep and possessive. I taste wine and control and something darker.

The belt. The slow slide of leather. The metallic clink of his zipper.

He grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “You remember this, don’t you?”

A cruel question.

Clearly, my body does.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He shifts, pressing forward, pushing into me inch by inch, stretching, claiming, filling.

I gasp—the sudden, overwhelming fullness stealing my breath.

“You’re always so tight for me.”

My nails find their way to his back. But my body adjusts, molds to him, takes him deeper.

He holds me in place, letting me feel every inch of him buried inside me.

I clench around him, waves rolling through me. His smirk deepens.

Then he moves.

A slow withdrawal. A measured thrust.

Deep.

Deliberate.

Unstoppable.

I arch against him, my nails raking down his back.

I shouldn’t want this.

But I do.

He sets a rhythm, steady and devastating, dragging pleasure from my body like he owns it.

Because he does.

His fingers slip under my jaw, tilting my head back.

“Look at me.”

I force my eyes open. His gaze is dark, hungry.

I don’t break eye contact when he thrusts deeper, harder.

His grip tightens on my throat. “You always give in, don’t you?”

I want to say no.

But that would be a lie.

My back arches. My breath falters. My nails dig into his skin.

He pushes harder, faster, deeper.

He’s relentless. Controlled. Ruining me completely.

I break first.

Pleasure crashes through me, violent and consuming.

He doesn’t slow. He drives me through it, dragging it out.

Only when he’s satisfied does he finally let go.

A low growl escapes his throat.

Then he buries himself deep, shattering.

After, his fingers trail down my spine.

Slow. Possessive.

A reminder.

I close my eyes.

This is not me.

This is not my body.

Ellis grips my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. A single finger traces my lower lip, as his expression shifts—to something darker, something indulgent. “Say it.”

His voice is soft. Amused. Dangerous.

I don’t know what he wants me to say.

He likes this.

He strokes his thumb along my jaw. Waiting. Expecting. Knowing.

I stay silent. I may not know what he’s asking for, but I know better than to get it wrong.

His hand tightens in my hair and he pulls, yanking my head toward the ceiling. Just enough to remind me. “A man can’t even get a simple thank you. Even after that.”

“Thank you.”

He releases my hair and pushes my head lower.

“Good girl. I almost believed you.”

I give him what he wants.

I always do.

Because it feels like the only choice I have left.