She lets out a high, fractured scream. I bury myself to the hilt, my pelvis slapping against her thighs. I don't move immediately; I just hold her there, feeling the crushing, perfect grip of her interior, letting her adjust to my size. Then, I begin the work. I dominate her with slow, agonizingly deep grinds that hit the sensitive spot at the base of her spine. I lean down, my voice a whisper against her ear. "You're not leaving, Atara. You're mine."
I speed up, slamming into her, my movements becoming a blur of friction. I grab her wrists and pin them to the desk, forcing her to look at me, forcing her to see the hunger in my eyes. I pull back until only the tip of me remains inside, then plunge forward with enough force to make her body arch. She’s sobbing now, her voice raw, her nails raking down my arms as I drive her closer and closer to the edge.
I pull her to the very brink of explosion, then slow down, deliberate and cruel, dragging out the agony until her entire body is trembling with the strain of holding back. Then, I hit the pace again, hard, fast, and unrelenting. I watch her face, the way her features sharpen, the way her eyes lose focus and I hit her harder, deep and bruising, until she shatters.
She screams my name, her body convulsing, her internal muscles pulsing around my cock in a series of violent spasms. I don't let up. I keep the rhythm, pumping faster, my own release clawing at my throat until I roar and spill myself deep into her, a heavy, searing heat that leaves me shaking against her skin.
We collapse against each other, the silence slowly returning to the office.
She tries to pull away, her breath coming in ragged hitches, but I pull her closer, pinning her head against my chest. She protests, a weak, tired sound, but after a moment, she goes still, letting me hold her.
It’s a surrender. A quiet, exhausted acknowledgment that she’s stuck in my web, and I’m just as caught as she is. I trace the line of her spine, my hand lingering on the marks I’ve left on her skin. She is mine. Completely. And for the first time in years, the hollow ache in my chest is gone, replaced by a dark, possessive contentment.
17
Atara
"The sky is literally the worst part of this entire experience," I say, holding a jagged piece of cardboard over my head like a shield. "It’s just... more blue. It’s a trick. They want us to go crazy staring at it. Who makes a puzzle with three hundred pieces of identical sky?"
Maeve giggles, her fingers sticky with vanilla ice cream. She’s got a smear of it on her nose. "You’re being silly. It’s not a trick. It’s just the atmosphere. Daddy says the sky is just the way the light gets confused by the air."
"The atmosphere is mocking us, Maeve. That’s what it’s doing." I reach out and tickle her sides, and she shrieks, dropping the cloud piece she was holding into the bowl of melting ice cream.We both collapse onto the rug in the sunroom, laughing until my chest feels tight and my eyes are watering.
This is our thing now. Every morning, the sunroom. The puzzle. The ice cream at 10:00 AM because Maeve decided breakfast is just a suggestion. It’s quiet. It’s simple. Before this, my life was nothing but spreadsheets, back-to-back conference calls, and cold coffee. Now, my biggest problem is figuring out if Maeve’s questions are actually philosophical or if she’s just trying to distract me from doing the edges of the puzzle.
Maeve picks up a piece, studying it with the intensity of a diamond appraiser. "Atara? Why do you have a line here?" She points to the faint scar on my wrist from a papercut-gone-wrong in college.
"That? I was clumsy. Just a mistake."
"Mistakes are okay," she says, turning the piece over. "Daddy says mistakes are just things you haven't fixed yet."
I watch her. She’s so matter-of-fact about the way he speaks, like he’s a fountain of wisdom instead of a man who keeps a loaded handgun on his nightstand. "He says that, huh?"
"Yeah. He says if you don't fix them, you just keep them and call them trophies." She looks at me, her face serious. "Do you have any trophies?"
I feel a weird sting in my chest. I think about the life I left behind—the apartment, the career, the person I was before the vanpulled up. "I don't think so, Maeve. I think I just have a lot of stuff I’m still trying to figure out."
"Atara?" she asks after a while. She’s sitting still now, staring at the pile of blue pieces.
"Yeah, kid?"
"Why did you stop trying to leave?"
The question hangs there. I stop moving. The puzzle piece in my hand feels heavy. I look at her, and she’s just waiting, like she’s asked me what time it is. She doesn't think it’s a weird question at all.
I think about the money I’m digging through, the spreadsheets, and the heavy, solid sound of Lorcan’s boots in the hallway. I think about how he looked at me in his office. I think about the way his skin felt under my hands, rough and warm. I think about how my heart doesn't race because I'm scared anymore, it races because I'm waiting for him to walk through the door.
"I wasn't finished yet," I say.
Maeve just nods, perfectly satisfied. She picks up another piece. "Okay. I want to finish the sky before Daddy comes for lunch."
"Okay," I say.
I help her sort the blues by hue. We spend another twenty minutes just talking about the differences between 'ocean blue' and 'midnight blue.' She’s fascinated by the way colors shift. It’s the kind of conversation I never knew I wanted to have. It’s grounding. It makes the rest of the world—the guns, the threats, the constant feeling of being watched—feel a little bit smaller.
About an hour later, I feel a shift in the air. The temperature in the room seems to drop, and the light gets a little dimmer, blocked by a shadow. I don't look up, but I know Lorcan is standing in the doorway.
He’s just standing there. He doesn't cough or say anything. He’s just watching.
