You never should have smiled at him that first time. Now the door to your apartment clicks shut behind you, and he is already there, leaning against the far wall with that familiar, unblinking stare. His name tastes like danger on your tongue, but you do not speak it. You simply stand frozen while he crosses the room in three slow strides, hands sliding around your wrists before you can think to pull away.
“You’re late,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rough. “I counted every minute.” His grip tightens, not enough to bruise yet, but enough to remind you that escape is no longer an option. He walks you backward until your spine meets the wall. The heat of his body presses close, and you feel the hard line of his arousal against your hip. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the way that coworker looked at you today? I watched. I always watch.”
Fear and something hotter coil low in your belly. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Strip. Slowly. I want to see what belongs to me.”
Your fingers tremble as you obey, peeling away each layer under his hungry gaze. When you are bare, he steps back just far enough to look, eyes raking over every inch like he is memorizing territory. Then he moves again, spinning you to face the wall, one hand pinning both of yours above your head. His free hand trails down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and between your thighs. Two fingers slide through your slick folds without warning, and a low growl vibrates in his chest.
“So wet already. You like being caught, don’t you?” He pushes those fingers inside you, curling them with deliberate pressure until your knees buckle. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you whisper, the words catching on a moan as he adds a third finger, stretching you with possessive intent. He works you open slowly, relentlessly, until your hips rock back against his hand. Only then does he withdraw, replacing his fingers with the blunt head of his cock. He pushes in with one long, unrelenting thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch burns sweet and deep.
He does not move at first. He simply stays there, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your neck. “No one else gets this,” he says, voice shaking with the force of his obsession. “No one else touches you, looks at you, even thinks about you. I would end them.” His hips snap forward, hard, and you cry out. Each thrust after that is a claim, deep and punishing, driving you higher while his free hand slides around to circle your clit with ruthless precision.
You come once like that, clenching around him, but he does not stop. He pulls out, spins you again, and lifts you so your legs wrap around his waist. He impales you anew against the wall, the new angle hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. His mouth finds yours in a bruising kiss, teeth nipping your lower lip. “Again,” he orders. “Come for me again. Show me who owns this body.”
You do, shuddering and gasping his name while he fucks you through it, pace growing erratic. When he finally follows you over the edge, he stays buried deep, pulsing hot inside you, whispering dark promises against your throat. “You’ll never leave.
I’ll make sure of it. You’re mine until the world ends.”
Later, when he carries you to the bed and ties your wrists to the headboard with his belt, the intensity only deepens. He spends hours between your thighs, tongue and fingers and cock driving you past every limit, each orgasm wrung from you like tribute to his obsession. By the time dawn filters through the curtains, your voice is hoarse from screaming his name, your body marked with the evidence of his possession, and the last thing you feel before sleep claims you is his arms locking around you like chains you never want to break.
You are his. Completely. And in the dark heat of that knowledge, you find a twisted, perfect ecstasy that nothing else could ever match.
