The Montclair penthouse felt like a storm trapped in glass. Rain hammered the windows, lightning slicing across the skyline, but inside, the storm was Vegas Montclair—and Pete, caught in its eye.
Pete's chest tightened as Vegas approached, eyes dark, predatory, a smirk twisting over lips that had haunted his dreams for weeks. Every step Vegas took was a promise and a threat, and Pete knew he wasn't prepared—he'd never be prepared.
"You've been good tonight," Vegas said, voice low, rough, and teasing. "So obedient. But pet… it's time you learn who really owns you."
Pete's stomach clenched, a mix of fear, resistance, and something darker he refused to name. "I… I'm not yours," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
Vegas chuckled, a dangerous, low sound that rattled through the room. "You will be." He moved like liquid, hands fast, firm, pushing Pete onto the bed in one seamless motion.
The chains were already there—cold metal waiting, prepared for this moment. Vegas cuffed Pete's wrists above his head with ease, smirking as Pete's pulse spiked, heart hammering with the mix of panic and anticipation.
"You're trembling," Vegas said, leaning down so his lips brushed Pete's ear. "Scared… or excited? Don't lie to me, pet. I see everything."
Pete swallowed, every nerve alive. "I'm… I'm not—"
"Shhh," Vegas husked, cutting him off with a finger pressed to his lips. "No words. Actions. That's how we'll speak tonight."
The first touch was deliberate, rough enough to sting, careful enough to make Pete writhe. Vegas explored, teased, tested the boundaries, every motion a lesson in desire and domination.
Pete tried to resist, to push back—but every brush of Vegas' hands, every press of his body against his, melted his control like wax. He hated that he wanted it, hated that his body betrayed him, hated that Vegas could make him feel this exposed, this vulnerable, and this alive.
"You feel that?" Vegas growled, lips grazing his neck. "That heat? That's mine. Don't fight it too hard… or you'll break."
Pete arched, a shiver rolling through him despite his protest. "I… I can't—"
Vegas pressed harder, teasing, rough, demanding obedience. "Oh, you can, pet. You will. And you'll thank me for it."
Time became a blur of sensation—fire, tension, lust, dominance. Pete's every nerve screamed, body trembling, mind fogged with need and fear. Every touch was calculated, every whisper deliberate, every bite and kiss a claim.
And yet, in the heart of it all, Pete felt… wanted. Entirely, completely, recklessly.
Vegas' smirk never wavered as he watched Pete's resistance falter, the chains a symbol not of captivity, but of surrender—the surrender Vegas demanded and Pete secretly craved.
"You're mine tonight," Vegas murmured, voice husky. "And don't you forget it, pet. Not ever."
Pete's chest heaved, eyes wide, body on fire, heart caught between panic and ecstasy. He wanted to scream, to fight, to pull away… and yet, he couldn't. Vegas had already claimed him—mind, body, and soul.
When the storm outside finally broke, lightning and rain a mirror of the chaos between them, Pete realized he was drowning in Vegas. Drowning—and loving it.