"When it's over," he growled against her mouth, "you won't wonder if you're good enough. You won't compare yourself to anyone. You'll know—deep in your bones, painted inside this tight little cunt—that you're mine. That I chose you. That I'm never letting you go."
The sound she made was raw, inhuman—pure, desperate, surrendered need.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered, trembling in his arms. "Yes. Please."
"Good girl."
He lifted her like she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instantly, ankles locking, soaked pussy smearing hot slick across the front of his sweatpants as he carried her the few steps to the bed. Every movement dragged her swollen clit against the ridge of his cock; she whimpered into his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.
Sierra watched from the velvet chair, lips parted, fingers already buried between her own thighs, circling slowly—dark eyes fixed on them like she was memorizing every second.
