Chapter 4: Taking control
The lock clicked open with a sound that was becoming as familiar as his own heartbeat. Ethan stepped into the penthouse, the city’s evening glow painting faint stripes across the floor. Ashlie was exactly where he’d left her in his mind, standing by the windows, but now she held a glass of water instead of wine. She watched him, her body still, a stillness that was no longer defiance but a deep, waiting calm.
“You’re early,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of its former chirpiness.
“I left when I wanted to.” He dropped his keys on the console table, the clatter sharp in the quiet. His eyes scanned her, from the sleek ponytail to the simple grey sweatshirt and leggings she wore. It was a disguise, an attempt at normality that he found amusing. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened around the glass. “Take that off.”
She didn’t ask what he meant. She set the glass down on the window sill and pulled the sweatshirt over her head. Underneath, she was bare. Her skin was pale in the twilight, the faint yellowish-green shadow of a fading bruise on her hip a testament to his previous visit. She stood there, exposed, waiting for his next command.
“The bedroom,” he said, turning and walking in that direction without checking if she followed. He heard the soft pad of her bare feet on the floor behind him.
The master bedroom was cool and dark. He flipped a switch, and soft, ambient light illuminated the large platform bed. The sheets were fresh, crisp white, a stark contrast to the tangled mess he’d left them in yesterday. He went to the closet, his movements efficient. He knew where she kept everything now. On a high shelf, he found what he was looking for: two long, silk scarves, one a deep crimson, the other emerald green. He’d noticed them before, expensive-looking things, probably gifts from admirers he didn’t care to know about.
He turned to face her. She stood at the foot of the bed, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her gaze fixed on the scarves in his hands. A faint tremor ran through her.
“On the bed. On your back.” His voice left no room for hesitation.
She climbed onto the mattress, the fabric sighing under her weight. She lay down, her head on the pillows, her body a straight line of submission. Her eyes were wide, watching him, but she didn’t speak.
He climbed up beside her. He took her right wrist first, lifting it toward the wrought-iron headboard. He wrapped the crimson scarf around it, knotting it firmly but not cruelly to one of the vertical bars. He did the same with her left wrist, using the green scarf, stretching her arms above her head. He paused, looking down at her. She was completely vulnerable, her breasts rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, her legs slightly parted. The pose was one of absolute surrender.
“Comfortable?” he asked, a mockery of concern.
She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Good.” He knelt between her legs, running his hands up the insides of her thighs, pushing them wider apart. He leaned down and kissed the bruise on her hip, a possessive, open-mouthed kiss that made her flinch. Then his mouth moved lower, his tongue finding the neat triangle of hair. He didn’t tease her. He licked a broad, slow stripe through her folds, and she gasped, her back arching off the bed, her wrists pulling against the silken bonds.
He ate her with a purposeful roughness, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to bring her to the edge quickly. He wanted her wet, wanton, and completely under his spell. Her moans filled the room, a soundtrack to his control. When he felt her body beginning to tense, her hips bucking against his face, he pulled away.
“Not yet,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He unbuttoned his own trousers, freeing his erection. It was hard and heavy. He stroked himself slowly, watching her frustrated, desperate eyes. “You’ll come when I’m inside you. All of you.”
He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed in brutally, sheathing himself in one deep, punishing thrust. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound, as her body stretched to accommodate him. He set a relentless pace, fucking her with a rhythm that was meant to overwhelm, to erase any thought but him. The bedframe knocked softly against the wall with each drive of his hips.
“This pussy is mine,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into her flesh. “Every damn inch of it. You remember that?”
“Yes! God, yes, Ethan, it’s yours!” she screamed, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow.
He fucked her until sweat gleamed on both their bodies, until her cries were continuous, a symphony of submission. He felt her climax building, the tight coil of her ready to snap. But he had other plans. He slowed, then stilled, withdrawing from her completely. She whined in protest, a raw, animal sound of need.
“Shhh,” he whispered, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He moved back, his hands sliding down to her ass, gripping the cheeks, spreading them apart. He spat onto his fingers, then rubbed the wetness over her other hole, a crude, efficient lubricant.
Her eyes flew open wide, real fear eclipsing the lust for the first time. “Ethan… wait. Not… I’ve never…”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he said, his voice low and dark. He positioned the head of his cock against the tight, clenched ring of muscle. “This is mine, too. All of you. Remember?”
He applied pressure. It was an invasion, a slow, burning stretch that made her cry out, a genuine pain. She tried to pull away, but the scarves held her fast. “Please… it hurts…”
“I know,” he breathed, pushing forward relentlessly. The resistance was intense, her body fighting him, but he was stronger. He shoved past the initial tightness, burying himself deep inside her ass with a guttural groan. The sensation was overwhelming, a hot, vice-like grip that stole his breath. She screamed, a torn, ragged sound, and tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.
He held himself there, letting her adjust to the feeling of being filled so completely, so intimately. Then he began to move. It was a slower, more brutal rhythm than before, each thrust a conquest of a new frontier. Her cries turned from pain to a strange, choked pleasure, the boundary between agony and ecstasy blurring into oblivion.
“You take my cock so well,” he rasped, pounding into her, watching her body jolt with each movement. “Your perfect, tight ass is mine now. Say it.”
Through her sobs, she managed the words. “It’s yours… my ass is yours…”
That surrender, from a place of such intense violation, triggered his own climax. He came inside her with a roar, his body shuddering, pumping his release deep into her bowels. He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in her neck. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. He looked down at her. She was a wreck: tear-streaked, sweating, bound, and filled with him. He untied the scarves, first one wrist, then the other. Red marks circled her skin. She brought her arms down slowly, wincing at the stiffness.
He stood up from the bed and began to dress. He didn’t look at her as he buttoned his shirt. “Clean yourself up.”
He walked out of the bedroom, through the living room, and out the door. The elevator ride down was silent. In his car, he sat for a moment, the scent of her, of sex and sweat and something darker, clinging to him. He started the engine and drove toward home, toward Sarah, but his mind was back in that bedroom, mapping the territory he had just claimed. It was no longer just an affair. It was colonialism. And he had just planted his flag in the most uncharted part of her.