Chapter 2: The First Taste of Submission
His mouth was a brand. There was no finesse, no artful seduction in the way his tongue speared into her. It was a raw, claiming stroke that dragged a ragged scream from her throat. Her hips bucked off the couch, but his hands clamped down on her thighs, holding her open, immobile, as he feasted.
“God, Jane—” The words dissolved into a choked gasp as he flattened his tongue against her clit, circling it with a ruthless, relentless pressure. He was mapping her, learning the rhythms of her body with a terrifying, focused intensity. Every flick, every suck, was a calculated act of domination. He was proving his point, showing her the brutal possession he’d warned her about.
She was drowning in it. Her fingers scrabbled against the cool leather, finding no purchase. Her world narrowed to the hot, wet suction of his mouth, the coarse scrape of his stubble on her inner thighs, the twin points of pain where his fingers dug into her flesh. Pleasure, sharp and electric, coiled tight in her belly, a spring wound to breaking.
“Please—” she begged, the word torn from her. She didn’t know what she was asking for. More. Stop. Everything.
He ignored her. He added his fingers, pushing two inside her with a rough, deep thrust that stole her breath. He curled them, finding a spot that made her vision whiten at the edges. He worked her with his hand and his mouth in a vicious, perfect syncopation. The sound was obscene, wet and slapping, filling the quiet room alongside her broken moans.
She was close. So close. The tension was a live wire in her core, sizzling, about to snap. She was chanting his name now, a desperate, broken litany. “Patrick, please, I’m gonna—just let me—”
He pulled his mouth away.
The sudden absence was a physical shock, a cold void where there had been searing heat. She cried out, a sound of pure, agonized frustration. Her eyes flew open. He was looking up at her from between her legs, his chin glistening with her wetness. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but his expression was fiercely controlled.
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Not yet.”
“You bastard,” she sobbed, her body trembling with denied release. She tried to close her legs, to twist away, but his grip was iron. “You fucking cruel bastard.”
“You wanted this,” he reminded her, his tone chillingly calm even as his chest heaved. “You wanted to see the monster. This is what he does. He takes. He doesn’t give until he’s ready.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching her face as she shuddered at the sensation. He brought them to his lips, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on hers. The act was so deliberately debauched it made her stomach clench with a fresh wave of need.
“I hate you,” she breathed, but the words had no force.
A ghost of his old smirk touched his lips. “No, you don’t.”
He lowered his mouth to her again.
This time, his tongue was a slow, torturous flat stroke that made her sob. He was relentless, building the pressure inside her again with agonizing precision. He would lap at her clit until her thighs trembled, then retreat to trace her folds, denying the direct contact she craved. He pushed three fingers inside her, stretching her, crooking them until she saw stars.
“Patrick, for God’s sake—!”
He hummed against her, the vibration catapulting her higher. The coil wound tighter, a searing knot of pure need. Her begging became incoherent, a slurry of “please” and “fuck” and his name. Tears of frustration leaked from the corners of her eyes. She was a live wire, sparking and raw, completely at the mercy of his mouth.
He stopped again, pulling back just as her body began to seize.
A raw, shattered scream ripped from her throat. She thrashed beneath him, her skin slick with sweat. “I can’t—you can’t keep—!” She was sobbing in earnest now, past pride, a wrung-out, pleading mess. “Make me come. Please, just make me come. I’ll do anything.”
He slid up her body, the rough denim of his pants abrasive against her inner thighs. His own arousal was a hard, thick line pressed against her hip. He braced himself above her, caging her in. His face was wet from her. She could smell her own scent on his skin.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and utterly serious, every syllable etched with intent. “Once I make you come, once I’m inside you, you’re mine.” He stared down, his gaze stripping her bare. “When we’re alone, like this, you give me control. You give me everything. I will take you when I want. How I want. On this couch, on the floor, bent over your kitchen counter. However I choose. Do you understand?”
Her mind was a haze of need, her body screaming for relief. But his words, the sheer possession in them, cut through the fog. She focused on his eyes, on the fear and the hope warring behind the command. She saw the little boy who lost everything, the man who built a fortress, and the crack in the wall that was only for her.
With a strength that surprised them both, she wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him down roughly, her mouth crashing against his. She tasted herself on his lips. She broke the kiss, her breath hot against his face.
“If you stop now,” she whispered, her voice graveled and low, “if you walk out that door without finishing what you started, I will get my service weapon and shoot you on your way to the car.”
A beat of silence hung between them. Then a real, genuine laugh burst from him, shock and delight mingling in the sound. It transformed his face. The darkness didn’t leave his eyes, but it was joined by a fierce, blazing light.
The darkness didn’t leave his eyes, but it was joined by a fierce, blazing light. He kissed her again, this one different—softer, a slow savoring that felt like a promise and a thank you. Then he shifted his weight, his mouth leaving hers to blaze a hot, wet trail down her throat, over her collarbone.
He dropped his mouth to her nipple, sucking hard enough to make her gasp. The pressure was immediate and electric, a direct line to her throbbing core. Then his suction gentled, becoming a soft, pulling kiss before his tongue swirled around the peak in relentless, wet circles. His other hand found her opposite breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling her other nipple, teasing it to an aching point.
Teresa’s hands, of their own volition, slid into his hair, fingers tightening in the soft strands. He lifted his mouth from her breast with a wet pop. “Hands over your head,” he ordered, his voice a rough caress. “Keep them there, or I won’t let you come at all. I’ll leave you right here, just like this.”
She stared up at him, her breath coming in short pants. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” His gaze held hers, utterly serious, no trace of his usual play. The man who had denied her climax twice was entirely present in that look.
Teresa saw he meant it. A furious, wanton thrill shot through her. He gave her a wicked grin, seeing her comprehension. With a frustrated huff, she dropped her hands back, lacing her fingers behind her head, the position arching her back and pushing her breasts more fully toward him.
“Good,” he murmured, his breath hot on her damp skin. He returned to her nipple, his mouth and hands working in a devastating tandem. “I’ve wanted to touch these for years,” he confessed, his words muffled against her flesh. “Every time you wore that grey sweater. Every time you leaned over a crime scene file. I’d watch the way the fabric pulled. They’re so fucking perfect.”
The filthy, specific praise made her skin flush. “How long?” she asked, her voice shy and rough. “How long have you been watching me?”
He gave her nipple a deep, rhythmic suck that pulled a moan from her chest. “Every day since I met you,” he said, lifting his head just enough to let the words settle. “I’ve catalogued every sigh, every frown, the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.” To emphasize his point, he began a slow, deliberate grind of his thigh against her wet pussy, applying a firm, delicious pressure exactly where she needed it.
Teresa arched, her hips moving in tiny, involuntary circles against the hard muscle of his leg. He went back to playing with her breasts, his mouth and hands everywhere, his attention solely focused on the responses he could wrench from her body. The dual assault was unbearable. Pleasure, sharp and bright, began to build from a wholly unexpected place—a deep, resonating ache centered in her breasts that spiraled outwards, syncing with the grinding pressure below.
It was a new, terrifying intensity. She felt it gathering, a coil of pure sensation originating from where his mouth suckled and his fingers pinched. She arched harder, pressing her nipple firmly into the wet heat of his mouth, a silent, desperate plea.
“More,” she begged, the word stripped bare. “Please, just like that.”
He obeyed, his touch becoming more possessive, more focused. He was allowing it. He was guiding her toward a precipice she didn’t know existed. The orgasm didn’t crash over her; it erupted from the center of his attention, a rolling, shattering wave of release that originated in her swollen nipples and radiated outward, seizing her entire body in a long, silent convulsion before sound returned as a broken cry.
The cry tapered into a ragged gasp, then a stunned, breathless silence. Her body continued to pulse with unfamiliar aftershocks, a deep, full-body throbbing that left her nerves singing.
“Holy fuck,” Teresa whispered into the quiet, lamplit air.
She lifted her heavy head from the couch cushion to look down at him. Patrick had gone still, his cheek now resting against her sternum, listening to the frantic gallop of her heart. He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, his expression one of open, unrepentant satisfaction.
“What,” she managed, her voice shredded, “what was that?”
He stopped the slow, absent grinding of his thigh against her. He lifted himself up on his elbows, looking down the length of her body and then back to her face. A slow, smug grin spread across his features, pure male arrogance mixed with genuine wonder. “You’ve really never come from your breasts played with before?”
She shook her head, a minute movement. Her mind was struggling to catch up, to process the seismic shift in her own body’s geography. “No. That’s… not a thing. Is that a thing?”
He barked a short, disbelieving laugh. “It is.” His blue eyes swept over her flushed skin, the sheen of sweat. He seemed to be solving a new, delicious puzzle. “Damn,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “How many other spots hasn’t she explored yet?”
A weak, incredulous laugh escaped her. She felt boneless, conquered, and powerfully alive. “How many are there?”
Patrick’s grin turned predatory again, but his eyes were serious, calculating. He shifted his weight, finally freeing his hands to trail a single finger down her throat, over the frantic pulse there, then tracing a slow circle around one tender, peaked nipple. She shuddered violently.
“With enough time?” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through her. “With the right conditioning? I could use any part of your body to make you come, Teresa. The back of your knee. The inside of your wrist. The small of your back.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “I could make you scream just by whispering the right words in the dark. It’s all just nerve endings and psychology. And I am very, very good at both.”
The declaration should have frightened her. It did. But the fear was now inextricably tangled with a molten pull of desire so profound it felt like vertigo. He was offering her a lifetime of being studied, of being taken apart and remade solely for his pleasure—and her own. The case file on her coffee table, the pretense of a normal life with Pike, it all seemed like ash.
“Prove it,” she heard herself say.
His grin was a blade. "Oh, I intend to. But not all at once." He kissed her, a hard, biting press of lips that tasted of her own salt. "I think I'll save that for another time." His hand slid down her stomach, fingers trailing through damp curls. "A reason for you to keep me around."
Teresa smiled up at him, breathless and pliant. "Oh yeah?"
"Mmhmm." He gave her a quick kiss on the lips, almost chaste compared to what they'd been doing. He began to shift his weight, preparing to rise. "I want to go to the bedroom. Properly."
Instead of moving, Teresa stretched leisurely under him. The movement arched her back, pressing her still-sensitive nipples against his chest. She let out a soft, contented sigh, settling deeper into the worn leather. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, held a challenge. "I think I'm happy right here." Her voice was a low, teasing murmur. She knew she was pushing, but she just couldn't help herself.
He went perfectly still. His eyes narrowed, that calculative spark returning. He was assessing her, measuring this new defiance. The corner of his mouth twitched. "You're going to be difficult."
"Always."
He studied her for a long moment, his eyes tracing the lines of her smug satisfaction. The air between them shifted, the playful challenge solidifying into something more deliberate. He moved, pushing himself up to kneel on the floor beside the couch, his gaze never leaving hers.
"You have a choice," he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual melodic lilt. It was flat, factual. "You can get up and walk to the bedroom under your own power. Or I will carry you in and spank you for not listening."
He stood up.
Teresa’s mouth dropped open. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, the languid pleasure evaporating. "You wouldn't dare."
Patrick leaned over her, bracing his hands on the couch back on either side of her head. He brought his face close to hers. "I would," he said, each word a quiet promise. "And I'd make you orgasm while I was at it."
Teresa studied him, searching for the bluff. She saw none. She saw only the man who had denied her climax twice to prove a point, the man who had just orchestrated a shocking release from her breasts alone. He was entirely serious. A reluctant, giddy thrill shot through her. She rolled off the couch with a huff, landing on her feet.
"Fine," she grumbled, having to smother her grin as she petulantly marched past him toward the hallway.
She could feel his eyes on her the entire way. As soon as she flopped onto the center of her bed, she saw that Patrick had followed her and was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow.
"Everything interesting on your body jiggles when you walk like that."
Teresa felt a hot blush creep up her neck. "Shut up."
He walked to the bed, his movements fluid. His fingers went to the button of his pants.
Teresa was watching his hands intently now, more than eager to finally have him inside her. He stopped, only the button undone, and looked at her.
Patrick tilted his head. "On your stomach."
Teresa rolled her eyes. "Oh, okay, boss," she muttered, and rolled over, crossing her arms and resting her head on them. The sheets were cool against her front, a contrast to the heat pooling low in her belly.
She heard the soft rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle. Patrick stripped out of his pants and underwear and knelt up beside her on the bed. His hand, warm and sure, landed on her upper thigh. It slid up slowly, palm rasping over her skin, to cup the full curve of her ass cheek. He squeezed, appreciating the give of her flesh.
"Do you want to do this or not?" he asked, his voice a teasing rumble.
"If you don't hurry up, I'll look after myself," she said into her folded arms, the petulance only half-feigned. She wriggled her hips slightly. "I'm getting cold."
The swift, slightly stinging smack landed without warning. The sound was a sharp crack in the quiet room. Teresa gasped in surprise, her body jerking. She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at him in surprise as a warm, blooming heat spread from the point of impact.
"You can do that another day," he said, his voice dropping. He shifted to kneel between her legs, his knees pressing hers apart.
She snorted, dropping her head back onto her arms as she huffed, "That will be the day."
"It will," Patrick agreed, utterly certain.
He grabbed a pillow from beside her head. She could feel him move, but couldn't see what he was doing until he slid the pillow firmly under her hips, tilting her pelvis up. The position was immediately, profoundly more exposed. He guided her to bend one knee out to the side, opening her completely to him. Cool air brushed over her wet folds, making her shiver.
“Jane?” She asked, her voice uncertain.
“Hush,” he whispered softly, “Let me see.”
He didn’t touch her there, not yet. Instead, his palms smoothed over the planes of her back, warm and possessive. He began to slowly kiss his way down her spine, each press of his lips a brand against her vertebrae.
Between kisses, his voice was a casual rumble against her skin. “Do you remember when the CBI threw you that ten-year anniversary celebration?” His lips found the small of her back. “Some idiot hired a male stripper to dance around as people arrived.”
Teresa tensed. “This better have a point, Jane.”
The swift, stinging smack landed on the same cheek he’d struck earlier. She yelped, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“Answer me,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“Yes,” she muttered into the sheets. “I remember.”
“Do you remember,” he continued, his mouth moving lower, his words ghosting over her skin, “when he tried to grind against your ass from behind, and you literally ran across the room yelping ‘Not my butt, not my butt!’?”
Her face flushed with the memory of her own flustered panic, the hoots of her colleagues. “Yes,” she said, the word quieter, more reserved.
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the dimples at the base of her spine. To her surprise, a soft gasp escaped her. The sensation was acute, a direct line of pleasure she hadn’t anticipated. Both of his hands slid up her thighs, curving to cup the fullness of her ass. He squeezed, a firm, appreciative knead.
“You really do have a gorgeous ass,” he murmured, his thumbs tracing the crease where cheek met thigh. “Maybe I should make you wear a short dress with no underwear when I’m around. So I can admire it whenever I want.”
Teresa had no reply. The firm squeeze and deliberate caress of his hands was strangely, deeply arousing. She pressed her face into the pillow.
“I have an idea why,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing a theory on a case. “Some people are wired with sensitivity in specific, often overlooked areas. I’m pretty sure your ass is a spot for you.” He pressed another open-mouthed kiss, wet and hot, to the center of one cheek.
Teresa unintentionally lifted her hips a little, seeking more pressure. When his mouth lifted, she let out a shaky breath.
Patrick began to place open-mouthed kisses all over her ass cheeks, languid and thorough. Each one was a shock of heat, a promise. He used his thumbs to gently spread her cheeks apart. The air was cool on a part of her that had never been exposed like this.
“I’m going to lick your asshole,” he stated, the clinical filth of the words making her jerk.
She lifted her head. “What—”
He put his mouth on her before she could finish.
The flat, wet stroke of his tongue over the tight furl of muscle there was an electric jolt. Her words died, transforming into a gasping, shuddering “Oh my god.” Sensation, raw and shocking, washed over her. It wasn’t penetration, just the slick, firm pressure of his tongue circling, lapping. Her back arched, pushing her ass up toward his mouth a silent plea for more.
He hummed against her, the vibration traveling through her entire nervous system. One of his hands slid from her hip down between her legs, his fingers finding her clit, slick and throbbing. He rubbed slow, tight circles there, matching the rhythm of his tongue.
“Fuck,” she choked out, her fists clenching the sheets. The dual stimulation was unbelievable, a dirty, perfect overload. He was proving his hypothesis correct with devastating efficiency. Every nerve in her body felt focused on those two points of contact.
He pressed the tip of his tongue against her, applying steady pressure until the muscle yielded just slightly. The intrusion was minimal but profound. A broken cry tore from her throat. His finger on her clit moved faster, his touch becoming demanding.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice muffled against her skin. “Come on my tongue.”
The command, the sheer deviance of the act, shattered her. Her orgasm hit like a seizure, a rolling, convulsive wave that ripped through her with violent intensity. She screamed, the sound raw and unrestrained, as her body shook under his mouth and hands.
He didn’t stop. He worked her through the climax, his tongue relentless, his finger milking every last spasm from her clenching core until she was sobbing with overstimulation, pushing weakly back against his face.
Only then did he lift his head. She collapsed onto the pillow, completely spent, trembling. She heard him move, the tear of a foil packet. Her mind was hazy, floating.
The blunt, thick head of his cock pressed against her entrance, slick with her wetness. He was still kneeling behind her, her hips still raised on the pillow. He leaned over her, his mouth near her ear.
“Now you’re mine,” he breathed, and thrust into her in one deep, claiming stroke.
She was so loose and wet from her climax that he buried himself to the hilt without resistance. The feeling of being utterly filled, stretched, and pinned chased a fresh, ragged moan from her lips. He didn’t move for a moment, letting her feel the full, invasive weight of him.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his control fraying. He withdrew almost all the way, then slammed back in, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm from the start. The bed rocked with the force of it.
Each thrust jarred through her, a visceral reminder of his possession. The angle was deep, punishing, perfect. She could only take it, her cries muffled by the pillow. One of his hands gripped her hip, holding her in place, the other fisted in her hair, keeping her head down.
“This cunt is mine,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she sobbed, the word torn from her. “It’s yours, Patrick.”
He swore, a filth-ridden litany, as his hips pistoned against her. The slap of skin, their ragged breathing, the creak of the bed—it was a symphony of surrender. He drove into her with a final, desperate surge, his body going rigid as he came, a low, guttural roar escaping him as he emptied himself deep inside her.
He collapsed over her, his weight a welcome anchor. His breath was hot and ragged against her shoulder. They lay tangled, slick with sweat, the air thick with the scent of sex and skin.
After a long while, he shifted, pulling out of her gently. He disposed of the condom and slid beside her, pulling her back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair. They didn’t speak.
The single lamp from the living room cast a weak, golden light across the foot of the bed. Teresa stared at the pattern it made on the wall. Her body felt used, wrecked, and profoundly at peace. His even breathing slowly deepened into sleep.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
The screen lit up the dim room. A text notification from Marcus Pike glowed in the darkness: ‘Hope your case review went ok. Dinner tomorrow?’
She watched the light fade as the screen went dark. Patrick’s arm tightened around her waist in his sleep, a possessive reflex. She closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart against her back. The decision, when it came, felt less like a choice and more like a tectonic plate settling into its final, inevitable position.
She did not reach for the phone.