Chapter 17: Possess
The nursery was a still-life of softness. Pale grey walls, a mobile of drifting stars, the crisp scent of clean linen over the deeper note of fresh paint. In the rocking chair by the window, I was an island of quiet fatigue. Leo, a warm, milky weight in the crook of my arm, suckled with the frantic, rhythmic focus of the very new. His tiny fist rested against the swell of my breast, a starfish on a moon-white shore.
This peace felt stolen. Julian had been at the hospital for a twelve-hour shift. These hours were mine. The door whispered open.
He stood there, still in his scrubs, the blue fabric stretched across his shoulders. He’d discarded his lab coat. His eyes went immediately to Leo, then to my exposed breast, the line of my neck, the way my nursing gown had fallen open.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, his voice low. He kicked the door shut behind him.
“He’s almost done,” I murmured, unable to look away from Leo’s perfect, fluttering eyelids.
Julian crossed the room. He didn’t touch the baby. Instead, he sank to his knees on the plush rug before my chair. His hands, those skilled, ruthless hands, went to my thighs. He pushed the soft fabric of the gown up, past my hips, baring me to the waist. The cool air touched my skin, a contrast to the heat of my son’s mouth.
“Julian, not now,” I said, but it was a whisper, devoid of force.
“Now,” he said, simply. His gaze was fixed between my legs. “He takes what he needs from you. So do I.”
Leo gave a final, contented sigh and released my nipple, his head lolling back in satiated sleep. Carefully, I transferred him to the crook of my other arm, pulling my gown closed over my damp, tender breast. Julian watched the entire process, a lazy, possessive smile on his lips.
Then he leaned forward. He hooked his hands behind my knees and pulled, sliding me forward in the wide seat until my ass was on the edge, my legs splayed over the arms of the rocking chair. Utterly open. The vulnerability was absolute, sharper than the silk restraints had been.
He buried his face against me.
His tongue was flat and demanding, a hot, wet stroke from my opening to my clit. I jerked, a sharp gasp caught in my throat. I clutched Leo tighter.
“Quiet,” Julian murmured, his breath misting my soaked flesh. “You’ll wake the baby.” Then he went back to work.
This wasn’t lovemaking. It was consumption. His mouth was hungry, avid. He licked into me, deep, curling strokes that sought every hint of salt and musk. He suckled at my lips, his stubble a delicious abrasion on my inner thighs. When his tongue found my clit, it was to circle it with a surgeon’s precision—slow, deliberate, unrelenting circles that built a devastating, coiling pressure.
I rocked my hips, a helpless, tiny motion. He gripped my thighs, his fingers digging in, holding me still for his feast.
“Daddy’s drinking his dessert,” he growled, the vibrations against my most sensitive flesh making me whimper, “while our boy gets his breakfast.”
The obscenity of it, the sheer, raw truth of the statement, unspooled me. Here was my reality: my body was no longer my own. It was a source, a utility. For milk. For pleasure. Owned.
He pushed two fingers inside me, crooking them, finding a spot that made my vision bleach white. His mouth never left my clit. He sucked it, hard, into the heat of his mouth, his tongue flicking rapidly over the tip.
“Julian…” It was a plea, a prayer, a curse.
“Come in my mouth,” he ordered, his voice muffled, dark. “Feed me. Let me taste what’s mine.”
The orgasm broke over me not in a wave, but in a series of deep, internal pulses, a silent, screaming unraveling that tightened every muscle and then left me boneless. My hips bucked against his relentless mouth as he drank every shudder, every drop, his groans of satisfaction vibrating through me.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, his chin wet. He looked up at me, his eyes black with triumph. He licked his lips slowly, deliberately.
Still kneeling, he unfastened his scrub trousers. His cock sprang out, thick and urgent. He didn’t ask. He guided himself to my soaking, oversensitive entrance and pushed in with one solid, claiming thrust. I was so open, so pliant from my climax, he filled me in an instant, a stretching, complete possession.
He fucked me there, in the nursery rocking chair, with our sleeping son in my arms. His thrusts were deep and measured, each one a punctuated statement. Mine. His hands braced on the chair arms, caging me. His eyes never left my face, watching every flinch, every swallowed moan.
“This cunt,” he breathed, rocking into me, “is the best thing I’ve ever built. It made him. It takes me. It’s perfect.”
He came with a harsh, stifled grunt, pulsing deep inside me, his body going rigid against mine. For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the soft, squeaking rhythm of the rocking chair, still moving from the force of his thrusts.
He slowly pulled out, tucking himself away. He stood, towering over me, and leaned down to press a kiss to Leo’s forehead, then to my sweat-damp temple. He tasted of me.
“Pack a bag for him for tomorrow,” he said, his voice back to its normal, clinical warmth. “I’ve arranged a nursery at the hospital. You’re coming back to observe a triple bypass I’m leading. Ten a.m. Don’t be late.”
He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
I sat in the scent of sex and baby powder, my body humming, filled with him, my mind reeling. The nursery. The hospital. Observed. The words were a key turning in a lock. He wasn’t putting me on a shelf. He was bringing me back into his world, but on his terms. A display. A proof of his total dominion. I looked down at Leo’s sleeping face, at my breast, at the lingering ache between my legs.
The isolation of the penthouse had been one kind of cage. The operating room, under his scalpel-sharp gaze, would be another.