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Her lips part, but I interrupt her before she has a chance to speak.
“Dozens. How many other men are you fucking?” My words come out sounding like an angry snarl, but I don’t soften my tone.
“I…”
“Answer me,” I growl. “How many other men are you fucking?”
“No one else,” she whispers.
“How many other men have pumped your tight little cunt full of their cum, Etta?”
Shaking her head, she tries to drop her gaze, but I squeeze her face, refusing to allow her to hide from me.
“How many?” I demand.
“Only you,” she admits, her voice broken and weak.
“How many men have you taken care of you? How many men have loved you from the moment they saw you? How many men would rather die alone than spend a single day without you now that they’ve touched and tasted you? How many men are desperate to keep you, to love and fuck and breed and protect you? How many fucking men, Etta?” I demand, my chest heaving.
“No one else, just you,” she whimpers.
“Damn, fucking straight. There’s only me, Little One. There’s only me for you now. How many other men would want to spend the rest of their lives inside of you, because now they’ve felt how perfect you are, they know they’ll never find anything so unbelievable again? How many other men would give you rules and make sure that you’re taken care of and looked after? How many men would call you their good girl? How many would make sure you knew just how perfect you are?”
“Just you.” Her glassy eyes stare up at me, and even though I can see the confusion and fear and trepidation in her gaze, I know she understands what I’m forcing her to hear.
“No one but me will ever want you the way I want you. No one but me will ever take care of you the way I will. No one but me will ever control you the way I do. No one else will ever love you the way I love you.”
“Oscar.” My name on her lips is a desperate plea for something, but I won’t give her a get-out clause, I’ll never give her a chance to be free of me now. I’m too obsessed, too consumed, and even if she’s not there yet, I’ll make sure she feels the same about me, given enough time.
“Tell me who you belong to,” I demand.
“I’m…I’m yours.”
“You don’t sound that sure. Tell me again, who do you belong to?”
“I’m yours.”
“Are you mine, Etta? Are you my very good girl?”
I fight to hide the smile that’s threatening to consume my lips when I feel her shudder in response to those two words. I know that using them right now isn’t playing fair, but I’m only interested in winning, and exploiting her love of praise is my secret weapon.
“Yes, I’m yours,” she says more confidently now.
“All fucking mine,” I growl. “I already own you, Etta. This just makes it official. Do this for me. Be my wife. I need it, Little One. I need this the way you need to know how perfect you are, how special you are, how proud I am to be your man. You’re mine, but I want to give you my name, give our baby my name.” Sliding my hand over her stomach, I pull her lips to mine and lose myself kissing her.
“I—”
The only word I want to hear coming out of her mouth right now is yes.
“Say yes,” I demand.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Again.”
“Yes.”
“Say, I do.”
