Page 68 of Outcast’s Vow

“Beg for me,” I taunt, pushing ever further. “Beg for me like you could’ve done back on our wedding night.”

His eyes are laced with fire.

“Not my style.”

“Just like you don’t believe in love?”

“Stop your teasing, woman.”

“Like I said,” I smirk back. “All talk and no action.”

That really fires up my husband. He moves in.

I want this.

The first thrust is deep and slow. Like he wants me to be fully aware of what’s happening to me. Like he wants me to know what he can do. Baptiste’s rhythm is steady. Controlled. Reverential.

Like I’m something sacred.

His hand flattens against my thigh, guiding me into his rhythm. His weight is strong, but never too much. His cologne fills my lungs. I can see the city lights in the reflection of the glass as he takes me. Millions of people. All there below us.

If only they looked up at the penthouse. They would see a husband and wife.

They would see his grunt as he makes her squeal. They would see the pleasure in her eyes. How she can no longer stand without his hand lifting her wrists high. How my body buckles.

This isn’t the frantic wildness of our honeymoon. This is a man declaring intimacy. Of his dominance.

This is so clearly different from any mindless fucking.

I gasp. The window fogs. I feel his sweat against my skin. I taste his feverishness.

And then, when everything is at breaking point, he slows.

Fuck.

“Please,” I whimper.

I need this. I want this.

It’s all that’s needed for Baptiste to release. My voice is his trigger. My voice is his tether.

It’s the only control I have left.

“Sylvie.”

My name emerges like a guttural bark against my lips as he rips through me.

And everything blurs into an enchanting bliss.

He lets go of my wrists, and my hands fly down. My nails dig into his back. He doesn’t care. He’s lifting me up. I go limp. He takes me to the bed. We fall on it together.

Spent.

Happy.

In ecstasy.

And then, after what seems like an eternity, enough energy comes back to me to finally speak...