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He moves closer once more, his hands finding my waist, thumbs stroking over the lace of my panties. “And now you’re mine. Every inch of you. And I’m going to consume you.”

I take one step away from him, followed by another, and he follows my retreat through the suite until my legs hit the edge of the bed. I climb onto it quickly, scrambling to the center and pulling my knees to my chest, trying to cover myself, futilely trying to put a barrier between us. “Fine,” I say, my voice coming out harsher than I intend, coated in a layer of ice I’m desperately trying to maintain. “Just get it over with.”

Vance stares at me for a long moment, his head tilted to one side with an unreadable expression. “No, sweetheart,” he says, beginning to unbutton his shirt. “That’s not how I fuck. You’re going to enjoy this.”

He strips methodically, his eyes never leaving mine. His shirt comes off, revealing a torso carved from marble—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and abs that look chiseled from stone, with a dark trail of hair leading down from his navel. He’s remarkable, objectively beautiful in a way that feels unfair, all hard lines, shadowed muscle, and coiled power.

My eyes betray me, roaming lower when his hands move to his belt. He undoes the buckle, the leather whispering through the loops as it pulls it free. The zipper follows, and his pants fall to the floor.

God. Fuck.

He’s huge, thick and heavy against his thigh, already half-hard and growing under my gaze. Heat floods my face, a traitorous warmth pooling low in my belly despite my faltering resistance. My body doesn’t care about my hatred. It responds to him like it was designed to, like biology and chemistry are conspiring against my will.

“See something you like?” he asks, one eyebrow raised, a smirk playing on his lips.

I look away, squeezing my eyes shut. “I hate you.”

“I hear your lips…” The bed dips when he climbs onto it, crawling toward me with the predatory grace of a lion. He reaches for me, his hands strong and certain as they pull my knees apart, spreading me open and putting my wetness on display for him. “But your body tells a very different story. I haven’t laid a hand on you, but you’re fucking soaked.”

He settles between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his skin hot against mine.

“Look at me,” he commands. When I don’t, his fingers wrap around my jaw, turning my face toward his. “Look at me when I take you. I want to see your eyes when you realize there’s no going back. That you’re mine.”

I open my eyes and stare up at him, pouring every ounce of hatred and defiance I possess into my gaze. He smiles down at me, dark and triumphant, as he pulls my panties to the side and positions himself against my entrance.

“Condom.” The word tumbles anxiously over my lips. He shakes his head, and I shove at his chest, trying to push him off me. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

“I know exactly where I’ve been. That I’ve wrapped up every fucking time.” His stare is unwavering, he flexes his hips just enough to press his thick head firmly against me. “But you’re different, sweetheart. You’re my wife, and I’m going to feel every bit of you.”

He pushes in, and the stretch burns. It’s a sharp intrusion that makes me gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders and nails digging into muscle. He’s big—too big—filling me so completely I can’t breathe. He doesn’t give me any time to adjust. He pulls back and thrusts forward again, deeper this time, seating himself fully inside me with a groan torn from his chest.

“Fuck,” he growls, his forehead dropping onto mine. “You feel perfect wrapped around my bare cock.”

I turn my face away, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to retreat into the cold indifference I promised myself, the performance of a woman enduring rather than participating. But he won’t let me hide from his pleasure. His mouth finds my breast, rolling my nipple between his lips and teeth until I’m arching despite myself, and a whimper escapes my throat.

He sets a brutal pace, pounding into me with a rhythm that feels like punishment and possession in one. Each thrust drives me harder into the mattress, his hips snapping against mine with wet, filthy sounds that fill the room. He’s not making love to me. He’s not even fucking me. He’s marking his property, staking his claim with every slap of his body against mine and every grunt of satisfaction that rumbles down my ear.

“You’re mine,” he grits out, his teeth finding my throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “This body is mine. This cunt is mine. Say it.”

I shake my head, tears pricking at my eyes, my body betraying me with every stroke as pleasure builds without regards to my efforts to deny it.

“Say it,” he demands, his hand sliding between us. Finding my clit, he rubs tight, unerring circles, and I cry out in pleasure, my hips involuntarily bucking against him.

“Say it, Sophia. Tell me who owns you. Who makes you feel this fucking good?”

“Go to hell,” I snarl, but it sounds weak and desperate.

He laughs, shifting his angle, hitting some spot inside me that has me moaning with every thrust. The pleasure is building, coiling tight and hot in my belly. I’m panting and writhing, so close to the edge I can taste it.

Without warning, he stills completely, buried deep inside me. His fingers pull from my clit, and his hips cease their movement. I whimper at the loss, my body throbbing around him, aching for the release that was within reach.

“Please,” I breathe before I can stop myself.

“Please, what?” He sounds so calm and controlled, while I’m falling apart beneath him.

“Don’t stop.”

“Oh, I’m not stopping, sweetheart. But you’re not coming until you ask properly.” He pulls out slowly, almost completely, and then thrusts back in hard, making me cry out. “And definitely not until I give you permission.”