“Yes,” she breathed, his thumb dipping inside.
“If I pushed you down and filled you with my cock, would you enjoy it?”
Her pussy clenched at his words, the emptiness inside her acute. She gave a nod.
“Would you enjoy if someone else did it?”
Her body stiffened.
“Then you’re my slut.” His thigh pressed into her where she was empty, pressing her clit hard. “Mine.”
Even though she hated the word, when he said it like that, something inside her bloomed. She would remember it. Next time someone called her a slut, she would remind herself of this moment.
“Now, moan for me and I’ll give you a gift to take back.”
A noise escaped her lips, completely unbidden, muffled as he pressed his thumb inside her mouth while she rode his leg, her movement limited because of the tight hold he had on her.
“Good girl." She felt the words against her neck just as he opened his mouth. Teeth scored her flesh and the multiple sensations from all over made her neck fall back, her lips clamping on his thumb as her body shuddered. His teeth on her neck sent heat through her entire body, an orgasm surprising her with its intensity, the stars behind her eyelids so beautiful she chased it for another second, holding onto them.
This was precious. A willing orgasm was so fucking precious.
Tears in her eyes, she blinked, looking up at the high ceiling.
Awareness filtered in slowly, the sound of laughter and music and chattering, and she looked down to find his gaze. For the first time in her memory, the aftermath of an orgasm didn’t leave her feeling dirty, didn’t leave her wanting to rip her own skin open.
She felt... pure. Precious. Powerful. All illusions, but she held on to them for a moment too.
His face remained neutral as it always did, the only sign that he had been affected in any way being the large bulge between his legs and the enlarged pupil in his light eye. He let go of her wrists and took his thumb out of her mouth, her teeth denting the gloves deeply. A throbbing sensation on her neck made her bring her hand up, touching the sensitive spot.
He’d marked her. For the first time, he’d visibly marked her.
In her experience, marks were never good. Marks meant pain and cruelty and carelessness. The mark he had given her had been pleasure and tenderness and deliberation. It was a gift, a claiming for her to remember she was his, that no one could get to her as long as he was there.
And to someone who had been owned but never belonged, it meant everything.