36. Nights Possession

CHAPTER 36

Night's Possession

WREN

Moonlight spills across her body, catching every curve and quiver as she stands outside her window. Her fingers flex, curling and uncurling at her sides, as though she isn't sure whether to protect herself or surrender. The need to capture this precise moment—the second where fear meets submission—burns through me, hot and electric. My finger presses the shutter, the camera clicks, and her surrender is mine forever.

“Beautiful.” I drink in the way the cold air draws goosebumps over her arms, the way she struggles to stay still, the effort written in every line of her body. “So perfectly obedient. So beautifully on display for me.”

The need to claim her builds, a force too primal to ignore. The camera clicks, framing her every motion. The way her lip trembles, the way her hands flex at her sides. Her silence speaks volumes, and I devour it.

“You spend so much time containing yourself,” I whisper, leaning close, my breath hot against her ear. “Always pretending, always concealing, always hidden.” My hand winds into her ponytail, tugging until she gasps, her head tipping back, her neck bared to me. “Even your hair is part of your disguise.”

Her breath catches, panic flashing across her face as headlights turn onto the street. I pull her back against me, my arm banding around her waist, pinning her tight. She freezes, breath trapped in her chest, until the car rolls by, oblivious to the scene playing out nearby. The shaky exhale she releases fills the air between us.

“Good girl.” I twist her around, pressing her into the rough brick wall, my body caging her in. She winces as the coarse surface digs into her back. I lift the camera, capturing the quick rise of her chest, the glance she throws toward the disappearing car.

I press two fingers beneath her chin, bringing her gaze back to me. “You’re not scared of someone seeing you. You’re scared about wanting it. You want someone to notice you.” My lips brush her neck, and I feel her pulse flutter erratically under my touch. “To finally matter to someone.”

I nip at her throat, savoring the way she stiffens. Another car passes, headlights sweeping over us. She tries to turn away, but I hold her still. My camera clicks rapidly, each shot a testament to her resistance, her fear, the hesitant surrender as she yields to the excitement she doesn’t yet understand.

“Look at me.” I pull the band from her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. My fingers tangle in the strands. “This is how I want it on Monday. No more hiding. No more disguises.”

“I—”

“You will.” My teeth close around her earlobe, biting down. “Because every time you run, every time you try to disappear …” I lift the camera, turning the screen toward her. The image is stark—her hair wild, her lips parted, her expression teetering on the edge of fear and desire. Moonlight casts her in a pale glow, vulnerable, exposed. “I will strip you down, until there’s nothing left to hide.”

My free hand trails down her throat, the camera swaying from my wrist as my fingers explore. Her skin is like ice under my touch, yet she’s so responsive—each tremor, each barely suppressed whimper is a song I want to hear again and again. She gasps as my hand moves lower, learning her body, claiming more of her. Her obedience, her unwillingness to move, feeds something dark within me, something possessive and primal.

“Monday morning.” My lips graze her jaw. She shivers. “Six A.M. The dance studio at school. Don’t make me come and find you.”

Her lips part as though she wants to say something, but she stays quiet .

“What? Don’t go quiet on me now.”

But she stays silent, glancing at the camera in my hand. The hesitation in her eyes only fuels my hunger.

The flash illuminates her, her head tipped back, her hair framing her face, her body caught in the glow. I tilt the screen toward her, watching her eyes widen as she takes in the image.

“See how exquisite you are when you stop running.”

Conflicting emotions cross her face. Anger, fear, and most intoxicating of all, confusion. She doesn’t know if she wants to fight or fold, but her stillness speaks louder than her silence.

Lights flick on in an apartment across the street, the glow spilling out onto the road. A faint tremor runs through her, her fingers twitching at her sides. Yet she doesn’t lift a hand to cover herself. Her compliance is a gift, and I reward her obedience by capturing her mouth with mine. My fingers tighten around her throat. The kiss is a brand, a reminder—she’s mine now, and no one else gets to touch her.

Her breathing is unsteady when I pull away, her eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from my kiss. I brush my mouth against hers once more.

“So fucking responsive. So perfectly mine.”

My hand trails down between her breasts. She shivers, and I smile. Each tremor, each gasp, feeds the hunger inside me. I lift my camera again, capturing her submission, her surrender, her arousal. Every image is mine—like she is mine. Every shaky breath, every unwilling arch into my touch.

I step back, giving her just enough space to think she has room to breath. But not enough to let her believe she’s out of my grasp. I don’t need the camera for this. My memory will imprint the way she stands there, half-naked, trembling, scared and turned on.

“Come with me.”

I catch her wrist, giving a small tug to guide her. Her steps are hesitant, her breathing shallow, as I lead her into the night. Beneath each streetlight, I stop her, positioning her in the pale glow, so I can take a photograph. My hands stay connected to her body, stroking down her spine, cupping her breasts, squeezing her ass. She jumps at every touch, every sound. And I love it. Love the way she trembles, and gasps, caught between wanting to run and knowing she can’t.

When we reach my car, I make her wait, facing the road, hands behind her back, breasts on display, while I circle her, photographing her.

“Stay still.” I adjust her position with a touch—straighten her shoulder, lift her chin—and take another shot.

I want her completely naked, her legs spread, her body offered to me without reservation. But she’s not ready for that … not yet.

“Get in, Ballerina. Before someone sees you standing here, half undressed, trembling like a little lost thing.” I reach out, brushing her hair back over her shoulder, my fingers trailing down the side of her neck, feeling her pulse thudding under my touch, and then lower so I can pinch her nipple. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Her eyes close for a moment, and she takes a deep breath. When she opens them, she ducks her head and steps into the car. She settles into the seat, her legs swinging in, her eyes fixed ahead, as if that can shield her from me. I lean down, my hand touching her cheek, turning her head toward me.

My lips cover hers, my tongue forcing itself into her mouth to tangle with hers. She lets out a soft moan, and I swallow it, savor it, then break away to stride around the car. The leather creaks as I sink into the driver’s seat. The air is charged, electric. The quiet hum of the engine fills the car, a stark contrast to the tension between us. Her hands are clasped in her lap, her knuckles white, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

I let the silence stretch between us, my eyes moving to her every few moments as I drive. When I move my hand from the gearshift to her thigh, my fingers stroking lightly against her warm skin, her breath catches. Her body goes rigid beneath my touch. I love it, the way she tries not to react, the way she fights the tremor that runs through her.

“You have no idea how irresistible you are like this.” My fingers trace idle patterns on her skin.

She swallows. “I hate this.”

I raise an eyebrow, letting my hand dip just beneath the edge of her shorts. “Hate what, Ballerina? Be specific.”

“This … this game. The way you keep pushing me.” Her voice trembles, but there’s an edge of anger beneath the fear.

A slow smile curves my lips. “I think you hate how much you like being pushed. How much you like being watched.”

“I don’t like it!” The denial tumbles from her lips, too fast to sound convincing.

“No?” My fingers move higher, over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and she sucks in a breath. “Then tell me to stop.”

She hesitates, her lips part, but no words come out.

“That's what I thought. You’re scared, and you’re turned on.”

“No.”

“Admit it.” My hand tightens slightly on her thigh. “Admit that you’re scared. Admit that you’re wet. Admit that you’re turned on.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, as though she can block out the truth. I watch her throat work as she swallows hard, refusing to answer.

“Fine. We’ll find out another way.” I turn off the road, and park. The engine cuts out, leaving only the heavy tension between us.

“Lie back.” I reach over, pulling the lever on the side of her seat, forcing it to recline, until she’s stretched out.

“I’m not?—”

“Stop lying.” My fingers brush the hem of her shorts. “I’ll stop the second you ask me to. But you won’t.” My fingers skim along the edge of her panties. “You’re not fighting nearly as hard as you think you are.”

I stroke a finger over her cotton-covered pussy. Her body jerks slightly, but she doesn’t pull away .

“Tell me the truth. Are you wet?”

Her silence is the only answer I need.

“Are you excited?” I stroke a circle around one nipple with my other hand, then drag my finger down over her ribs, around her navel, and hook it into the waistband of her shorts.

“Do you want to show me more?”

My hands continue their exploration, pushing past the thin barrier of her panties. She whimpers, her body arching when my fingers find her clit.

She’s wet. Soaked .

Leaning over her, I take her nipple into my mouth, sucking as my fingers move in rhythm, stroking and exploring. Her body curves further into me, no longer fighting but giving in, her breaths coming faster and faster.

I reach for my camera, angle it so it captures my mouth on her breast and take the photograph.

“Open your eyes.”

Her eyes flutter open, and meet mine, wide and uncertain, but there's no mistaking the heat that’s replaced her fear.

“Do you see?”

“I don’t …” She shakes her head.

“You don’t what?” I push a finger inside her, and she gasps. “Don’t want this? Or don’t want to admit that you do?”

Her hand finds my wrist, fingers wrapping around it, nails digging into me as her body begins to move in time with my fingers thrusting in and out of her. The tension holding her taut changes, is replaced by a new kind. Her hips tilt, chasing my fingers, and a soft moan escapes her lips.

“Oh god …” The words catch in her throat.

“Do you want to come?” My fingers pump steadily, sliding in and out of her body. My thumb finds her clit, sweeping over it in a matching rhythm, and she whimpers, arching into me.

Her cheeks flush, her back bows, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Her nipples, hard and pointed, tempt me, and I shift position so I can suck one into my mouth, tongue flicking over the tip once … twice … before I take it between my teeth and bite gently, tugging upwards until it pulls free.

“You’re mine, Ileana. Every inch of you, every fear, every desire. All of it belongs to me now.”