Two fingers thrust inside me without warning, curling to find that spot that makes my vision blur. My forehead presses against cool brick as I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Someone could see us," I protest weakly, even as my hips rock back against his invading fingers.
"Let them." The sound of his belt unbuckling sends a thrill of anticipation racing down my spine. "Let them see exactly what happens when you try to leave me."
He withdraws his fingers, replacing them with the thick head of his cock, teasing my entrance with maddening restraint. "Tell me who you belong to."
Pride wars with desperate need. "No one," I manage, though my body contradicts me, pressing back, seeking more.
His response is swift – one powerful thrust that buries him to the hilt, stretching me completely, drawing a cry I can't suppress. One large hand clamps over my mouth, muffling sounds that might attract attention.
"Wrong answer," he whispers against my ear, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in. "Try again."
The brutal pace he sets leaves no room for thought, only sensation. Each thrust drives me harder against the wall, the friction of rough brick through thin fabric adding painful counterpoint to the pleasure building between my legs.
His free hand snakes around to find my clit, circling with devastating precision. "Who do you belong to, Penelope?"
"You," I gasp against his palm, shame and arousal twining into an emotion I can't name. "You, Gage."
"That's right." His fingers increase their pace, matching the relentless rhythm of his cock as it drives into me. "Mine. Every. Fucking. Inch."
The dual stimulation—his cock stretching me to my limits, his fingers working my clit with expert knowledge of exactly howto break me—pushes me toward an edge I've tried desperately to resist.
"You don't get to leave," he growls, biting down on my earlobe hard enough to sting. "You don't get to run from this. From us. Fromme."
My body tightens around him, inner walls clenching as release approaches with humiliating speed. I hate that he can do this to me—reduce me to desperate need with such effortless skill—yet I can't fight the rising tide of pleasure.
"Come," he commands, voice strained with his own approaching climax. "Come on my cock while I remind you exactly who owns this perfect body."
The orgasm hits like violence—waves of pleasure so intense they border on pain, radiating outward from where we're joined. My scream is muffled by his hand, but I feel the vibration of it through my entire body as I convulse around him.
He drives into me one last time, deep and claiming, holding me flush as his release pulses inside, sealing his mark with every throb. His teeth sink into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, claiming me in the most primal way possible.
For endless moments, we remain locked together, both trembling in the aftermath. Reality seeps back slowly—the discomfort of brick against my chest, the distant sounds of the bus station, the cooling stickiness between my thighs.
As Gage withdraws, I feel empty in more ways than physical. He turns me gently to face him, his expression smoothing back into controlled neutrality despite the evidence of our encounter.
"Why did you run?" he asks, voice softer now as he tucks himself away, straightens his clothing.
The question pierces deeper than his physical claiming. Why did I run? Because I should want freedom. Because a woman with dignity wouldn't accept what I've accepted. Because I'mterrified by how easily my body submits to his. Because I'm more frightened by how my mind has begun to follow.
"I don't know who I am anymore," I admit, the truth spilling out before I can stop it. "I don't know if I'm still me, or just what you've made me."
His thumb traces my lower lip, gentle now where he was forceful before.
"You're still you, Penelope." His hand moves to cup my cheek. "The difference is you're also mine."
As reality reasserts itself, as Gage helps straighten my makeshift dress with surprisingly tender movements, the terrible truth crystallizes with painful clarity: I don't know who I am without him anymore. Freedom has become a theoretical concept rather than practical reality.
"The car is waiting," he says, voice returning to its usual controlled cadence. "We're going back to Chicago."
I follow him across the parking lot, legs still trembling from both pleasure and revelation. The bus to New York departs without me.
Freedom was always an illusion.
The Aston Martin purrs through the night, devouring miles of highway back toward Chicago. I lean my head against the cool window, watching raindrops race across the glass—each one disappearing as quickly as it forms, like my attempts at freedom.
Gage drives in silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched with the remnants of his fury. The space between us crackles with unspoken words and the lingering scent of what happened in that alley.
