My legs were still shaking when he dragged me outside. The night air was sharp against my flushed skin, but his grip on my wrist kept me hot, tethered, burning.
“Where are we.” I started, but the question was cut off when he opened the door of a sleek black car and shoved me inside.
He climbed in, his presence filling the space, his hand resting heavy on my thigh. Every time the car hit a bump, his fingers squeezed, reminding me who was in control.
“You think I’m done with you?” His voice was low, dangerous.
My thighs pressed together. “N-no.”
“Good,” he said. “Because we’re not stopping until you understand exactly what you belong to.”
The ride was a blur of neon lights and pounding heartbeats. By the time we reached his place—a penthouse that loomed high above the city—my body was
