Innocence (Tales of Olympus #1)(62)

He slammed into her.

Yes!

His hips drove into her in delicious rhythm. A tug on her throat told her he’d taken hold of her leash. He was being gentle, but reminding her she was owned.

“My beautiful darling, how well you beg.” Another beautiful stroke. And another.

Her orgasm blew up like a bomb, a silent explosion, a billowing mushroom cloud against a sunset. Her limbs weakened, body wracked with aftershocks of the orgasm she’d been dying for.

She ended up bowed, head resting on her forearms and bottom in the air as he battered her from behind. At last he growled and finished.

When he tugged her up and led her to the bathroom, she clung to him with her arms around his waist. She stood as if in a dream. A trance, a reality that mirrored the life she wanted, as if her world had turned upside down but she found she could live in the reflection. In fact in this moment, she wanted to live there forever.

Marcus took her into the shower and turned on the heated spray that soothed every part of her.

“You did so well, goddess,” he murmured as he washed her body, slowly, inch by glistening inch. His own cock jutted out from his body, hard again, but he didn’t make a move to satisfy himself, or make her do it. He cleaned every inch of her, even shaved her legs and mons. Meanwhile she felt like she was floating, like she’d never step foot back on the ground while he cared for her like she was a precious treasure. Precious to him.

When he dried her off and propelled her towards the bedroom, she felt drowsy. Her body was languid, her thoughts sluggish. He’d put her under a trance and she didn’t want to wake. So it was good when he took her back to bed and tucked her in. He sat beside her and then leaned down, pressing the sweetest kiss to her forehead. He lingered there long moments, his head bowed over hers like he was in prayer.

As she sank off to sleep, the image remained in her head, him bowing like a supplicant even though she was the one who’d just given her submission.





Nineteen





So this was...different.

Cora sat at the table with Marcus for breakfast later that week. Yes, at the table, not under or beside the table at Marcus’s feet.

She shook her head and took another bite of her eggs.

Marcus was reading the paper, apparently completely oblivious to her. He hadn’t said a word to her this morning, not even when he’d set her plate on the table opposite his instead of on the floor.

It was a first. The last few days, even after he’d put away the chain, the plate had still gone on the ground.

She hadn’t known how to feel about that. Was he rewarding her for her submission in the bedroom? Or had he just finally realized that, duh, there was no point in chaining her if she’d be scooped up if she tried to leave the penthouse anyway?

But that would’ve been true all along, so the chain had been more about humiliation and subjugation than actually keeping her trapped. So, did he consider her appropriately cowed after the police station and the…the crawling?

Her face heated even at the memory.

Or maybe this was the fucking point, to have her constantly questioning and second-guessing, and even third-guessing herself so she never knew which way was up. Because while every time he took her to bed, dominant and demanding, so often he took her to that place of ecstasy beyond thoughts, just feeling…in the morning she woke to find her brain firmly in command again.

And her brain didn’t know how to deal with what her body so welcomed. Marcus. In control. His will ruling every single minute of her life.

She dropped her fork to her plate with a loud clatter and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

Marcus finally dipped his paper to look at her, but only for the shortest moment.

“We are going out tonight. So shower and shave.”

What?

“What?”

He lowered the paper enough to look at her again, his expression unreadable. “If you don’t, I’ll do it for you.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

“A stylist will be here at four. Be ready by then.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“She’ll bring the dress.”

“Where are we—”

“Enough,” he cut her off impatiently.

She clenched her teeth mutinously. But if he was telling the truth… And he was actually going to take her out of the penthouse… Well, it wouldn’t kill her to play by his rules for another day.





She showered. She shaved. And at 4 o’clock, a knock sounded on the door. Marcus opened it to a thin, fashionable man pulling a suitcase and a rack of what Cora assumed were dresses in black hanging garment bags.

“Don’t speak to her,” Marcus ordered abruptly. “I’ll choose the dress.”

Cora glared at him, feeling her cheeks heat. Was this what it would be like all night? Him humiliating her in front of whoever it was they might see, wherever it was they were going?

She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. It didn’t matter. Her pride didn’t matter. She could behave. And she wouldn’t be stupid like last time.

She wouldn’t run down the street on her first opportunity out of the penthouse crying for help. No, she had to play this game smart. If Marcus wanted her to be a puppet on a string, she had to pretend to dance.