Page 89 of X: Command Me through Alexander’s Eyes

I help her hook them over my shoulders. The position allows me to thrust deeper. Her eyes roll back, teeth sinking into her lower lip, hands searching the grass for something to cling to as I drive into her.

“Wait,” I instruct as I feel the first telltale squeeze around my shaft. “I say when you come this time.”

I pull out, and she cries out, arching her back like I’ve taken her heart along with me. I brush the tip of my cock down her sex. “I love watching your eager, little cunt opening for me.”

This earns me a whimper, but I want more.“Tell me what you need, Clara.”

Her eyes flicker to mine. Her answer is simple. “You.”

“You have me.”

I think maybe she’ll have me forever even when I let her go. Is that how this ends?

“I want your cock,” she says desperately, calling me back to her and away from my thoughts.

“I had to make sure you were ready,” I say with a lying smile. “I needed you relaxed and wet, so I can fuck you hard.” At least, that part is true.

“Please,” she whispers. It’s the please that does it—the please that undoes me.

I don’t know if I’m giving her more or taking more of her as I plunge back inside her body and lay siege. Our bodies crash and collide until she swells around me, and I empty into her. We collapse onto the ground, still wrapped together.

This is all I want: stolen moments with her in the quiet. “I could do that for the rest of the night.”

“Let’s,” she murmurs.

It takes effort to peel myself away. “I love that your body is so needy. It’s quite the challenge to keep your beautiful cunt satisfied.”

“It’s only needy for you.” Her breath catches when I dip a finger inside her where the proof of our union is still hot and sticky.

“Yes, that’s right, poppet. Only I can give you pleasure.” Because I’m selfish. Because I won’t give her up. Because I can’t. “And I will give you more tonight after dinner.”

Her eyes close, and she says, “Promise?”

Pleasure is all I can give her. The rest will cost her too much. “Everything I say to you is a promise. When I say I’m going to fuck you, that’s a promise. When I say I’m going to make you beg, that’s a promise. And when I say this beautiful cunt is mine, that’s a promise.”

And then, because I’m selfish and cruel, I kiss her, moving between her legs to prove it one more time.

We’requiet as we ride back to the estate. I don’t press Clara to share what she’s thinking. She doesn’t ask me. I only want to linger in this private moment where she is in my arms, safe and removed from my world. By the time we reach the stables, shame has a hold on me entirely. My jacket is tucked around her, but it does little to hide the obvious state I’ve left her in.

At least, I’d been gentle with the crop. Otherwise, it might not only be her clothes showing signs of my filthy deeds. I keep a hand on her back as a bumbling stablehand helps us. He averts his eyes, but he saw enough to know what I did to her.

She clutches my jacket like a life preserver as we walk, hand in hand, toward the house. When we reach it, I stop her and peek inside. The last thing I need is a confrontation with my father. The corridor is empty, and I gesture that it’s safe. She takes one step inside, and panic seizes me. It’s as though I hear the clock being wound. I’m not ready for it to begin its countdown. My lips find hers and the answers I want to believe. I’m lost to her until her fingertips graze down my shirt and linger on my scar. I grab her wrist, yanking away like I’ve caught a snake.

“No, Clara,” I snap.

Tears well instantly in her eyes, but she plasters a smile on and tugs against my hold on her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Clara—don’t.” I tighten my grip. “Not here. Not in this place. I can’t explain it to you.”

“Try,” she says, losing patience. Until now, I’d been concerned she came with an unlimited supply of it.

“I can’t.” I’ll never be able to. I won’t ask her to carry my burdens or bear out my vices. “It’s not you, Clara.”

She sighs. “It never is. I thought after this afternoon—”

“You need to change for dinner, poppet,” I interrupt, some sense of self-preservation kicking in. There’s an itch in my brain. If I admit it—if I let her talk about us—it will cost her everything.

“Maybe I should just go home,” she says.