Addiction & Surrender

You'll Pay for That

He Doesn't Own You

I wasn’t expecting him.

Not here.

Not in the middle of my carefully constructed distance.

But Dante never cared about lines.

Or consequences.

Or the fact that I was already being owned in ways I didn’t fully understand.

He showed up at my job like he belonged there, like he wasn’t dragging a storm in behind him.

The office buzzed around me, but when I saw him, everything narrowed—just him, that reckless, dangerous grin, those whiskey-soaked eyes burning straight through me.

“Val,” he drawled, like we were still something, like the time I’d spent ignoring his texts meant nothing.

I glanced over his shoulder and felt my stomach twist.

My boss.

Watching.

Sharp.

Still.

Already reading the situation like he was two steps ahead.

Dante didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

He closed the distance between us, his hand finding my waist like it had a right to be there.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“You gonna keep pretending you don’t want me?” His voice was low, dangerous, curling around me like a leash.

“Dante, not here—”

His mouth ghosted the edge of mine, stealing a breath that wasn’t his to take.

“Why not? You think I’m afraid of him?” His eyes flicked toward the corner where my boss stood like stone, watching, calculating.

“He doesn’t own you, Val. Not really.”

But Dante’s arrogance was a mistake.

Because my boss didn’t make a scene.

He didn’t charge over.

He didn’t interrupt.

He waited.

Measured.

Silent.

Like a man who knew the most painful punishment was one you didn’t see coming.

When Dante finally pulled away, satisfied with the kiss he almost got, he threw a glance at my boss.

A challenge.

A dare.

Then he walked out, reckless and sure of his place in my life.

Like he hadn’t just signed his own death sentence.

I didn’t have to look far.

My boss was already behind me. Close.

His hand settled at the base of my spine—a touch so subtle no one else would notice, but it made my knees soften.

“You’ll pay for that later,” he murmured, his lips barely moving, his voice a sharp, velvet blade cutting straight through me.

I swallowed, heat rushing to my throat.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he said, a hint of amusement laced through the threat. “And you knew exactly what you were doing.”

His thumb traced the edge of my spine, lazy, possessive.

“You wanted me to see that.”

Silence wrapped around us like a noose.

“After work,” he said, stepping away like he hadn’t just gutted me in front of everyone. “My place. Don’t make me come find you.”

And then he left me standing there— aching, rattled, and already burning for the punishment I’d just earned.

⸻

Slow Punishment

When I got to his apartment. He pinned me, hard against the wall.

When his mouth found mine, it wasn’t sweet.

It was deliberate.

A collision of punishment and possession.

His hands didn’t roam like they used to.

They held. Restrained. Controlled.

One hand on my jaw, the other at the base of my neck—steady, firm, anchoring me exactly where he wanted me.

“You think you can make me jealous,” he murmured against my lips, dragging out the kiss just long enough to leave me breathless. “You think you can walk circles around me.”

His thumb pressed into my throat, just enough to make my pulse throb under his touch.

“That’s adorable.”

I pushed into him, desperate for friction, but he didn’t move. Didn’t give me what I wanted.

He dragged his mouth over mine, but wouldn’t deepen the kiss.

His hands slipped down my body, tracing lines he refused to follow through on.

I hated how fast my body responded to him.

How I ached to kneel for him, to prove something I couldn’t put into words.

I told him I didn’t belong to him.

I told him he didn’t own me.

He only smiled.

“That’s cute. But the body never lies."

“You don’t get to decide when this happens,” he whispered, his voice low, sharp, deliciously cruel. “Not anymore.”

I tried to speak, but his finger pressed against my lips.

“No. You’ll wait.”

And then he made me wait.

His mouth ghosted down my throat, across my collarbone, slow and unhurried.

He undressed me like I was fragile glass, like he wanted to savor the reveal but not the release.

Piece by piece, until I was standing in front of him, naked, flushed, aching.

He stayed fully clothed. Smirking. In control.

I reached for his belt, desperate to tip the balance, but he caught my wrist mid-air and dragged it back to my side.

“No.”

He let the word hang. Let me feel it.

“You wanted to play. Now you’ll wait until I say you can have me.”

His mouth trailed fire across my skin—everywhere except where I needed him most.

Down my ribs. The inside of my thighs. Behind my knee.

Every spot that made me tremble, every place that sharpened my ache—but never enough.

When I arched my hips toward him, begging for friction, he pulled back, lips inches from my heat but unmoving.

“I said wait.”

It was maddening.

The restraint. The precision.

He’d weaponized patience.

Turned my need into his stage.

And he stayed like that—torturously slow—for what felt like hours.

Hovering. Ghosting. Smirking when I whimpered.

Letting me pull at his hair, his shirt, anything to break his control.

"Beg."

“Please Sir,” I breathed, desperate. “Please touch me.”

He tilted his head like he wanted to hear me say it again.

“Please what?”

I swallowed my pride.

“Please Sir, I need you."

He hummed like he was considering it, fingers lazily circling around the edges of where I throbbed for him.

“Not enough. Beg for it.”

I hated it.

I loved it.

I needed him to ruin me.

“Please,” I gasped, my voice cracking. “I can’t take it Sir. I want you. I need to feel you inside me. Please, please, please—”

"Such a good girl baby."

That’s when he gave in.

Not because I’d won.

Because I’d surrendered.

His mouth crashed into mine, all teeth and hunger now.

His hands rough, gripping my hips, yanking me onto the bed as if his patience had finally expired.

The weight of him, the heat of him, the overwhelming rightness of him—finally—slammed onto me like a starved man claiming his favorite sin.

He tied me down to his bed—wrist restraints, ankle cuffs, spread wide and exposed. His knots were clean, deliberate, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

“Be still,” he said, trailing his fingers down my ribs. “Tonight, you earn me back.”

He teased me with toys—feather-light touches, vibrations that skimmed just enough to build but never satisfy. Over and over, he pushed me to the edge and pulled me back.

“Not yet,” he whispered when I whimpered.

“Not yet,” when I begged.

He watched me unravel, watched me thrash against the restraints.

And still, he withheld.

Smiling.

Patient.

Perfectly in control.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he said, circling his thumb over the slick heat between my legs.

“Tell me or I’ll leave you like this all night.”

I broke.

I shattered.

“You,” I sobbed. “I’m yours. Please, please let me come baby."

He rewarded me with his mouth, his hands, his weight pressing me down as he finally let me fall apart under him.

But he wasn’t finished.

When he released me from the cuffs, I thought it was over.

I thought I’d earned relief.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling me over his lap like I was nothing more than something to be corrected.

“You’ll count,” he said, his palm smoothing over the curve of my ass. “Ten. You’ll thank me after each.”

His first strike cracked through me like fire.

“One,” I gasped. “Thank you, sir.”

Another.

“Two. Thank you, sir.”

By the fifth, tears slicked my cheeks.

By the eighth, my thighs trembled with need.

By the tenth, I was soaked, desperate, utterly his.

“Ten,” I cried, breathless. “Thank you, sir.”

He didn’t wait.

He pushed me to my knees, forced me to take him deep until my throat burned, until my lips were raw.

Then he laid me out on his bed again—this time untied—and f****d me like he was punishing me, claiming every inch of me with fierce, unforgiving thrusts.

His rhythm wasn’t gentle.

It was punishing.

Hard. Deep. Slow.

A rhythm meant to leave me gasping, clawing, remembering.

He drove into me, sharp and relentless, and on the third thrust, I unraveled, too fast, too desperate.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled, pinning my wrists above my head. “You wanted me to lose control? You wanted me to f**k the memory of him out of you?”

His hands pinned my wrists.

His teeth marked my collarbone.

His voice broke against my skin as he whispered, “Mine. You’re mine.”

I could only nod, lost in the snap of his hips, the relentless drag of him inside me.

His breath was ragged against my ear.

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

His grip tightened, his pace brutal.

“Again.”

“I fell apart again, the words tumbling out in a breathless cry—I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

And I meant it.

Every f*****g time.

When I shattered again—when my body convulsed under his—he didn’t stop.

He chased his own release with brutal precision, riding me through every wave until we collapsed, slick and shaking and ruined.

I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him over the edge with me, our bodies tangled in sweat, teeth, desperate gasps.

When he collapsed, his body heavy over mine, his thumb brushed lazily across my pulse.

Still in control. Still lingering there.

“I'm not letting you go"

“You don’t get to give me a taste and disappear.”

His hand slid down, fingers tightening possessively around my thigh.

“Next time you let him kiss you,

I’ll make you beg longer.”

And I believed him.

“You will not go back to him,” he murmured against my temple. "You can't walk away."

“If you try, I’ll find you. I’ll drag you back. I’ll break you all over again.”

And the sickest part?

I liked it.

I wanted to fight him.

I wanted him to break me all over again.

I should have wanted to run.

But all I could think was—

God, I hope he does.

I didn’t know how to stop.

Maybe I didn’t want to.