Good Girl *Completed*

She owns him

*Benjamin*

Morning light slices through the cheap blinds of my bedroom, striping the rumpled sheets and the pale skin of the woman tangled in them. Irene. Her dark hair is a riot against my pillow, and she makes a soft, kittenish sound in her sleep, turning toward me. An arm, slender and strong, drapes over my chest. Her skin is warm, impossibly so.

I lie perfectly still, my own breath caught in my throat. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 6:17 AM. I should be up, should be thinking about things to do with the case, the paperwork I need to file. But my entire world has narrowed to the feel of her, the faint scent of her sweat and my soap and something else, something coppery and wild that is just Irene.

Last night. My God.

It wasn't just s*x. It was a surrender. I, who prides myself on control, on maintaining a professional distance from everything and everyone, I let her in. All the way in. I can still feel the ghost of her nails on my back, the memory of her body arching to meet mine, the way she whispered my name like a prayer and a curse all at once. She took me apart, piece by piece, with a ferocity that should have scared me. It did scare me. And it thrilled me to my very bones and allowed me to let out all my inner desires.

A sliver of sunlight catches on her face, and her eyelids flutter. They open, and those eyes, the color of dark whiskey, fix on me. No haze of sleepiness in them. Just sharp, immediate awareness. A slow smile spreads across her lips.

"Morning," she says, her voice husky. She shifts, her leg hooking over mine, a proprietary gesture that sends a jolt straight through me. She owns me. She knows it.

"Morning," I manage. My own voice is rough.

Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, swirling through the coarse hair there. "You were thinking so loud I could hear it in my sleep."

I can't help it; a laugh escapes me, short and sharp. "Was I?"

"Mmhmm." She props herself up on an elbow, the sheet pooling around her waist, exposing the small, perfect curves of her breasts. My gaze catches on the faint, silvery line of an old scar on her side. I noticed it last night, too, in the heat of it, but my mind was… otherwise occupied. "About the big, bad world?" she continues, her tone light, teasing. "About all the important things you have to do today? About how letting a student into your bed is a terrible, terrible mistake?"

She hits the nail on the head with terrifying accuracy. I don't answer, just watch her. There's a challenge in her eyes, a dare for me to deny it. But I won't lie to her. I can't.

Instead, I reach out, my hand cupping the back of her neck. I pull her down to me, my lips finding hers. It's a different kiss from last night. Not the frantic, desperate clash of bodies and wills, but something deeper. Something sure. I pour everything I can't say into it… the confusion, the fear, the bone-deep certainty that she has rewired my entire nervous system. She melts against me, her body softening, a soft sigh escaping into my mouth.

When I finally pull back, her whiskey-colored eyes are half-lidded. "Okay," she whispers. "Maybe not a terrible mistake."

My thumb strokes the soft skin behind her ear. "Irene," I say, and her name feels both like a confession and a prayer. "What are you doing to me?"

"Exactly what you want me to," she answers, without a moment's hesitation. There's no coyness, no false modesty. Just pure, unadulterated honesty. It's terrifying. It's intoxicating.

She shifts again, straddling me now, the sheet forgotten. The morning light hits the angles of her body, the lines of muscle beneath her soft skin. She is all predator and all prey at once, a perfect, beautiful contradiction. Her hands press flat against my chest, pinning me to the mattress. My breath hitches. My body, which I thought was thoroughly spent, comes alive again with a vengeance. I am hardening against her, a fact she registers with a slow, triumphant smile.

"See?" she murmurs, leaning down so her hair brushes my face. "You're not so sure it was a mistake either, are you?"

My hands find her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh. The need to take her, to lose myself in her again, is a physical ache. The agent in me, the part of my brain that analyzes threats and mitigates risks, is screaming a silent, desperate warning. But every other part of me, every cell and sinew, is screaming something else entirely.

"No," I admit, my voice a low growl. "I'm not sure at all."

"Good." That's all she says before she sinks down onto me, slow and deliberate, taking me inside her inch by agonizing inch. My eyes flutter shut, my head pressing back into the pillow. The world dissolves. There is only this—the exquisite, wet heat of her, the way her body clenches around me, the soft gasp she makes as she takes all of me. She begins to move, a languid, grinding rhythm that's not about release, but about ownership. About branding this memory, this feeling, onto my very soul.

My hands slide up her back, feeling the subtle play of muscles as she moves. I memorize the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. I am mapping her with my hands, just as I mapped the city from rooftops and alleyways. But this is a far more dangerous territory. She leans forward, bracing her hands on my shoulders, her breasts brushing against my chest. Her lips are next to my ear.

"You're thinking again," she whispers, her breath hot. "Stop it."

And then her teeth close gently on my earlobe. The sharp, unexpected sting is enough to shatter the last vestiges of control. My hips buck up to meet hers, my rhythm faltering, becoming erratic. She laughs, a low, breathy sound of victory. She rides me harder now, taking what she wants, and what she wants is everything. My control, my thoughts, my future. She wants it all, and God help me, I want to give it to her.

The build is slow and intense, a wave gathering itself in the deep. I'm watching her now, watching the flush spread across her chest, the way her head falls back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. Her hair whips against her face with the force of her movements. She is wild. She is magnificent. She is completely, terrifyingly insane.

And I am lost.

When she comes, it's with a sharp cry, her whole body shuddering, her inner muscles milking me with a force that pulls my own orgasm from me in a blinding, soul-shattering rush. I hold her to me, my face buried in her hair as the tremors wrack us both, aftershocks of an explosion that has leveled my entire landscape.

For a long moment we just stay like that, tangled, sweaty, and silent. The only sounds are our ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city waking up outside. I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic, desperate beat against the quiet certainty of hers. Her weight is a comfort, a heavy, tangible reality that grounds me when I feel like I might float away on the sea of what just happened.