007

Aurora’s POV

The smile stayed on his face too long.

It was not kind. It was not soft. It was the look of a man who had just been given something he did not expect and had already decided he would keep.

“A virgin,” he said, voice low. “My son’s girlfriend for two years… and still untouched.”

Heat flooded my face. I wanted to look away. I could not. His eyes held mine the way his hand had held my wrist earlier.

“I… yes,” I whispered.

He stayed close, body still pinning me gently to the wall. The air between us disappeared.

“Look at me, Aurora.”

I did.

“You signed a contract. Do you understand what that means in this room?”

My throat felt tight. “Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

I swallowed. “I understand the contract. I signed it. I agreed.”

“And you still agree?”

The question hung there. My heart beat hard against my ribs. Part of me wanted to run. Another part of me—the part that had kissed him back—did not move.

“Yes,” I said. The word came out quiet but clear. “I still agree.”

Something in his eyes shifted. Not softer. Just deeper.

“Good.”

His hands returned to the zipper of my mother’s dress. The sound of it sliding down my back was louder than it should have been. Cool air touched my skin. The dress loosened and slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet against the wall.

I stood in only my underwear. My arms wanted to cover myself. I forced them to stay at my sides.

Gideon’s gaze moved over me slowly. Not rushed. Not crude. Just thorough, as if he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. The word did not sound like praise. It sounded like a fact.

He removed his jacket and laid it over a nearby chair. Then his shirt. The muscles of his chest and arms shifted under the low light. I had never seen a man like this up close. My mouth went dry.

He closed the space between us again. One hand settled at my waist. The other tipped my chin up.

“I’m not going to rush this,” he said. “You’re going to feel every second. And you’re going to keep your eyes on me.”

I nodded.

He kissed me. Slow at first. Then deeper. His tongue slid against mine and a soft sound left my throat before I could stop it. His hands moved to the clasp of my bra. It fell away. Cool air brushed my bare breasts. His palms covered them, warm and firm, thumbs brushing over the peaks until my breath caught.

“Sensitive,” he said against my mouth. “Good.”

He slid my underwear down my legs. The last piece of clothing left me completely bare against the wall. I felt exposed in a way that made my pulse race. He looked at me for a long moment, then pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, then lower, along my collarbone.

“Turn around,” he said quietly.

I did. My palms pressed against the cool wall. He guided my hips back slightly, positioning me. Then he finished undressing. When he returned, he was fully naked. Hard. Thick. Larger than I had imagined. A flicker of fear moved through me.

He saw it in the way my shoulders tensed.

“I will go slow,” he said near my ear. “But it will still hurt at first. That is normal. You will tell me if it becomes too much. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He settled behind me. The heat of his body pressed against my back. One hand braced on the wall beside my head. The other guided himself to my entrance.

The blunt head of him nudged against me. I tensed.

“Breathe,” he ordered softly. “Look at me.”

I turned my face enough to meet his eyes over my shoulder.

He pushed forward.

Pressure. Stretch. A sharp burn that made my breath stutter. A soft, broken moan slipped out of me before I could stop it. My hands flattened harder against the wall.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re doing well.”

He sank in another inch. The stretch grew. My body tried to resist. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. Another quiet moan left my throat.

“It hurts,” I whispered.

“I know.” His voice stayed steady near my ear. “It will ease. Stay with me.”

He pushed deeper. The burn flared. A longer, shaky moan escaped me. My fingers curled against the wall. He did not stop, but he did not force either. He moved with controlled intensity, giving me time to adjust between each slow advance.

“You’re so tight,” he said, breath warm against my temple. “Taking me so well for your first time.”

I clung to the wall, then reached back with one hand and found his hip. Tears slipped down my temples. Soft, helpless sounds kept leaving me with every careful inch.

He wiped one tear away with his thumb without breaking rhythm.

“Almost there,” he said. “Breathe for me.”

I did. He pushed the rest of the way in until his hips met mine. Fully seated. The stretch was overwhelming. I felt every inch of him. A low, broken moan trembled out of me. My body shook around him.

He stayed still.

“You’re mine for the next year,” he said quietly against my ear. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes.” My voice shook.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours for the next year.”

He kissed the wet path of a tear on my cheek. Then he began to move.

Slow, deep strokes. Each one dragged against the sensitive walls inside me. The sharp pain softened into a heavy ache that still made me gasp, but something warmer started to build underneath it. Soft moans slipped from my lips with every thrust. My free hand stayed locked on his hip. My forehead pressed to the wall.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold on to me.”

I did. Harder. Tears kept coming, but they were no longer only from pain. Everything felt too much—his size, his voice, the way he filled me completely, the way he watched my face as if every reaction belonged to him.

He kept talking. Low. Steady. Telling me how good I felt. How perfectly I stretched around him. How he could feel every tremor in my body. His words stayed in my ear the entire time, anchoring me while the rest of me threatened to come apart.

My hips began to meet his without conscious decision. The friction changed. Heat gathered low in my stomach. A softer, needier moan left me.

“There,” he said. “Feel that.”

He angled his next thrust slightly and the pressure hit a place that made my back arch. A louder, broken moan tore from my throat. He did it again. And again. Controlled. Precise. Never rushing.

I clung to him like I might fall if I let go. My face turned against the wall. Soft, shaky moans kept spilling out of me with every deep stroke. Tears dampened the surface. His hand stroked my hair once, surprisingly gentle, before returning to brace his weight.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “Taking all of me.”

The coil inside me tightened. My breath came in short, uneven gasps mixed with quiet moans. I did not know how to chase the feeling, but my body seemed to know. I moved with him, chasing the heat, the stretch, the sound of his voice.

When the release came, it broke over me in waves. My walls clenched hard around him. A long, trembling moan left me as pleasure and leftover pain tangled together. My whole body shook.

Gideon groaned low against my ear and thrust through it, deeper, until he buried himself fully and held there. I felt the pulse of him inside me as he finished. Heat flooded me. He stayed buried to the hilt, breathing hard against my neck.

Neither of us moved for a long time.

My tears kept falling. Quieter now. Soft, leftover sounds still trembled in my throat. He lifted his head and looked at me. His thumb brushed the wetness from my cheek with a gentleness that did not match the man who had just claimed me so thoroughly.

“You’re all right,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

I nodded, still trembling.

He remained inside me. The fullness was still intense, but the sharp edge had dulled. He stroked my hair back from my face.

“You belong to me for the next year,” he said again, voice low and certain. “Every Friday. Every order. Every night I decide I want you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, soft this time.

Then he carefully withdrew. The emptiness felt strange. He turned me around, gathered me into his arms as if I weighed nothing, and carried me out of the Red Room.

The hallway was quiet. He walked with steady steps to a different door—darker wood, larger. Inside was a bedroom far more private than the rest of the house. The bed was wide. The sheets looked expensive and dark.

He laid me down carefully, then pulled the covers over both of us. His body settled beside mine, one arm heavy across my waist.

“You will sleep in my bed tonight,” he said.

I turned my face toward him. My eyes still felt wet. My body still hummed with the memory of him inside me.

He looked at me for a long moment in the low light.

“Rest,” he said. “Tomorrow we begin the rest of the year.”

His arm tightened around me once, then stayed there.

I closed my eyes.

The contract was no longer just paper.

It was the ache between my legs. 

The taste of his mouth. 

And the quiet certainty in his voice when he told me I was his.