Book Review Extreme Ownership Novels & Stories

"And because you taught me something in six weeks that I'm still learning, and this is me trying to do it." "What." I reached up, slowly, giving her every chance to step back, and cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the very edge of the bruise, so careful it hurt me to be that careful. "The difference between owning a thing and keeping it," I said. "I spent my whole life owning things. Buildings, men, favors, this whole gray city. You can't be owned. I've known that since the funeral, I watched you refuse to be owned in real time and it's the thing that undid me. So I'm not going to try to own you tonight by refusing you a door. I'm going tokeep you instead. And keeping you means I let you close

I heard a displeased man muttering to my retreating back and a few grunts agreeing with him too. Was the man with wavy jet black hair in front of me really my saviour, or just an attractive trap? Meant to make me feel comfortable with walking right into the dragon’s lair? The thought sent shivers up my spine once again. But I put on a brave face and followed him into the small office that sat at the back of the building. “Listen to me very carefully,” he quietly began. “Those man out there are very dangerous.” “I figured,” I found myself blurting out.

She couldn't hold it in, earning a smack for every moan. “Ares…” she called. My dick inched deeper, feeling her juice ease me on, as I claimed her. She trembled, biting every sound down as I pulled out, only to push right back in. Her hands held the table for support, moving to my hand around her neck, as my thrust deepened. “I own you,” I whispered into her ear. My voice sounded hoarse. She choked, pressing back a moan as I drove into her. “Say it,” I breathed. “Who owns you, Nadia?”

I blushed, shook my head, and cleared my throat. “I mean, I’ve been planning to give you since you solved the assignment. The book is very important, it costs the owner’s life.” “What?” he asked in surprise. He’s too young to know the story of the book. The book isn’t popular because it’s the author’s first book. He was a psychologist and also labelled a psychopath. What he wrote in the book was facts about human nature, how to read people and how to make them respect you at all costs as their boss.

That’s how he sees me, because deep down, he still blames me for why Mom’s gone. We finally arrived in front of a tall gate. Above it, there was that said Allard, and it looked like it was made of gold. Allard? You mean Aaron Allard? The famous business tycoon who owns those world-renowned resorts and hotels? What could Dad possibly want here? And if we’re here at Aaron Allard’s place right now, that means we’re also going to see- “I’m glad you made it here safely, Mr. Lucas. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to my humble home. I’m Aaron Allard.”

If he wanted to show her portals, let him. “You trust me?” she asked, eyes fixed on his. He leaned forward, oblivious. “Yes, I can tell when a person is mine.” There it was, the rhythm she’d been waiting for. He felt possession as a reward. Pride in ownership softened his cruelty. If he believed she was "his," he would yield things in service of that possession: documents, numbers, schedules. He'd show her the inner workings as if to brag. She would gather them, tuck them away, and feed them back to Jaxon when she could.

“…Okay, and?” The look Naomi gave her could curdle milk. “You seriously don’t get it?” she whispered, leaning in and lowering her voice as if the walls themselves might snitch. “Not just any billionaire. Anthony Jeffery owns more than half the companies in this city. Real estate, tech, media, security firms—everything. People don’t cross him. They don’t even breathe wrong around him.” Anna’s throat worked. “Why?”

That brief moment of quiet intimacy felt more dangerous, more destabilizing, than any of his overt acts of possession. Monsters don't worry about sunburn. They don't knead sore muscles with careful thumbs. They break things. They don't meticulously maintain them. Unless… unless the maintenance itself is just another form of ownership. Treating me like a prized car he needs to keep polished and running smoothly. The thought is both repulsive and, in a twisted way, almost comforting. At least it fits the pattern.

Vegas Clairemont hadn’t always been the hot-blooded bastard everyone knew him to be. He’d grown into the role because being a Clairemont demanded it. Power, wealth, connections… he could summon them all with a single word or a casual snap of his fingers. But what he craved most was control. Real control. The kind that didn’t slip away or fade when the lights went down. Control was permanent. It gave him access to anything he desired, and he had learned early that the only way to truly own a room or a person was to be assertive, dominant, and always ten steps ahead.

“I’ll give you access to your brother. That’s all. No classroom, no part-time academic redemption arc.” Her breath hitched. “Why?” “Because I didn’t buy a schoolgirl,” he said, reaching her. “I bought a woman who knew how to look me in the eye and still part her legs.” His fingers brushed her jaw. “Now come upstairs, Riva. It’s time you learn what it really means to be owned.” His bedroom smelled like expensive sin. Dark wood. Warm leather. Whiskey and him. The lights were low. Soft music played—instrumental, haunting.