The Montclair penthouse had never felt quieter—and yet, every shadow seemed to pulse with tension. Pete moved cautiously through the halls, heart hammering, nerves alive from last night's storm. Every memory of Vegas' dominance, his touch, his words, burned through him like wildfire.
Vegas appeared without warning, leaning casually against the doorway, smirk predatory, eyes glinting with amusement and hunger. "You're thinking about last night," he murmured, voice low, teasing, rough. "I can feel it. Every pulse, every tremble, every thought… mine."
Pete swallowed, chest tight, trying to pull himself together. "I… I'm not—"
Vegas stepped closer, cutting off any protest with a possessive grip on Pete's jaw, lips brushing against his ear. "Shhh… no words. Only feeling. Only surrender. You know you want this."
Chains returned tonight, cold and deliberate, wrapping around Pete's wrists with the precision Vegas had perfected. The clink of metal echoed in the room like a heartbeat, a promise, a threat.
"You're mine," Vegas whispered, teeth grazing Pete's neck, hands roaming with calculated, teasing force. "Every inch, every shiver, every gasp… mine. You love it. Admit it."
Pete arched, breath hitching. "I… I can't…"
Vegas' grin widened, wicked and triumphant. "Oh, you can. And you will. Every inch, every pulse, every nerve belongs to me. By the end… you'll crave it."
Hours passed in a blur of rough, possessive touch, whispered dominance, teasing punishment, and erotic obsession. Pete's mind spun between panic, lust, and surrender. Every nerve, every shiver, every gasp was a lesson, a claim, a fire that consumed him completely.
By dawn, Pete lay trembling, gasping, utterly surrendered. Vegas smirked, brushing a hand down his chest. "You're mine, pet. Forever. And now… the obsession begins."