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BONUS SCENE: The Anniversary

One Year After the Wedding

⚠️ WARNING: This scene contains explicit sexual content intended for mature readers only.

The Hamptons house was everything Sierra remembered from photographs—and nothing like she’d expected.

She’d seen the listing when Marcus had bought it years ago, back when she was still researching him as an enemy rather than loving him as a husband. Sprawling oceanfront property. Private beach. The kind of casual luxury that cost more than most people made in a lifetime.

But standing here now, watching the sunset paint the waves in shades of gold and pink, all she felt was… peace.

"You’re quiet," Marcus said, coming up behind her on the deck. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "Having second thoughts?"

"No second thoughts." She leaned into him, savoring his warmth. "Just thinking about how different this feels than I expected."

"Different how?"

"I thought I’d feel like an imposter. Like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s life." She turned in his arms to face him. "Instead, I just feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. With exactly who I’m supposed to be with."

His expression softened. "Happy anniversary, Mrs. Woods-Sterling."

"Happy anniversary, Mr. Woods-Sterling."

"That’s not my name."

"It should be. I like the sound of it." She grinned. "Marcus Woods-Sterling. Very distinguished."

"I’ll consider it." He bent to kiss her—soft, sweet, the kind of kiss that had become as natural as breathing over the past year. "Now. I believe you mentioned something about reclaiming this house?"

"Did I?"

"You did. Something about making new memories." His hands slid down to her hips. "I’m very interested in hearing more about these memories."

Sierra had been thinking about this all week.

Their first year of marriage had been everything she’d hoped for and nothing like she’d expected. They’d fought and made up. Traveled and nested. Built a life together that somehow contained both his world and hers, neither one shrinking to fit the other.

The sex had been incredible. It always was with Marcus—he was attentive and generous and surprisingly willing to follow her lead when she wanted to take it.

But they’d never fully explored that dynamic. Never let her take complete control, the way he’d taken control so many times in the early days of their relationship.

Tonight, she wanted to change that.

"I have a proposition," she said.

"I’m listening."

"This weekend—the whole weekend—I’m in charge." She watched his eyes darken, felt his hands tighten on her hips. "Not just in bed. Everything. Where we go, what we do, what we eat. You follow my lead."

"Sierra…" His voice had dropped an octave.

"You spent years being the one with the power. The one who made decisions, set the pace, controlled the narrative." She rose on her toes, bringing her mouth close to his ear. "I want to know what it feels like when you surrender all of that to me."

His breath shuddered out. "And if I say yes?"

"Then you call me ma’am. You do what I say, when I say it. And you don’t come until I give you permission."

The sound he made was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. She’d never heard anything so satisfying.

"What’s your answer, Marcus?"

"Yes." The word came out rough, desperate. "Yes, ma’am."

She smiled—slow and wicked—and stepped back.

"Good boy. Now take off your clothes."

He stripped for her on the deck, the sunset blazing behind him, the ocean breeze raising goosebumps on his skin. Sierra watched from the lounger, still fully dressed, savoring every moment of his vulnerability.

Marcus Sterling—billionaire, CEO, the most controlled man she’d ever known—naked and hard and waiting for her instructions.

She’d never felt more powerful in her life.

"Come here," she said.

He crossed to her, his cock already straining, his eyes never leaving her face. When he reached the lounger, she held up a hand to stop him.

"Kneel."

A flicker of surprise crossed his features—then something else. Something that looked like relief. He sank to his knees on the deck, the wood probably rough against his skin, and looked up at her with an expression that made her heart clench.

Trust. Complete, absolute trust.

"I’m going to touch you now," she said. "And you’re going to stay exactly where you are. You’re not going to move, you’re not going to grab me, you’re not going to try to take over. Understood?"

"Yes, ma’am."

She reached out and traced one finger down his chest. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching the muscles jump under her touch, watching his hands clench at his sides as he fought the urge to reach for her.

"You’re doing so well," she murmured. "Look at you. So obedient."

"I’m trying." His voice was strained.

"I know you are." She let her finger trail lower, following the line of hair below his navel. "That’s what makes it so hot."

She wrapped her hand around his cock, and he gasped—a sharp, broken sound that sent heat flooding through her. He was hard as steel, already leaking at the tip, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.

"Please," he managed.

"Please what?"

"Please, ma’am. I need—"

"You need what I give you." She stroked him slowly, once, twice. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"Yes, ma’am."

She released him abruptly, and he made a sound of pure frustration that she felt all the way to her core.

"Stand up," she commanded. "We’re going inside."

The master bedroom had floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, just like his penthouse.

Sierra had plans for those windows.

"Lie down," she said, gesturing to the bed. "On your back. Hands above your head."

Marcus complied, stretching out on the pristine white sheets, his arms extended toward the headboard. He looked like a sacrifice. Like an offering.

Like hers.

Sierra finally—finally—started to undress. Slowly. Making him watch as she revealed each inch of skin, the sundress pooling at her feet, her bra following, her underwear last.

His eyes tracked every movement. His hands gripped the headboard like he might die if he let go.

"You want to touch me," she observed.

"More than I’ve ever wanted anything."

"Too bad." She climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs, close enough that he could feel her heat but not close enough to give him what he wanted. "You don’t get to touch until I say so."

"Sierra—"

"Ma’am."

"Ma’am." He corrected himself immediately, and she rewarded him by shifting forward, letting the slick heat of her brush against his straining cock.

They both groaned.

"I’ve been thinking about this all week," she said conversationally, rocking her hips just enough to torture them both. "What I wanted to do to you. How I wanted to make you beg."

"I’ll beg." His voice was wrecked. "I’ll beg right now. Please, ma’am. Please let me touch you. Please let me be inside you. Please—"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "I didn’t say you could beg yet."

He made a sound of pure desperation, and she felt a surge of power so intense it was almost dizzying. This man—this brilliant, controlling, powerful man—was completely at her mercy.

She loved it.

She loved him.

"Here’s what’s going to happen," she said, leaning down until her breasts brushed his chest, until her lips were a breath away from his. "I’m going to ride you. I’m going to use you to make myself come, as many times as I want, and you’re going to lie there and take it. You don’t get to move. You don’t get to thrust. And you definitely don’t get to come until I give you permission."

His whole body shuddered. "I don’t know if I can—"

"You can. Because I’m telling you to." She reached between them, positioned him at her entrance. "And because you want to be good for me, don’t you, Marcus?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. "I want to be good for you."

"Then be good."

She sank down onto him in one slow, devastating motion.

She’d never felt more powerful.

Every roll of her hips made him gasp. Every clench of her internal muscles made him groan. He was fighting so hard to obey—she could see it in the white-knuckle grip on the headboard, the tendons standing out in his neck, the sweat beading on his forehead.

And she was taking her time.

She rode him slowly at first, finding the angle that hit exactly right, building her pleasure in unhurried waves. He felt incredible inside her—thick and hard and pulsing with the effort of holding back.

"You’re so good," she praised him, and watched his eyes flutter closed with relief. "So obedient. Letting me use you like this."

"Anything." His voice cracked. "Anything you want. I’m yours."

"Yes. You are."

She picked up the pace, chasing her own pleasure now, grinding down against him in a rhythm that made sparks dance behind her eyes. His hips twitched, the involuntary beginning of a thrust, and she stopped immediately.

"I said don’t move."

"I’m sorry—I’m sorry, ma’am, I couldn’t—"

"You can. You will." She waited until he’d forced his body back under control, until his hips pressed flat against the mattress. "Now. Where were we?"

She started moving again, and he whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

The sound pushed her closer to the edge, and she stopped trying to draw it out. Ground down hard, chasing the friction she needed, using his body for her pleasure exactly the way she’d promised.

When she came, it was explosive—waves of sensation crashing through her, her whole body clenching around him, a cry tearing from her throat that probably carried all the way to the beach.

Marcus held perfectly still through all of it. She could feel him trembling, feel how close he was, feel the superhuman effort of his restraint.

When she finally came back to herself, she looked down at him with wonder.

"That was incredible," she breathed.

"Please." His voice was raw, broken. "Please, ma’am. I need—I can’t—"

"You can." She started moving again, and he made a sound like a sob. "You can because I’m not done with you yet."

She made herself come twice more before she finally took mercy on him.

By then, he was incoherent—a steady stream of pleas and praises falling from his lips, his body shaking so hard she could feel it in her bones. He’d obeyed perfectly, hadn’t moved despite what it must have cost him, and she’d never loved him more than she did in that moment.

"You’ve been so good," she murmured, leaning down to kiss his sweat-slicked forehead. "So patient. So obedient."

"Please." It was the only word he seemed capable of forming.

"You want to come?"

"Please."

"You want to touch me?"

"More than anything. Please. Please, ma’am—"

"Then touch me." She released his hands from their invisible bonds. "And come for me, Marcus. Now."

His hands flew to her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. He thrust up into her—once, twice—and then he was coming with a shout that seemed to shake the whole house, his whole body arching off the bed, his release flooding into her in wave after wave.

She rode him through it, gentling him down, stroking his chest and murmuring praise until the aftershocks faded and he lay limp and wrecked beneath her.

"Holy shit," he finally managed.

She laughed, collapsing onto his chest, both of them slick with sweat. "Good?"

"I think you broke me."

"In a good way?"

"In the best way." His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer. "I had no idea I wanted that until you gave it to me."

"The surrender?"

"The trust. Knowing that I could let go completely, and you’d take care of me." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I’ve spent my whole life being in control. I didn’t know how good it could feel to give that up."

She lifted her head to look at him. His face was soft, open, utterly unguarded—the face of a man who’d just discovered something new about himself.

"We can do that again," she said. "Whenever you want."

"Whenever you want," he corrected. "You’re in charge this weekend, remember?"

"Mmm. I do remember." She stretched against him like a satisfied cat. "In that case—give me thirty minutes to recover, and then I want you on your knees in the shower."

He groaned, but his cock twitched against her thigh with obvious interest.

"Yes, ma’am."

They didn’t leave the bedroom until Sunday afternoon.

By then, they’d christened every surface in the house—the shower, the kitchen counter, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Sierra had been in charge for all of it, and Marcus had followed her lead with an enthusiasm that surprised them both.

"I think I understand something now," he said as they walked along the private beach, hand in hand, the sunset painting the sky in colors that matched their first night here.

"What’s that?"

"Why I was so controlling before. With you, with everything." He stopped walking, turning to face her. "I was terrified. Of vulnerability, of loss, of letting anyone see the parts of me I was ashamed of. Control was the only way I knew to feel safe."

"And now?"

"Now I know there’s another way." He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. "Now I know that real safety comes from trust. From letting someone see all of you—even the parts that are scared and uncertain and desperate to be loved—and believing they won’t walk away."

Sierra felt her eyes sting. "You trust me."

"With everything." He smiled—the unguarded smile she still marveled at, the one that had taken him forty-eight years to learn. "You’ve spent the last two days proving that I can surrender completely and you’ll still take care of me. That’s… that’s everything, Sierra. That’s the whole relationship."

"Taking turns," she agreed. "You take care of me, I take care of you. Neither of us always in control, neither of us always following."

"Partners."

"Partners." She rose on her toes and kissed him—soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that promised a lifetime of more. "Happy anniversary, Marcus."

"Happy anniversary, Sierra." His arms came around her, holding her close as the waves lapped at their feet. "Thank you for reclaiming this house with me."

"Thank you for letting me." She pulled back, grinning. "Same time next year?"

"I wouldn’t miss it for anything."

They walked back to the house together, leaving footprints in the sand that the tide would wash away—and carrying memories that would last forever.

THE END

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