“Fuck, little bird, you’re perfect, so fucking perfect. I love you so damn much,” he praises, before his lips find mine and he kisses me again, not caring that his cum was in my mouth only moments ago.

I melt into his embrace, then remind myself that I’m his prisoner and force myself to pull away and stiffen. “I have class.”

“You could stay home,” he cajoles, his smile charming and compelling.

“It’s the first day.”

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, flinging himself down onto the bed to watch me get dressed.

My meager belongings have been added to the row of new clothes in the closet, looking shabby and cheap beside the expensive designer offerings he’s bought. No matter how nice the clothes are, I don’t want anything from him, so I ignore all of the beautiful things in favor of my ratty denim shorts and a plain tank top I bought at Target.

“Keep the shorts, but change the top,” he remarks when I step out of the closet fully dressed.

“I like this tank.”

“I can see your nipples.”

“No you can’t, I have a bralette on.”

“Starling, change the shirt. Now.”

With a scowl, I turn and head back into the closet, stripping the tank over my head and replacing it with one of the things he got me. It’s a cropped shirt, with armholes that are wide enough you can see all of my white lace bralette from the sides.

“No,” he snarls.

Smirking, I spread my arms wide. “You picked this shirt.”

“I didn’t know it’d be that sexy.”

“That’s sounds like a you problem, not a me problem,” I shrug. “Now I need to go, or I’ll be late for class. Did you say Clay’s my prison guard today?”

“Little bird, you’re fucking pushing it with that attitude. Now your ass isn’t leaving this room wearing that shirt, go change to something that covers what’s mine.”

“You’ve had a problem with the last two shirts, why don’t you just go pick something so I can leave.”

Lips pressed together into a hard line, he climbs up off the bed, tucks his still semihard dick into his boxer briefs and storms past me and into the closet. The sound of his muttering filters into the bedroom and I cross my arms over my chest and wait impatiently, tapping my foot against the wooden flooring.

“Here, put this on,” he says, stomping out of the closet and holding out one of his T-shirts for me to wear.

“Fine, whatever,” I say, pulling the tank over my head and replacing it with his shirt. It’s huge on my much smaller frame, so I quickly roll the hem up and tie it in a knot at my hip, then fold the sleeves over so they fit a little better.

Perhaps another girl would be bothered that they’re wearing a huge guy’s shirt, but I really don’t care what I wear. Instead of fighting with him, which would mean exchanging more words than I want to, I just grab my backpack, cell phone, AirPods and Chucks and leave the room without a single glance back in his direction.