Page 24 of Bound in Matrimony
A slight tremor runs through her, and I can't tell if it's from my touch or my words.
"I've never believed in anything I couldn't see, couldn't build with my own hands." I position myself above her, looking directly into her eyes as I align our bodies. "But I believe in this. In us. In forever."
"Knox..." Her voice breaks on my name, her hands coming up to frame my face.
I join our bodies then, with exquisite slowness, maintaining eye contact as I fill her completely. The sensation is overwhelming—not just the physical pleasure, but the connection, the absolute certainty that this woman was made for me and I for her.
"I promise you forever, Seraphina Vance." The declaration comes from someplace deeper than conscious thought as I begin to move within her, setting a rhythm that's gentle but inexorable. "Every day. Every night. Every breath. Yours. Mine. Ours."
Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, but her smile is radiant. "Forever," she echoes, her body moving in perfect counterpoint to mine.
I maintain the measured pace, fighting against my nature, showing her with every careful thrust that my obsession isn't just about possession—it's about devotion. About cherishing what I've claimed.
When I feel her body beginning to tighten around mine, I whisper her name, watching her eyes as pleasure transforms her face. The sight of her coming undone beneath me—trusting me enough to surrender completely—pushes me over the edge. My release hits with unexpected intensity, drawing a sound from deep in my chest that's part groan, part her name, part wordless promise.
Afterward, I hold her against me, her head on my chest, directly over her name etched into my skin. My fingers trace lazy patterns on her back as our breathing gradually slows.
"That was different," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my chest.
"Different good?"
She shifts to look up at me, her eyes soft in the candlelight. "Different perfect." Her hand comes up to touch my face, her thumb brushing across my lower lip. "I didn't know you had that in you."
"Neither did I." The admission comes easier than I expected. "You change me, Seraphina. You make me want to be more than just the man who takes what he wants."
"But you're still that man too." There's a smile in her voice. "The one who buys galleries without telling me. The one who replaces my entire wardrobe with his name stitched into every piece."
"Always." I tighten my arms around her. "That part of me will never change."
"Good." She settles more comfortably against me. "Because I meant what I said earlier. I love your obsession. All versions of it."
As her breathing evens out into sleep, I stare at the ceiling, marveling at the woman in my arms. The only person who's ever embraced the darkest, most consuming aspects of my nature.The only one who understands that my need to possess her completely comes from the same place as my promise of forever.
My wife. My obsession. My eternity.
Chapter Fourteen
Seraphina
The first contractionfeels like an artist's brushstroke—a firm sweep of pressure across my lower back that gradually intensifies before fading away. I pause in the middle of arranging flowers in our penthouse living room, one hand instinctively moving to my enormous belly. Nine months pregnant, and I still can't quite believe there's a person in there—a tiny human that Knox and I created, growing beneath my heart. The contraction subsides, and I check my watch, noting the time with the same careful attention I'd give to cataloging a new exhibition. Not time to panic yet. Not time to unleash the carefully contained hurricane that my husband will become the moment I tell him our baby is coming.
I lower myself carefully onto the sofa, smoothing my hand over the stretched silk of my maternity dress—custom-made, of course, because Knox refused to let me wear anything mass-produced during my pregnancy. "Nothing but the best for my wife and child," he'd declared, before ordering an entire wardrobe that somehow managed to make me feel elegantdespite resembling a particularly well-dressed planet in my third trimester.
Another contraction rolls through me thirteen minutes later. I breathe through it, the way the doula Knox hired taught us. He'd attended every class, asked more questions than all the other expectant parents combined, and created an annotated binder of information that would put most medical textbooks to shame. My husband, the CEO who delegates everything in his business life, has approached impending fatherhood with a micromanager's obsessive attention to detail.
The memory of his face during our last ultrasound makes me smile despite the discomfort. The technician had pointed out our daughter's perfect profile, her tiny hand raised as if waving, and Knox had gone completely still. Then he'd gripped my hand so tightly I lost circulation in two fingers, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She's perfect," he'd whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Like her mother."
The past nine months have revealed new dimensions of Knox's possessiveness that I never imagined possible. He's had the penthouse rebuilt around my pregnancy—wider doorways, gentler lighting, an entirely new climate control system that keeps the temperature at the exact degree his research indicated was optimal for pregnant women. He's attended every doctor's appointment, interrogated every specialist, commissioned enough safety equipment to childproof the Pentagon. The nursery looks like it belongs in a royal palace, though our daughter won't even sleep there for months.
A third contraction, eleven minutes after the second, makes me catch my breath. This one demands my full attention, radiating from my back around to my abdomen in a tightening band. When it passes, I decide it's time. Knox is in his home office on a conference call with Tokyo, but he'd never forgive me if I waited any longer to tell him.
I move carefully down the hallway, one hand supporting my lower back, the other resting on my belly. Through the partially open door, I can see him pacing as he speaks, his powerful frame outlined against the Manhattan skyline. Even after nearly two years of marriage, the sight of him still makes my heart beat faster.
He senses my presence immediately—he always does—and turns toward the door. One look at my face and he freezes mid-sentence.
"I have to go," he says into the phone, disconnecting without waiting for a response. "Is it time?"
I nod, and the transformation is instantaneous. Knox Vance, titan of industry, the man whose mere presence makes boardrooms fall silent, goes utterly pale.
