I select a volume of poetry—Rilke in the original German with facing-page French translations—and settle into a window seat overlooking the front gardens. The combination of beautifullanguage and beautiful surroundings creates temporary respite from constant awareness of my situation.
Dinner passes in a fog of expensive wine and gourmet food I barely taste. Conversation remains carefully neutral—observations about the villa, the journey, the Parisian skyline visible from the terrace. Gage watches me with that assessing gaze I've grown accustomed to, measuring my compliance, my adaptation, my surrender.
When we finish, he stands, extending his hand. "Shall we retire? The time difference is significant."
The inevitable moment has arrived. I place my hand in his, allowing him to lead me back to our suite. Inside, the bedroom has been prepared for night—lights dimmed, sheets turned down, the space transformed into a romantic setting that mocks the reality of our arrangement.
"I'll give you privacy to prepare for bed," he says, his tone neutral but his meaning clear.
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. I've been dressed in an ivory silk nightgown—another item selected without my input, delivered to the villa ahead of our arrival. It skims my body like water, the material so fine it's nearly transparent.
When I emerge, Gage stands at the window, silhouetted against the Parisian night. He's changed into black silk pajama pants, his chest bare, revealing the lean muscle of a man who maintains physical discipline as rigidly as he controls his business empire.
"You're beautiful," he says simply, eyes tracking my movement as I hover uncertainly near the bathroom door.
"Let's not pretend this is anything but what it is," I reply, voice steadier than I feel. "A transaction. A business arrangement with physical requirements."
He looks slightly disappointed.
"Come here, Penelope," he says, voice dropping to a tone that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I remain where I am, clinging to this final moment of defiance. "And if I refuse?"
"You won't." The confidence in his tone infuriates me, especially because he's right. What purpose would refusal serve now? The ceremony is complete, the papers signed, the cage door firmly locked.
I cross the room slowly, stopping just out of reach. "Is this where you claim your property, Mr. Blackwood?"
His hand moves with surprising speed, catching my wrist and pulling me against him in one fluid motion. "My wife," he corrects, his other hand sliding to the nape of my neck. "Legally bound. Publicly acknowledged. Mine in every way that matters."
Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine in a kiss unlike our previous encounters—demanding, possessive, brooking no resistance. His tongue parts my lips, taking rather than asking, exploring with a thoroughness that leaves me breathless when he finally pulls back.
"Your body knows what your mind refuses to accept," he murmurs, his hand moving from my neck down my spine, pressing me more firmly against him. The hard length of him is evident even through the layers of silk between us.
"Physical response isn't consent," I manage, hating the breathlessness in my voice.
"No," he agrees surprisingly. "But the prenuptial agreement you signed is. Reasonable expectation of marital relations, remember?"
The cold reminder of legal documents in this moment is so quintessentially Gage—practical, strategic, emotionless despite his evident desire.
His hands move to my shoulders, pushing the thin straps of the nightgown down my arms. The silk slides like water, pooling at my feet, leaving me naked and exposed beneath his gaze.
"Perfect," he says, voice roughened with desire as his eyes travel over my body with proprietary appreciation. His fingertips trace a path from my collarbone down between my breasts, barely touching yet leaving fire in their wake. "Even more exquisite than I imagined."
I fight the urge to cover myself, refusing to show the vulnerability he's surely looking for, even as my nipples harden under his scrutiny. "Get it over with, then."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. Without warning, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the bed, depositing me in the center with surprising gentleness before covering my body with his. The weight of him presses me into the mattress, his skin hot against mine, the silk of his pants doing nothing to disguise his substantial arousal.
"This isn't something to 'get over with,' Penelope," he says, his thigh sliding between mine, creating delicious friction against my core. "This is something to savor. To remember."
His mouth finds mine again as his hands begin to explore—tracing the curve of my breast, thumbs circling but never quite touching my aching nipples, mapping the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip. I tell myself I won't respond, won't give him the satisfaction of my surrender. But my treacherous body has other ideas, nerve endings firing at his expert touch, heat pooling between my legs against my will.
When his thumb finally brushes across my nipple, then pinches lightly, an involuntary gasp escapes me. He smiles against my mouth, clearly pleased with the reaction as he rolls the hardened peak between his fingers.
"Your body doesn't lie," he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck to capture my other nipple between his teeth, tuggingjust enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain racing through me. "No matter what defiance you maintain in your mind, your body is honest about what it wants."
I turn my face away, unwilling to watch my own surrender. He immediately catches my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze, the blue of his eyes nearly swallowed by dilated pupils.
"No," he says firmly. "You don't get to pretend this isn't happening. I want to see your eyes when you come apart for me. I want to watch pleasure overtake that stubborn resistance."
