His hand catches my shoulder, preventing escape. "No," he says quietly. "Don't turn from me."
"Haven't you taken enough?" I ask, voice breaking despite my effort to maintain control.
Instead of answering, he pulls me against him, my back to his chest, arms encircling me completely. One large hand splays across my stomach, the other curves around my breast, thumb lazily circling the sensitive nipple. Even now, spent and satisfied, he maintains possession.
"Sleep," he murmurs against my hair, his lips brushing my neck in a gesture that feels almost affectionate.
I lie awake long after his breathing has deepened into sleep, tears drying on my cheeks, body still humming with the aftereffects of unwanted pleasure. The physical intimacy had been undeniably satisfying—Gage clearly knows how to please a woman, how to coax response from reluctant flesh, how to make a body sing even when the mind rebels.
It's that very competence that terrifies me most. If my body surrenders so completely to his touch, how long before my mind follows? How many nights of this exquisite torture before I begin to crave it, to anticipate it, to genuinely desire the man who stole my freedom?
His arms tighten around me even in sleep, as if sensing my turmoil, ensuring I remain exactly where he wants me—pressed against him, contained within his embrace, prisoner of both his body and my own traitorous responses.
I stare into the darkness, the weight of his wedding ring pressing against my skin where his hand rests possessively on my breast, a constant reminder of the chains I now wear—invisible, intangible, but no less binding than steel.
CHAPTER 21
Morning light filters through gauzy curtains when I wake, my body sore in places I'd forgotten existed. For a moment, I'm disoriented—the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of an arm draped possessively across my waist, the scent of expensive sheets mingling with the lingering musk of sex.
Paris. The villa. My wedding night.
I shift slightly, testing the range of movement allowed by Gage's unconscious embrace. Even in sleep, he maintains control, his body curved around mine like a living cage.
His breathing changes subtly, a nearly imperceptible shift that tells me he's awake before he moves. His hand slides upward, fingers splaying across my ribcage just beneath my breast.
"Good morning, wife," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep as his lips brush against my shoulder.
I don't respond, not trusting my voice. The mental clarity of morning brings renewed awareness of my situation—of what happened last night, of the surrender he extracted from my unwilling body.
"Still pretending?" he asks, amusement evident as his hand moves higher to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens against his touch. "After the way you came apart for me last night?"
"Don't," I whisper, the word lacking conviction even to my own ears.
"Don't what?" His mouth traces a path along my shoulder to my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin before biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. "Don't remind you how your body responded to mine? Don't touch what's legally and rightfully mine?"
Before I can answer, he shifts suddenly, moving down my body with predatory grace. The sheets are pulled away with one swift motion, exposing me completely to the cool morning air and his hungry gaze.
"What are you doing?" I ask, pushing up onto my elbows.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wide with casual strength, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh near my core. "Having breakfast," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre that sends unwanted heat flooding between my legs.
I barely have time to process his meaning before his mouth is on me—hot, demanding, possessive. His tongue parts my folds with a long, deliberate stroke that makes my back arch off the bed involuntarily. My hands fly to his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
"Fuck," he growls against my sensitive flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core. "So wet already. Your body knows who it belongs to, even when your mind resists."
His technique is devastating—broad strokes alternating with focused attention on my clit, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth before flicking his tongue against it with relentless precision. My thighs begin to tremble, my breathing ragged as pleasure builds with frightening intensity.
"Look at me," he commands, pulling back just enough to make me whimper at the loss. "I want to see your eyes when I make you come with my mouth."
Despite myself, I meet his gaze—those intense blue eyes watching me from between my thighs, his expression dark with possession. The sight of him there, powerful and controlled even in this submissive position, sends a fresh rush of wetness that he acknowledges with a appreciative groan.
"Say my name," he demands before his tongue darts out to circle my clit. One long finger slides inside me, curling to find that spot that makes my vision blur. Then a second finger joins the first, stretching me, preparing me.
I bite my lip, determined to maintain this small rebellion. His response is immediate—a sharp nip to my inner thigh that makes me cry out, followed by a soothing lap of his tongue over the slight sting.
"My name, Penelope," he insists, his fingers pumping inside me with deliberate precision while his thumb replaces his tongue on my clit. "Let me hear who's making you feel this way."
"Gage," I whisper, my voice breaking as pleasure coils tighter.
