"Reality makes you uncomfortable," he observes, not unkindly, as his fingers continue their gentle exploration. "But reality is what we have, Penelope. A marriage consummated thoroughly and enthusiastically, despite your mind's continued resistance."
"There was nothing enthusiastic about it," I lie, unable to meet his gaze.
"No?" His hand slides between us, fingers dipping between my thighs to find the evidence of my body's betrayal. "This suggests otherwise."
I push his hand away, finally extracting myself from his embrace to sit on the edge of the bed, back to him, suddenly acutely aware of my nakedness.
"I'll take breakfast on the terrace," I say stiffly, reaching for the robe draped across a nearby chair.
His hand on my shoulder stops me. "No hiding," he says firmly. "Not between us. Not anymore."
I turn to face him, finding his expression serious despite the intimacy we've just shared. "What exactly do you want from me, Gage? Beyond the obvious physical demands."
"Honesty," he replies without hesitation. "Acknowledge what exists between us, even if you resist it."
"What exists is a legal arrangement and physical compatibility," I say carefully. "Don't mistake one for the other."
"For now," he says finally, rising from the bed in one fluid movement. "The terrace, then. Thirty minutes?"
I nod, watching as he walks naked to the adjoining bathroom, completely unselfconscious in his magnificent physicality. When the door closes behind him, I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
The robe feels like armor when I finally pull it around my body—thin silk providing illusion of protection rather than actual coverage. I move to the window, looking out over Parisian gardens now bathed in full morning light.
My body thrums with lingering satisfaction, nerve endings still sensitive from his attentions. Whatever resistance my mind maintains, my physical response to Gage is undeniable—a chemistry that transcends the circumstances of our arrangement.
This, perhaps, is the most dangerous aspect of my captivity—not the legal bonds or physical restrictions, but the pleasure he can extract from my unwilling body. The possibility that, given enough time, the line between coercion and desire might blur beyond recognition.
Breakfaston the terrace feels surreal—fresh croissants, perfect coffee, fragrant flowers in crystal vases—all the trappings of honeymoon romance without the underlying emotional connection such displays typically represent.
Gage sits across from me, hair still damp from his shower, dressed casually in linen pants and a white shirt that emphasizes his tan. He reads news on his tablet while sipping coffee, the picture of domestic normality.
"The weather is ideal for exploring the city," he observes, setting aside the device to focus on me. "If you're interested."
The offer of leaving the villa takes me by surprise. "I thought we were confined to the property for the first week."
"Not confined," he corrects smoothly. "Privacy was arranged for your comfort, not to restrict movement. We can certainly venture out if you wish."
I consider the potential freedom, however limited, of exploring Paris rather than remaining within these beautiful walls. "I would like that," I admit.
He nods, apparently pleased by my answer. "We'll leave after breakfast. Any specific sights you'd like to visit?"
"The Musée de l'Orangerie," I say without hesitation, having long wanted to see Monet's water lilies in their oval galleries. "If possible."
"Of course." He makes a note on his phone. "I'll have the car brought around at ten."
We finish breakfast in relative silence, the tension between us neither exactly comfortable nor overtly hostile. When I rise to return to our suite and dress for the day, he catches my wrist gently.
"One request," he says, his thumb tracing circles on my pulse point. "Shower with me first."
It's not really a request, despite the phrasing. We both know this.
"All right," I agree, watching his eyes darken at my consent.
The bathroom is a marvel of marble and glass, the shower large enough for four people, with multiple heads and bench seating along one wall. Steam fills the space as Gage adjusts the temperature, the glass walls already beginning to fog.
He helps me out of the robe with deliberate movements, his eyes trailing over my body with unabashed appreciation.
"You're exquisite," he says simply, hands skimming my sides before turning me toward the shower.
