"Not what?" His voice was dangerously soft as his fingers worked the buttons of my blouse. "Not mine? Your body knows better, Penelope."
My head fell back against the wall as his mouth traced a burning path along my collarbone. "We already had sex today," I managed.
"I don’t care." The words brooked no argument. "I want you again. Now."
His hands pushed my blouse from my shoulders, leaving me in the lace bra he'd selected in Paris—black, delicate, barely containing my breasts. The cool air against my heated skin made me shiver, but not nearly as much as the intensity in his gaze as he took in the sight of me.
"Perfect," he murmured, one finger tracing the edge of lace, dipping beneath to brush against my nipple. "Every inch of you. Mine to touch. Mine to taste."
My breath caught as he unhooked the bra with practiced ease, letting it fall to the marble floor. His mouth replaced his fingers, hot and demanding against my sensitive skin. I couldn't stop the moan that escaped my lips or the way my back arched, pressing me more firmly against him.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded, hands sliding up my thighs, bunching my skirt around my waist. "I want to hear you say it."
"You know what I want," I whispered, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of begging.
His fingers traced the edge of my panties, teasing but not giving me what we both knew I needed. "Say it, Penelope."
"Touch me," I finally gasped, hating my weakness but unable to resist. "Please."
The victorious gleam in his eyes should have infuriated me. Instead, it sent another wave of heat through my core. He hooked his fingers in the delicate lace of my underwear and tore—the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the silent bedroom.
"I'll buy you more," he said dismissively when I gasped in surprise.
Then his fingers were where I needed them, sliding through the evidence of my arousal with confident precision. My head fell back against the wall again as he worked me with deliberate strokes, building tension with practiced skill.
"So wet for me already," he observed, voice rough with desire. "So ready to take my cock. Tell me, wife—is this the response of a woman who doesn't want what I'm giving her?"
I couldn't answer, couldn't form words as his fingers circled my clit with devastating accuracy. My hips moved of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"Answer me," he demanded, slowing his movements to an agonizing tease.
"No," I admitted through clenched teeth. "You know it's not."
His smile was triumphant as he slid two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that spot that made my vision blur. "See? Honesty isn't so difficult."
I might have hated him in that moment if my body hadn't been so desperately craving his. The sound of his zipper lowering sent another rush of wetness between my thighs, my inner muscles clenching in anticipation.
In one swift movement, he lifted me, pinning me against the wall with his body. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the position opening me completely to him.
"Look at me," he commanded as he positioned himself at my entrance. "I want to see your eyes when I take what's mine."
I forced my gaze to his, defiance mingling with desire. The head of his cock teased my sensitive flesh, thick and hot and promising pleasure I'd come to crave despite myself.
"Say you want this," he demanded, pushing just slightly inside, enough to make me gasp but not enough to satisfy.
"I want this," I whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. "I want you."
With a growl of satisfaction, he thrust forward, filling me completely in one powerful stroke. My nails dug into his shoulders, the sensation of fullness overwhelming.
"Christ, you're perfect," he groaned, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in. "Made for me. Made to take me."
His pace was relentless, each thrust driving me higher, the angle ensuring he hit that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids. The wall behind me was cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat where our bodies joined.
"Mine," he growled with each thrust, the word a possession and a promise. "Say it, Penelope. Tell me who you belong to."
I tried to resist, to hold onto some shred of defiance, but my body betrayed me utterly. "Yours," I gasped as pleasure coiled tighter in my core. "I'm yours, Gage."
His rhythm faltered at my admission, his control fraying. One hand slid between us, finding my clit with unerring precision, circling in time with his thrusts.
