"Come for me," he demanded, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Let me feel you fall apart around my cock."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pressure inside me pushed me over the edge. Release crashedthrough me like a tidal wave, my body clenching around him, waves of pleasure so intense I cried out his name.
He slams into me one last time, muscles locking as thick, hot release pours into me, each pulse sending a jolt through my core.
For several long moments, we remained locked together, both breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sliding against skin. He kept me pinned against the wall, still inside me, unwilling to break the connection.
When he finally lifted his head to look at me, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. His hand came up to brush hair from my face with surprising gentleness.
"Welcome home, wife," he murmured, voice roughened by exertion but carrying an undercurrent I couldn't quite identify.
I said nothing, words impossible in the aftermath of such complete surrender.
Afterward, as we shower together in the enormous marble bathroom, his hands soap my body with proprietary thoroughness. "You're quiet," he observes, fingers massaging shampoo into my hair.
"Just processing the transition," I reply, the partial truth easier than articulating the complex emotions swirling beneath the surface.
"From Paris to Chicago?"
"From honeymoon to reality."
His hands pause briefly, then resume their rhythmic motion. "The distinction isn't as significant as you imagine," he says after a moment.
I say nothing, allowing hot water to cascade over us, washing away evidence of our latest encounter.
Dinner passes in polite conversation about practical matters—schedules for the coming weeks, social obligations, business commitments that will occasionally require Gage's presenceelsewhere. I listen, respond appropriately, play my role with practiced precision.
The next days establish our new routine. Mornings begin with Gage claiming my body before business claims his attention. Days find me in the conservatory studio, arranging flowers with the same skill that once defined my independence, now merely a pastime within gilded confinement. Evenings bring social engagements or private dinners, followed inevitably by further physical surrender in our shared bed.
I perform perfectly in every setting—the appropriate wife at business functions, the gracious hostess at private gatherings, the responsive partner in our marriage bed. I speak when expected, smile at appropriate moments, fulfill every requirement of my position with flawless execution.
Gage watches, gradually relaxing as days become weeks with no sign of resistance. Security measures ease slightly.
"You've exceeded expectations," Gage observes one evening as we prepare for the Children's Hospital fundraiser—the first major public appearance since our return from Paris. He stands behind me at the dressing table, watching as I fasten diamond earrings that complement the midnight blue gown selected for the occasion. "Everyone is genuinely impressed by your adaptation."
I meet his gaze in the mirror. "I'm nothing if not practical."
His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs tracing slow circles at the base of my neck. "You're many things beyond practical, Penelope," he corrects, voice carrying that edge that still sends unwelcome heat through my veins. "Intelligent. Resilient. Exquisite."
Before I can respond, his lips press against the sensitive spot behind my ear, tongue tracing a path that makes me shiver despite myself. "Unfortunately," he murmurs against my skin,"we don't have time to explore those qualities further if we're to arrive at the event on schedule."
The fundraiser proves exactly as anticipated—expensive champagne, strategic networking thinly disguised as philanthropy, Chicago's elite performing carefully choreographed social rituals. I move through it all with practiced grace, my hand resting on Gage's arm, my smile perfectly calibrated for each interaction.
"Mrs. Blackwood," Judge Harrison greets me with genuine warmth, his daughter Caroline beside him. "You're positively glowing. Marriage clearly agrees with you."
"Thank you, Judge," I reply, the practiced phrase emerging smoothly. "Gage and I are still adjusting to post-honeymoon reality, but Paris was magical."
"I can imagine," Caroline says, her gaze sliding appreciatively over my husband's tall form. "And how are you finding married life? Everything you expected?"
Gage's hand settles at the small of my back. "Penelope has transitioned seamlessly," he answers before I can formulate response. "As if she was always meant for the position."
The phrasing sends a chill through me despite the crowded ballroom's warmth. Position. Not partnership, not relationship—position. Like a chess piece placed precisely where the player intended.
"If you'll excuse us," Gage continues, nodding to the Harrisons, "the governor has just arrived. A matter requiring brief discussion."
I follow his lead across the ballroom, accepting fresh champagne from a passing waiter, scanning the crowd with careful attention. Recognition pulses suddenly—Malcolm Wei, the technology investor from our dinner party, deep in conversation with the mayor near the silent auction displays.
"I should review the auction items," I say, touching Gage's arm lightly. "Appropriate support for the cause."
