My release triggers his own. With a guttural groan, Roman buries himself deep within me, his body tensing as he follows me into ecstasy. For a brief, transcendent moment, the power imbalance between us dissolves. We're just a man and a woman, locked together in the most ancient of dances.
Reality returns slowly. Roman's weight presses me into the mattress, his breathing harsh against my neck. I feel strangely vulnerable now, exposed in ways that have nothing to do with my physical nakedness. I gave him more than my body just now. I gave him a glimpse of something I didn't intend to reveal—my capacity to want this. To want him.
He lifts himself on his elbows, studying my face with that penetrating gaze. Whatever he sees makes satisfaction curl his lips into a predatory smile.
"I knew you would respond to me like that," he says, brushing sweat-dampened hair from my forehead with unexpected gentleness. "But even I didn't anticipate how perfectly matched we would be."
I don't know how to respond. My body feels boneless, satisfied in ways I've never experienced before, but my mind is a confused jumble of contradictions. I shouldn't want this man who bought me like property. I shouldn't crave his touch, his approval, his possession. Yet I do.
Roman rolls to his side, taking me with him so that I'm tucked against his chest, my back to his front, his arm locked possessively around my waist. His lips brush the sensitive spot behind my ear.
"Sleep now," he murmurs, his voice rich with masculine satisfaction. "Tomorrow we begin your training in earnest."
"Training?" I repeat, suddenly alert despite my exhaustion.
I feel his smile against my skin. "Did you think this was all there is? This is just the beginning, Delilah. By the time our month is done, you'll understand exactly what it means to be mine—in every way possible."
His hand splays possessively across my stomach, warm and heavy, both comforting and constraining. I should be terrified by his words, by the implications of "training." Instead, I feel a shameful thrill of anticipation.
"Sleep," he says again, and my body, treacherous and satiated, obeys without question.
As consciousness fades, I feel his lips press against my shoulder in a touch so tender it seems out of character. "Beautiful Delilah," he whispers, perhaps thinking I'm already asleep. "You have no idea what you've awakened in me."
seven
. . .
I waketo the whisper of silk against my skin and sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. For a moment, I forget where I am—this bed too large, these sheets too smooth, this room too quiet to be mine. Then memory floods back in a rush of heated skin and possessive hands, and I remember. I'm in Roman Wolfe's bed. I'm Roman Wolfe's possession. For the next twenty-nine days, at least.
The space beside me is empty but still warm. Roman can't have been gone long. I stretch, wincing at the pleasant soreness between my thighs—evidence of last night's activities that my body seems determined to remind me of with every movement.
Last night. My cheeks heat at the memory. I'd expected clinical efficiency from Roman—the same controlled precision he applies to everything. Instead, I got raw hunger, barely leashed power, a man coming undone in ways I suspect few have witnessed. The way he'd looked at me when he was inside me, like he'd discovered something precious and dangerous all at once...
I press my hands to my burning face. This wasn't supposed to happen. The arrangement was meant to be transactional—my body in exchange for financial security. Clinical. Detached. I wasn't supposed to enjoy his possession so thoroughly, wasn't supposed to crave more even as my body still tingles from the last encounter.
The bedroom door opens, and Roman enters carrying a tray. He's already dressed for the day in tailored gray slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. His hair is damp from a shower, and that subtle cologne clings to him like an expensive shadow.
"You're awake," he observes, his eyes taking in my disheveled state with evident satisfaction. "Good. We have a full day ahead."
I sit up, clutching the silk sheet to my chest in a belated attempt at modesty. The action amuses him—one eyebrow arching as if to remind me he's already seen, touched, and tasted every inch of what I'm trying to hide.
"I brought breakfast," he says, placing the tray across my lap. Fresh fruit, yogurt, whole grain toast, and coffee arranged with the same precision he applies to everything. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
There's something in his tone that makes my stomach flip with equal parts anticipation and unease. I take a sip of coffee—prepared exactly as I like it, though I don't recall telling him my preference.
"Thank you," I say, because my mother raised me with manners, even for men who technically own me for a month.
Roman sits on the edge of the bed, watching me eat with that intense focus that makes me feel like I'm being studied under a microscope. "Did you sleep well?" he asks.
"Yes," I admit. "Your bed is... comfortable."
"Our bed," he corrects. "And yes, it is. I had the mattress custom-made. One thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Hypoallergenic pillows with just the right balance ofsupport and softness." A slight smile curves his lips. "I believe in investing in quality sleep. We spend a third of our lives in bed, after all."
"Some more than others, apparently," I mutter before I can stop myself.
His smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth. "Indeed. And speaking of which, I've cleared my schedule for the next week to focus on your... acclimation."
I nearly choke on a piece of strawberry. "My what?"
