"You don't like the way anyone looks at me," I observe.
His eyes darken. "No, I don't. What's mine is mine alone."
The possessiveness should repel me. It should remind me that I'm essentially property for the next twenty-eight days. Instead, it sends a forbidden thrill through me—the knowledge that this powerful man views me as something precious enough to guard jealously.
We leave shortly after, Roman's hand resting on the small of my back as he guides me through the restaurant and into the waiting car. The moment the privacy screen closes between us and the driver, his demeanor changes. The controlled businessman disappears, replaced by the hungry predator I've come to both fear and crave.
"You were perfect tonight," he says, his voice low and charged with intent. "You played your role flawlessly."
"I barely spoke," I point out.
"Exactly." His hand slides up my thigh, fingers tracing the slit in my dress with deliberate slowness. "You followed instructions. You let me take care of everything. You trusted me to provide what you needed."
I should object to his characterization. I should point out that obedience born of contractual obligation isn't trust. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, craving more despite myself.
"And now," he continues, his fingers reaching the lace edge of my underwear, "I'm going to reward your obedience."
His touch is expert, finding exactly the right spot with unerring precision. My head falls back against the leather seat, a gasp escaping my lips.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching my face with predatory intensity as his fingers work their magic. "Let go, Delilah. Show me how much you enjoy being mine."
The dual sensation of his skilled touch and his possessive words pushes me rapidly toward the edge. My hands are numb,gripping the leather seat, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as surrender.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
"Please what?" Roman prompts, his fingers slowing deliberately. "Say it, Delilah. Tell me what you need."
"Please don't stop," I manage, shame and desire warring within me.
His smile is triumphant. "And who do you belong to? Who controls your pleasure?"
"You," I gasp as his touch intensifies again. "You, Roman."
"Mine," he growls, satisfaction dripping from the single word as he pushes me over the edge into blinding pleasure.
As I come apart under his touch, with the lights of the city streaming past our tinted windows and the ghost of his possessive words still hanging in the air between us, I can't help but wonder how I'll ever walk away from this when the month is over. How I'll return to a life of instant ramen and overdue bills after tasting the intoxicating mixture of luxury and submission Roman offers.
And that realization terrifies me more than any clause in his contract.
nine
. . .
I'm searchingfor a pen in Roman's home office—with his permission, a small concession granted so I can work on notes for my dissertation—when I find the folder. It's labeled simply "Delilah" in Roman's precise handwriting, tucked neatly in a drawer that's otherwise empty. I shouldn't open it. I know I shouldn't. But something about the clinical neatness of my name on that expensive cardstock makes my fingers itch with dread and curiosity.
The folder is thick, nearly bursting with papers. I glance toward the door, listening for Roman's footsteps. He's on a conference call in the bedroom, his voice a distant murmur of authority. I have maybe ten minutes before he finishes.
I shouldn't. But I do.
The first page steals my breath—it's a comprehensive background check, the kind employers run on potential hires, but far more detailed. My full name, social security number, date of birth. My parents' names, their dates of death. Every address I've lived at since birth. Education history, complete with GPA breakdowns for each semester of college. Employment records,including my high school job at a frozen yogurt shop that lasted all of three weeks.
I flip the page, my heart pounding in my ears. Bank statements. Credit reports. Medical records—including details of the anxiety medication I was prescribed after my mother's death. A list of every prescription I've filled in the past five years.
The next section is even more disturbing—surveillance photos. Me walking to class, hair twisted in a messy bun, books clutched to my chest. Me working at the coffee shop, laughing with a customer. Me entering my apartment building, looking exhausted after a late shift. The timestamps show dates from weeks before our meeting at The Obsidian. Some from months before.
My hands shake as I continue. There's a detailed analysis of my social media accounts—limited as they are—with certain posts highlighted and annotated in Roman's handwriting. Notes about my friends, my habits, my patterns. A psychological profile prepared by someone with credentials after their name. A list of my "triggers and vulnerabilities" that makes me feel stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with physical nakedness.
The last section is the most unsettling—handwritten notes from Roman himself, observations about me. My gestures, my expressions, my reactions to various stimuli. Notes about how I take my coffee, what music makes me smile, which foods I seem to prefer. Detailed observations about my body that make my skin crawl with their clinical precision.
