The touch sends heat spiraling through me despite the inappropriate setting, despite the uncomfortable intensity of Roman's behavior. His fingers trail down to the hollow of my throat, lingering there where my pulse hammers against my skin.
"I believe my point is made," Roman says, satisfaction edging his voice as he registers my body's response to his touch. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I'm taking Delilah home." He emphasizes the last word, making it clear exactly what "home" entails.
James retreats with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, disappearing into the crowd with a final glance back that holds equal parts warning and pity.
"We need to leave," Roman says, his mouth close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Now. Before I do something uncivilized."
Without waiting for my response, he guides me through the ballroom with that same possessive hand at my waist. People part before us, conversations pausing as we pass. I feel the weight of curious stares, the electric charge of gossip being generated with each step.
"Roman, we can't just walk out," I protest quietly. "The event isn't half over. People will talk."
"Let them," he says dismissively. "I don't care what anyone thinks except you. And right now, all I care about is getting you somewhere private where I can remind you exactly who you belong to."
The naked intent in his voice sends another wave of heat through me—equal parts fear and anticipation. By the time we reach his waiting car, my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
The moment the door closes behind us, sealing us in the privacy of the car's leather interior, Roman's control fractures. His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back with enough force to make me gasp. His eyes bore into mine, dark with a mixture of fury and desire.
"Do you have any idea what I wanted to do to him?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "When I saw his fingers touch yours? When I saw you smile at something he said?"
"It was nothing," I say, my voice unsteady. "Just polite conversation."
"Nothing?" Roman repeats, his grip tightening slightly. "Is that why you let him touch you? Why you were laughing with him? Why you looked so comfortable in his company?"
"I didn't let him do anything," I protest. "He handed me a drink. Our fingers brushed for half a second. It wasn't?—"
"It was everything," Roman cuts me off. "Every touch, every smile, every moment of attention you give to another man is a theft from me. Do you understand? You are mine, Delilah. Completely. Exclusively. Permanently."
"The contract—" I begin, trying to reestablish the boundaries he keeps dissolving.
"Fuck the contract," he growls, the crude word shocking from his usually precise mouth. "This isn't about legal agreements or financial arrangements. This is about what we both know is true." His eyes search mine, demanding acknowledgment. "Say it, Delilah. Say who you belong to."
I should refuse. I should remind him of my autonomy, my independence, my right to speak to whoever I choose. Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Yours. I belong to you, Roman."
Something fierce and triumphant flashes in his eyes. "Again," he demands, his mouth hovering a breath away from mine. "Louder."
"I'm yours," I repeat, my voice stronger this time, the admission sending a shameful thrill through me. "Only yours."
His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's more possession than passion—marking, claiming, branding. His hands grip my waist, lifting me effortlessly to straddle him in the spacious backseat.
"Do you have any idea what it does to me?" he murmurs against my throat between kisses. "Seeing another man's eyes on you? His hands touching what belongs to me?" His teeth graze my pulse point, making me gasp. "It makes me want to tear him apart. To show everyone exactly who you belong to."
His possessiveness should frighten me. It should make me reconsider this entire arrangement, remind me of all the red flags I've ignored. Instead, it ignites something primal within me—the dark satisfaction of being wanted so completely, so desperately, that it drives this controlled man to the edge of violence.
"Show me," I whisper, my hands threading through his hair. "Show me who I belong to."
Our fingers brush, and we feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts us nonetheless. Roman's eyes darken further at my words, his control slipping another notch.
"Here?" he asks, though it's barely a question. "With half of society's elite just yards away?"
The danger of discovery only heightens the tension between us. I can feel him hard beneath me, his body responding to the possessive fury still coursing through him.
"I need to erase the memory of his touch," Roman says, his hands already gathering the silk of my gown, pushing it up my thighs. "Need to remind you that no one else's hands belong on your body. No one else's eyes should linger on what's mine."
As the car moves through darkened city streets, as Roman claims me with the same possessive intensity that marks everything between us, I stop fighting the truth I've beenavoiding: I want this. Want his obsession, his possession, his complete focus. Want to be the center of this dangerous man's universe, even knowing the cost.
"Mine," he growls against my ear as we both shatter. "Say it again."
"Yours," I gasp, surrendering to the truth that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure. "Only yours, Roman. Always yours."
