I hesitate, torn between the answer he wants and the one I've been clinging to. "For... for as long as the contract?—"
Another slap cuts off my words, this one hard enough to make tears spring to my eyes behind the blindfold. "Three! I belong to you!"
"For how long, Delilah?" His voice is implacable, demanding surrender.
A fourth strike, then a fifth, each followed by my counting and affirmation of ownership. By the tenth, my resistance crumbles. "Ten! I belong to you forever! For as long as you want me!"
"There," Roman says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "The truth at last."
His hand soothes the heated skin of my ass, gentle now where it was punishing moments before. I feel him bend over me, his clothed body a stark contrast to my nakedness, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"You've always been mine, Delilah," he murmurs. "From the moment I first saw you. The contract is just a formality, a transition period to help you accept what we both already know." His hand slides between my thighs, finding the evidence of my arousal. "Your body understands, even when your mind rebels."
I should be outraged by his presumption, his dominance, his casual dismissal of the temporal nature of our arrangement. Instead, I find myself pushing back against his touch, desperate for more despite the lingering sting of his punishment.
"Please," I whisper, all pretense of resistance abandoned.
"Please what?" He withdraws his touch, leaving me aching. "Be specific, Delilah. What do you want?"
"You," I admit, beyond pride now. "I want you, Roman."
"Because?"
"Because I'm yours," I say, the words coming easier each time. "Only yours."
His satisfied hum vibrates against my skin as he presses a kiss to my shoulder. "Good girl. You're learning."
The blindfold is suddenly removed, the return of vision momentarily disorienting. Roman turns me to face him, his eyes dark with a mixture of triumph and desire as he unties my wrists. The moment I'm free, his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's equal parts reward and continued possession.
What follows is unlike anything we've shared before—not just physical coupling but a complete claiming, his dominance extending to every touch, every position, every moment of pleasure. He controls when I can climax, denying me release until I'm begging, until I've repeated his ownership of me so many times the words are branded on my soul.
When he finally allows me completion, it's with his hand around my throat, his body buried deep within mine, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath more effectively than his grip.
"Mine," he growls as I shatter beneath him. "Say it, Delilah. Tell me the truth you can no longer deny."
"Yours," I gasp as waves of pleasure crash through me. "Always yours, Roman. Only yours."
His own release follows, his control finally fracturing as he claims me with primitive intensity. In the aftermath, as we lie tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, his possessive grip doesn't loosen—one arm locked around my waist, the other hand still loosely circling my throat in reminder of his control.
"Do you understand now?" he asks, his voice rough with spent passion. "Why I reacted as I did last night? Why I can't tolerate another man's eyes or hands on you?"
I should be disturbed by the intensity of his possessiveness, by how completely I surrendered to his "punishment." Instead, I find myself nestling closer to him, craving the security of his claim even as a small, rational part of my mind warns me of the danger.
"I understand," I whisper, and it's the truth. I understand that Roman's obsession with me has become my obsession with him—a mutual addiction neither of us seems capable of breaking.
"Good," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture almost tender in its possessiveness. "Because I don't share what's mine, Delilah. Not ever. And you are the most precious thing I've ever possessed."
As I drift toward sleep in the cage of his arms, I wonder what will happen when our thirty days are up—and if I'll have the strength to walk away from this dangerous, intoxicating possession when the time comes.
thirteen
. . .
I catchmyself rearranging the books on Roman's coffee table, aligning them at the precise right angle I know he prefers. My hands freeze mid-adjustment, a chill washing over me as I realize what I'm doing—anticipating his preferences, adapting to his desires without conscious thought. When did this happen? When did pleasing Roman become an instinct rather than a calculation? Two weeks into our month-long contract, and already I'm molding myself to fit the space he's carved out for me in his life.
I straighten, moving away from the coffee table as if it might burn me. The penthouse is silent—Roman left for a business meeting an hour ago, giving me a rare moment of solitude. Instead of using this freedom to reconnect with myself, I've spent it unconsciously preparing for his return.
This isn't the first time I've caught myself doing this. Yesterday, I ordered his preferred sparkling water when the housekeeper asked for the grocery list. The day before, I found myself selecting the navy blue dress from the closet because I know it's his favorite. Small adjustments, minor accommodations, but they add up to something more disturbing—the gradual erasure of Delilah Monroe and the emergence of Roman Wolfe's perfect possession.
