I move toward him, stopping when I stand between his spread knees. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin with deliberate intent.
"Who do you belong to, Delilah?" he asks, the question deceptively conversational.
I hesitate, my feminist principles warring with the desire coursing through me. "Roman?—"
"Wrong answer," he interrupts, his grip tightening slightly. "Try again. Who do you belong to?"
I swallow hard, torn between resistance and surrender. "The contract?—"
"Fuck the contract," he growls, the crude word shocking from his usually precise mouth. "This isn't about legal agreements. This is about what we both know to be true." His hand slides between my thighs, finding evidence of my arousal that contradicts any verbal protest I might make. "Your body knows the truth, even when your mind refuses to acknowledge it."
His touch is expert, finding exactly the right spot with unerring precision. My head falls back, a gasp escaping my lips as pleasure spirals through me.
"Tell me," Roman demands, his fingers continuing their skilled assault on my senses. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," I whisper, the admission torn from me by physical sensation and emotional need. "I belong to you, Roman."
"Again," he commands, his free hand tangling in my hair to pull my face down to his level. "Louder."
"I belong to you," I repeat, louder this time, my face burning with shame and arousal in equal measure.
His smile is triumphant, predatory. "And what happens when you try to run from me?"
"You find me," I gasp as his fingers increase their rhythm. "You always find me."
"Yes," he hisses, satisfaction evident in his tone. "No matter where you go, no matter how you try to hide, I will always find you, Delilah. Always bring you back where you belong."
With unexpected strength, he lifts me and turns, depositing me on the bed beneath him. His weight pins me to the mattress, his still-clothed body a reminder of his control over the situation. One hand holds both my wrists above my head while the other continues its intimate exploration.
"I could make you come right now," he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Make you shatter under my touch while I remain completely clothed. Would you like that, Delilah? To be reminded of exactly how completely I can control your pleasure?"
"Please," I whisper, beyond pride or resistance now, consumed by need.
"Please what?" Roman's thumb circles lazily, building pressure without providing release. "Be specific. Tell me exactly what you want."
"I want you," I admit, arching against his restraining hand. "All of you. Inside me."
His smile is knowing. "Because?"
"Because I'm yours," I say, the words coming easier now, surrender flowing through me like warm honey. "Only yours, Roman."
He releases my wrists to quickly shed his own clothes, revealing the lean, powerful body I've come to know intimately over our weeks together. The scars I've traced with my fingers and lips. The muscles that flex beneath my touch. The evidence of his desire, impressive and intimidating.
When he covers my body with his again, skin to skin, the connection feels electric. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's equal parts possession and worship, his hands exploring with a hunger that seems impossible to satisfy.
"Mine," he growls against my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Say it again, Delilah. Tell me who you belong to."
"Yours," I gasp as he positions himself at my entrance. "I'm yours, Roman. Only yours."
He enters me in one powerful thrust, filling me completely, the sensation making us both groan with pleasure. His movements are controlled at first—deliberate, measured, each stroke calculated for maximum impact. His eyes never leave mine, demanding I acknowledge the connection between us with each thrust.
"This is why you can't run," he says, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "This connection. This perfect fit. This way your body welcomes mine like it was created for exactly this purpose."
The crude words spoken in his refined voice send another spike of arousal through me. Roman feels it, his smile turning triumphant as he increases his pace.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding beneath me to change the angle slightly. "Stop fighting it, Delilah. Stop fighting us."
His thrusts become more urgent, more primal, his carefully maintained control slipping with each passing moment. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust in a dance that feels both like surrender and claiming.
