"You can." I roll her onto her back, settling my weight over her. "You can take everything I give you."
The words come out more possessive than I intended, but I don't take them back. They're true. She is mine—has been since the moment I first saw her, will be until the day I die. These games we play, these elaborate scenarios I build for her—they're just different ways of saying the same thing.
You belong to me. And I belong to you.
I kiss her slowly, deeply, tasting her and the alcohol that coats her tongue. She melts into me immediately, her body recognizing mine even in her exhausted state. Her hands come up to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer.
"I love you," she whispers against my mouth.
"I love you too." I pull back to look at her, and for a moment I forget about the mask, the game, the elaborate fantasy I've constructed. There's just her. Just us. "More than anything."
She reaches up and traces the edge of the mask, her fingers gentle against my cheek. "Are you going to take this off?"
"Not yet." I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm. "The night's not over."
She accepts this with a small nod, and I love her even more for it. For trusting me, for playing along, for giving herself over to whatever I have planned without question.
I've done this twice before—the pumpkin patch where I proposed, the Christmas tree farm on our wedding night. Each time, she's surrendered completely, let me take her to the edge and beyond. Each time, it's strengthened the bond between us in ways I can't fully explain.
This time will be no different.
I make love to her slowly this time, none of the desperate urgency from before. Just long, deep strokes that make her gasp and arch beneath me. I watch her face as I move inside her, memorizing every expression, every flutter of her eyelashes.
She's so beautiful it hurts.
"Look at me," I command softly, and her eyes open to meet mine. "Stay with me."
"Always," she breathes, and the word wraps around my heart and squeezes.
Always. That's what I want. That's what I'm building toward with every scenario, every game, every elaborate gesture. A lifetime of this—of her, of us, of moments so intense they burn themselves into memory.
I bring her to the edge slowly, building her up with patient strokes until she's trembling beneath me. When she finally comes, it's with a soft cry that sounds almost like my name, her inner walls fluttering around me in waves.
I follow her over, burying myself deep as I spill inside her for the second time tonight. The orgasm is gentler than before, but no less powerful—a slow, rolling tide rather than a crashing wave.
We lie tangled together in the aftermath, both breathing hard. The candles have burned lower still, casting longer shadows across the stone walls. Time feels meaningless down here.
"Water," she rasps. "Please."
Right. Hydration. I should have thought of that before.
I reach for the water bottle I stashed beside the chaise, one of several I placed throughout the cellar during setup.
I crack the seal and hand it to her. "Drink. You need it."
She takes the bottle gratefully, tipping her head back to drink deeply. I watch her throat work as she swallows, transfixed by the simple motion. Even this feels intimate after everything we've shared.
She finishes about half the bottle and holds it out to me. "Here. You should drink too."
I take the bottle and drain the rest without thinking. The water is cool and clean, washing away the lingering taste of wine. I set the empty bottle aside and pull her back into my arms.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much." She settles against my chest with a contented sigh. "Thank you."
We lie there in comfortable silence, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. I'm thinking about the property deed, about when to reveal it, about how she'll react when she realizes I've bought her this entire vineyard?—
Something's wrong.
