What was there to say?
Sorry, I went on a date behind your back.
Sorry, I did it subconsciously to make you jealous.
Sorry, I came harder than I ever have in my life when you bent me over that sink and fucked me like I was the last woman on earth?
No. None of that.
I typed back a quick response to Jaime, then tossed my phone aside and rolled onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow.
The truth—the ugly, shameful, beautiful truth—was that I’d wanted it.
I’d wanted him.
From the moment I’d walked into that bar a week ago, crying over a man who didn’t love me, I’d felt Lorenzo’s eyes on me like a brand. And some sick, broken part of me had been chasing that feeling ever since.
I rolled onto my back again, staring at the ceiling.
The penthouse was silent. Lorenzo had disappeared into his room the moment we got home, muttering something about sleep. The doorman, Jensen, had given me a knowing look as I shuffled past him toward the elevators, my cheeks burning.
My body still hummed with the memory of him. I could feel the ghost of his hand around my throat, the pressure of his chestagainst my back, the way he’d growled in my ear—“I own you, Zara. You’re mine.”
I should have been horrified.
I should have been packing my bags and calling a lawyer to annul this ridiculous marriage that was just consummated in the Koto bathroom.
Instead, I was lying in his bed, in his penthouse, with his cum still drying on my thighs, and I was smiling.
No, I wasn’t smiling.
I was grimacing.
That’s what it was. A grimace of regret and self-loathing.
I sat up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The ache between my thighs pulsed, a sweet, deep soreness that reminded me exactly how thoroughly he’d taken me.
But this was only a marriage of convenience, I reminded myself. A contract. Nothing more.
Yet the way he’d looked at me in that bathroom—the way his eyes had gone dark and feral, the way his voice had dropped to that low, possessive growl—that wasn’t convenience. That wasn’t contractual.
That was an obsession.
And I was starting to wonder if I was just as obsessed as he was.
I stood and crossed to the mirror on the closet door.
The woman staring back at me looked different from the one who’d left this apartment earlier today. Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild. Her lips were swollen, slightly bruised from biting back moans. Her eyes—those were the worst part. They were bright, alive, and hungry.
I looked like someone who’d just been thoroughly fucked by a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Because I had.
I shouldn’t like this.
The thought was a mantra, repeated over and over in my head like a prayer I didn’t believe in.
I shouldn’t like the way he controls me. I shouldn’t like the way he tracks my phone. I shouldn’t like the way he grabbed me in front of a whole restaurant and dragged me to the bathroom like I was his property.
