Page 53 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation, his smirk widening.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips as I turn back to the screen. It’s impossible to focus, though. Not with him sitting so close, his presence a constant, smoldering reminder of how dangerously easy it would be to fall into this.

Vincent shifts beside me, his knee brushing mine. The contact is electric, sending a shiver up my spine. I try to pretend I don’t notice, reaching for another fry, but then his hand settles on my thigh. His touch is light at first, almost tentative, as if testing the waters. But when I don’t pull away—when I barely even breathe—his fingers tighten slightly, sinking into the soft fabric of my dress.

“Vincent,” I murmur, my voice shaky.

“Shh, you’re going to miss the movie,” he whispers in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. His finger traces the open slitof my thigh, sliding beneath the fabric to brush against bare skin. My stomach tightens, heat pooling low as I press my lips together to stifle a gasp.

The movie plays on, Heather Chandler’s sharp laugh echoing through the room, but I can’t focus on anything except Vincent’s hand. His finger moves higher, grazing the sensitive flesh just above my knee. My breath hitches, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring straight ahead, pretending to watch the screen, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“You’re such a jerk,” I mutter, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound annoyed.

He chuckles softly, his thumb circling lazily against my inner thigh. “Am I distracting you?”

“Yes,” I admit, my cheeks burning. I shift slightly, trying to ease the tension coiling inside me, but it only gives him better access. His finger slides higher, edging toward the spot where my legs meet, and I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from making a sound.

“Good,” he murmurs, leaning closer until his lips brush the shell of my ear. “That was kinda the point.”

His finger slips under the waistband of my panties, and I freeze, every nerve in my body suddenly hyper-aware. “You're wearing underwear.” He whispers against the curve of my neck.

“Y-you said no contract.” I stutter, and he growls his agreement slowly.

My pulse races as his fingertip grazes the slick heat between my legs, and I let out a tiny, involuntary whimper. Vincent doesn’tsay anything, but I can feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him as he circles my clit, slow and deliberate, sending sparks shooting through me.

“Vincent—” I start, but my voice cracks, and he cuts me off with a soft shush.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my ear. “Just enjoy the movie.”

The movie?I want to laugh, but all I can do is clutch the armrest as his finger dips lower, teasing my entrance before slipping inside. My back arches instinctively, a quiet moan escaping my lips as he curls his finger, finding that perfect spot that makes my vision blur.

He keeps going, alternating between shallow thrusts and teasing circles around my clit, each movement calculated to drive me wild. My breathing grows uneven, my thighs trembling as pleasure builds, hot and insistent, in the pit of my stomach. I try to muffle my sounds, biting my lip so hard it might bruise, but it’s impossible to stay quiet when he adds a second finger, stretching me gently as he moves.

“That’s it,” Vincent murmurs, his voice low and rough. “Let go.”

I turn my head to look at him, our faces inches apart. His eyes are dark with desire, his smirk gone, replaced by something far more intense. My heart skips a beat as I lean in, pressing my lips to his in a desperate, hungry kiss. He groans against my mouth, his fingers still working me as I grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, messy and uncoordinated, as I lose myself in the sensation of his tongue tangling with mine, the way his otherhand grips my hip to hold me steady. My mind is a fog of need, every thought reduced to nothing but him, this, more.

When he breaks the kiss, I whine in protest, but he just grins, his fingers still moving inside me. “Watch the movie,” he teases, though his voice is strained, his own arousal evident.

“Fuck the movie,” I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand as pleasure crests, threatening to drag me under.

Vincent laughs softly, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. “We have all the time in the world, to do more, Princess. Now Jason Dean is about to blow up the school.”

He pulls me into his lap, and I curl into him. Citrus, musk, and butter linger in the air around us, and it feels like I’m supposed to be here. Like I was meant to be Vincent’s.

When the movie ends, we linger for a moment, neither of us wanting to disturb the warmth of the moment. Eventually, Vincent stands, offering me his hand. “Come on, Princess. Let’s get you home.”

The drive back to the mansion is quiet but comfortable, the hum of the car lulling me into a dreamy haze. By the time we arrive, the night air is cool, and Vincent shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over my shoulders without a word.

The hallway is quiet except for our laughter, soft and unrestrained, bouncing off the polished marble floors. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with a hint of something woodsy—wraps around me like a second skin. The jacket is too big, the sleeves dangling well past my hands, but it’s warm, and it’s his, and that thought alone has my stomach doing flips.

“I get it now,” I say, still laughing as I glance up at him. “The whole ‘crazy dude’ thing. J.D. is kind of… hot in a psychotic way.”

Vincent raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kind of?” he teases. “That’s not the glowing endorsement I was expecting.”

“Okay, fine.” I shrug, clutching the jacket tighter around me. “He’s definitely hot. But also, ya’know, a murderer, so…”

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