Page 60 of Oblivion

“What the fuck is this?” she demands, her hair and body wet, her foot lifted into the air as she examines the new anklet I put on her.

“Do you really need me to tell you what it is?” I ask.

“Why is it on me?”

“Because that leg is mine,” I tell her like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“Are you fucking serious?” she shrieks.

“Yes,” I say calmly.

“Stop putting jewelry on me.”

“No.”

“I’m getting them cut off.”

“If you remove them, I’ll brand my initials into your skin instead.” It’s a threat, but I’m not bluffing. I wasn’t lying when I told her I already have a brand. I do. When I tattooed her finger, I’d fought the desire to use the brand instead but decided againstit. If she tries to remove the binds I’ve put on her, I’ll have no choice but to resort to more extreme measures.

Her eyes widen and fill with heat and then fear. She’s terrified but turned on by the idea of me claiming her so permanently. I file away the information as I climb into the shower beside her, picking her up and impaling her on my cock, just like I did this morning.

She scowls the entire time it takes for us to get clean, rushing away from me the moment I let her go.

“How much more jewelry should I expect to appear?” she asks coolly.

“I haven’t decided,” I admit.

“This is crazy, Evan.”

“Are you ready to marry me?” I ask, shocking myself.

“No.” She shakes her head, but despite her refusal, her eyes aren’t saying no. In fact, the heat and want in her gaze is saying the exact opposite.

“Then clearly, we’re not done,” I tell her, my chest full of hope that the next time I ask her, she’ll give a different answer.

The movers show up with the things she took to Harvard an hour later. Sammy directs them to bring the boxes to her room in the turret, but I tell them to take them to my room, and when I hand them each a hundred-dollar bill, they eagerly pile her boxes in my living room.

“I’m not sleeping in here,” she protests loudly, but there’s no heat behind her argument. She knows this is her room now, and if she really didn’t want to stay with me, she’d be fighting a lot harder than she is.

“We’re going to a party tonight,” I tell her on the way down to dinner.

“I don’t really feel like partying.”

“Why not? You love any excuse to get dressed up, drink cocktails, and shake your ass. When was the last time you did anything fun?”

Her brows furrow as she thinks. “Before I went home for summer break last year,” she admits.

“Then it’s long past overdue.”

“I’d rather go out with just the girls.”

“You can ignore me all night if you want to. But I’ve already explained what I’ll do to anyone who touches you. So, you can wear what you like and do what you like, but you’ll need to live with the consequences.”

Her shudder is all repressed need, and once again, I’m reminded of just how perfect this woman is for me. She might hate herself for it, but she loves how fucking crazy I am, and it turns her on that I’d destroy someone’s life just for touching her.

While we’re eating, I pay the movers who brought her stuff from Massachusetts to empty her room and move it all down to my suite. Once we’ve all eaten dinner, I guide her to my room, not her own, to get ready, and she doesn’t seem at all surprised to find her things hanging in my closet next to mine.

Without any more prompting, she pulls a sexy dress from the rail, slips her underwear off, then shimmies into the dress, leaving herself completely bare beneath. The black dress is almost to her neck at the front, perfectly showcasing the padlock, glistening at her throat. The straps curl around the backs of her shoulders, reconnecting to the dress beneath her arms, leaving her entire back bare all the way to the dimple above her butt. The skirt ends mid-thigh, but all I can look at is the perfectly smooth, sweeping line of her spine.

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