Page 19 of The Billionaire's Obsession

"You didn't have to—" I begin.

"I wanted to." He cuts me off with gentle finality. "What's mine is yours now, Lucy. Including my resources."

When I turn to face him, he's closer than I expected, his tall frame blocking the doorway. The air between us thickens, charged with the inevitability of what comes next.

"Are you nervous?" he asks, his voice dropping to that register that makes my stomach tighten.

"Yes," I admit, because lying to Damon seems pointless. He reads me too easily, sees too much.

His hand rises to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a gesture that's both tender and possessive. "Don't be. I take care of what's mine."

The words should offend me. I've spent my life fighting to stand on my own, to need no one. But they melt something inside me instead, some hard kernel of resistance I've been clutching.

"I'm not yours," I whisper, a final, feeble protest.

His smile is slow and certain. "You will be."

When he kisses me, it's different from the measured, careful kisses we've shared before. This kiss claims, consumes. His hands frame my face, holding me still for the onslaught of sensation. I'm dizzy with it, my fingers clutching at the fine fabric of his shirt to steady myself.

He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, and then we're falling together onto that cloud of expensivebedding. His weight presses me down, solid and real in a way that grounds me when everything else feels like a dream.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my throat, "and I will."

But the words won't come. I don't want him to stop. I want this—want him—with an intensity that frightens me. My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in my eagerness.

He catches my wrists, pins them gently above my head. "Let me," he says, and it's both command and request.

I nod, surrendering to his lead.

His movements are deliberate as he undresses me, piece by piece, his eyes darkening with each new expanse of skin revealed. I fight the urge to cover myself, to hide from that consuming gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathes, running a reverent hand from my collarbone to my hip. "More perfect than I imagined."

My skin burns under his touch, goosebumps rising in its wake. "You imagined this? Us?"

"From the moment I saw you holding that serving tray." His smile has a sharpness that makes me shiver. "I knew then I would have you."

He stands to remove his own clothes, and I watch, mesmerized by the revelation of him. His body is all lean muscle and purpose, marked here and there with scars that speak of a history I know nothing about. Power contained in human form.

When he returns to me, skin against skin, I gasp at the shock of it. Nothing has prepared me for this—not romance novels, not late-night talks with girlfriends, not the clinical descriptions in health class.

"Lucy," he says my name like it's something precious. "I need to know. Have you done this before?"

The heat of embarrassment floods my face. At twenty-two, the answer should be obvious, and yet?—

"No," I whisper. "Never."

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, then satisfaction so intense it's almost frightening.

"Look at me," he demands, and when I do, he continues, "I'm going to be your first. Your only. Do you understand what that means?"

I shake my head, not in denial but in overwhelm.

"It means," he says, tracing the curve of my breast with deliberate fingers, "that no one else will ever know how you sound when you come apart. How you taste." His head dips, mouth replacing fingers, drawing a moan from me that I don't recognize as my own voice. "It means you're mine in a way no one else will ever touch."

He takes his time with me, drawing reactions from my body I never knew were possible. Each touch builds on the last, constructing a tower of sensation that threatens to topple me. When his fingers slide between my legs, finding me wet and ready, the sound he makes is almost pained.

"So responsive," he murmurs. "So perfect for me."

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