Page 27 of The Billionaire's Obsession

Good.

We don’t speak for the remainder of the car ride, and the elevator ride to my penthouse is silent as well, charged with electricity that raises the hair on my arms. Lucy stands a foot away, but I feel her as if she's pressed against me. Her scent fills the small space. Vanilla and heat. The doors slide open too slowly, and I usher her inside my home with a hand at the small of her back. The same spot Reynolds touched. I want to erase his fingerprints from her skin. Want to mark her so thoroughly that no man would dare approach her again. The thought should frighten me—this possessiveness isn't rational—but nothing about how I feel for Lucy follows any rules I've ever known.

She walks into the living room, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering cityscape below us, but Lucy is the only view I care about. She sets her purse down on the glass coffee table and turns to face me, arms crossed over her chest.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" she asks, chin tilted up in that defiant way that makes me want to push her against the nearest wall. "Who was that man, and why did he make you so angry?"

I shrug out of my suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over a chair. "Carter Reynolds. CEO of Reynolds Tech. He's been trying to tank my company for years."

"And you think he was talking to me as some kind of...corporate espionage?"

I loosen my tie, watching how her eyes track the movement of my fingers. "He knew exactly who you were. Who you are to me."

Her eyebrows lift. "And who am I to you, Damon?"

The question hangs in the air between us, dangerous and weighted. Two weeks we've been doing this—fucking, spending nights together, sharing meals—but we've never defined it. Never put a label on what burns between us. She's twenty-two. In college. I'm thirty-six with an empire to run. On paper, we make no sense.

But sense has nothing to do with the way my pulse accelerates when she's near. The way I can't focus on work because I'm counting the minutes until I can have her again.

"You're mine," I say simply, because it's the only truth I know.

Her eyes darken, pupils expanding. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, and my cock hardens painfully in response.

"I don't belong to anyone," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. Her body is already leaning toward mine, betraying her words.

I cross the distance between us in three long strides. Our fingers brush, and we both feel the spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts us nonetheless. I curl my hand around the nape of her neck, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse.

"Say it again," I challenge her, my voice a low rumble. "Tell me you're not mine while looking me in the eyes."

Her breath catches. She opens her mouth, closes it again. I can see the war in her eyes—pride versus desire, independence versus the undeniable thing that's grown between us these past weeks.

Instead of answering, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine.

The kiss ignites like a match to gasoline. There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing sweet. My hands grip her waist, yanking her against me with enough force to make her gasp into my mouth. Her arms wind around my neck, fingers threading through my hair, tugging hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain down my spine.

I walk her backward until she hits the wall, pinning her there with my body. My hands find hers, lifting them above her head, fingers interlaced. I break the kiss to look at her—eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen, cheeks flushed with desire. Mine. No matter what she says, no matter how she fights it, she's mine.

"Tell me what you want," I demand, even though I can read her body like a familiar book. Know exactly what makes her tremble, what makes her beg.

Her eyes flash, a reminder that for all her youth, Lucy is no pushover. No meek little girl to be commanded. It's one of the things that drove me crazy about her from the start.

"I want you to stop acting like a caveman," she says, but the breathless quality of her voice undermines her words. "I wasn't flirting with him."

"I know." I press my forehead to hers, a gesture more intimate than any kiss. "That's what makes this so fucking insane, Lucy. I know you weren't. I know you would never. And I still wanted to tear his throat out for touching you." I release her hands to cup her face between my palms. "I've never felt this way. Never lost control like this. Do you understand what you do to me?"

Something softens in her expression. Her hand comes up to cover mine, turns her face to press a kiss to my palm. The tenderness of the gesture makes my chest ache.

"Show me," she whispers.

The words snap the last thread of my restraint. I capture her mouth again, tongue demanding entrance, tasting the sweetness of her. My hands find the zipper of her dress, dragging it down with one smooth motion. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a pale pink bra and matching panties. I drink in the sight of her—all smooth skin and gentle curves, the constellation of freckles across her collarbone that I've memorized with my tongue.

"Beautiful," I murmur, and she flushes under my gaze. For all her fire and spine, Lucy still doesn't see herself clearly. Doesn't understand just how breathtaking she is.

I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. I carry her to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us. The city lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her skin in silver and shadow as I lay her on the bed.

I strip efficiently, aware of her eyes tracking every movement. When I'm naked, I kneel on the bed beside her, trailing my fingers along the lace edge of her bra. "These need to go," I say, and she arches her back in silent invitation.

I unhook her bra, sliding it down her arms, revealing her perfect breasts to my hungry gaze. Her nipples pucker in the cool air, and I lower my head to take one into my mouth. She gasps, back arching further, hands clutching my shoulders.

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