Page 25 of The Billionaire's Obsession

Of course. Of fucking course he'd dangle money in front of her. He knows exactly which buttons to push.

"That's very generous," Lucy responds, her voice warm but professionally distant.

"Perhaps over dinner sometime?" Reynolds suggests, his fingers tightening on her hip, and something in me snaps.

I'm between them in an instant, my hand closing around Lucy's wrist. She startles, eyes widening when she sees me, lips parting in surprise. "Damon?—"

"We're leaving," I say, my voice a low growl that makes her pupils dilate. I don't look at Reynolds. I don't trust myself not to put my fist through his perfectly capped teeth.

"I believe the lady and I were having a conversation," Reynolds says, his voice cool and amused. Baiting me.

Now I do look at him, and whatever he sees in my face makes him take an involuntary step back. "Touch her again and you'll lose the hand," I say, quiet enough that only he can hear.

His smile doesn't falter, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. "Careful, Blackwell. Your shares dropped three points today. You can't afford enemies right now."

"And you can't afford a trip to the emergency room," I say pleasantly, then turn my back on him, dismissing him entirely as I guide—drag—Lucy through the crowded restaurant.

I feel her resistance, the slight stiffening of her spine. She doesn't like being manhandled in public. I don't care. Not right now. Not when I'm still seeing Reynolds' hand on her body. Not when I'm still imagining all the ways he could have lured her away from me.

"Damon, what are you doing?" she hisses as I pull her past tables of startled diners. "Who was that man?"

I don't answer. Can't answer through the fog of rage and fear clouding my brain. Fear. That's new. I've never feared losing anything in my life. I've always known I could buy or build whatever I wanted. But Lucy... Lucy can't be replaced. Can't be duplicated.

I find what I'm looking for near the restrooms. A small alcove, dark and private, where the noise of the restaurant is muffled. I back her against the wall, caging her in with my arms on either side of her head. Our bodies aren't touching, but I can feel the heat of her, smell the vanilla scent of her shampoo mixed with something warmer, something uniquely Lucy.

Her eyes are wide but not frightened. Never frightened of me. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her cheeks flushed. Anger? Excitement? Both?

"You want to test me, sweetheart?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She blinks, genuine confusion crossing her features. "What are you talking about?"

"You were flirting with him." The accusation tastes bitter on my tongue. I know it's not true even as I say it. Know I'm being irrational. But the image of Reynolds touching her, making her laugh, won't leave my head.

"I was being polite to a stranger who approached me," she says, a hint of steel entering her voice. "I didn't even know who he was. I still don't."

"He's a snake," I say, leaning closer, close enough that our foreheads almost touch. "He's my competitor. My enemy. And he was touching you."

Something changes in her expression then. Understanding dawns, followed by something softer, something that makes my chest ache. "You're jealous," she says, not a question.

"Fuck yes, I’m jealous" I admit. But the truth is, I've never been jealous before Lucy. Never cared enough about any woman to feel this murderous rage at the sight of another man's hands on her.

Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my hammering heart. "Damon, I didn't know who he was. I was just waiting for you."

"He knew exactly who you were," I say, my voice rough. "He approached you to get to me. To take what's mine."

Her eyes flash at that. "I'm not property, Damon. I'm not something to be taken or owned."

But she is. She's mine in a way I can't explain, in a way that defies logic or reason. Mine in a way that terrifies me with its intensity.

I lean in closer, my lips a breath away from hers. "Tell me you don't feel it too," I demand. "Tell me you don't know you're mine."

Her pupils dilate, swallowing the warm brown of her irises. Her lips part, her breath hitching. She doesn't answer, but her body does—leaning toward me, seeking contact.

And fucking hell, who am I to deny her.

I curse and push her pretty little dress up before I unzip my trousers. My cock springs out, fat and aching, moisture already beading the tip.

Ready, always ready for her.

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