Page 33 of Bound to Him

My body responds to his touch despite my exhaustion, despite the conflict in my mind. It's like being split in two—the physical self that responds to stimulation regardless of source, and the mental self that watches in horror as that response is used as evidence of consent, of desire, of belonging.

"Please," I whisper, the word both plea and protest, though I'm not sure which I'm asking for anymore.

"Please what?" Dante asks, his fingers continuing their skilled manipulation, drawing unwilling pleasure from my oversensitive flesh. "Please stop? Or please continue? Your body seems quite clear on its preference."

I turn my head away, unable to bear his knowing gaze, the triumph I know I'll see there. His free hand grips my hair, turning me back to face him, holding me in place as his fingers increase their pace.

"Watch me," he commands. "See who's doing this to you. Who's giving you this pleasure."

Trapped by his grip, I have no choice but to meet his eyes as a second—or is it third?—climax builds within me, the sensation almost painful in its intensity after so much stimulation. When it crashes through me, my body arches, a cry escaping my lips despite my efforts to remain silent.

"Beautiful," Dante murmurs, his expression satisfied as he watches me come apart beneath his hand. "You were made for pleasure, Hannah. Made for my pleasure, specifically." He withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips, tasting the evidence of my unwilling arousal. "Perfect."

The gesture is obscene, intimate, possessive in a way that reaches beyond the physical into something darker, more primal. I close my eyes, unable to watch, but his voice follows me into the darkness.

"Open your eyes, Hannah. We're not finished yet."

Reluctantly, I obey, finding him poised above me once more, his arousal evident against my thigh. "I can't," I whisper, honesty forced from me by physical exhaustion. "Please, I need…I need time."

Something softens in his expression—not compassion, exactly, but perhaps recognition of physical limitations he hadn't considered. "Very well," he says, surprising me with this small concession. "We'll continue this tomorrow." He shifts, lying beside me again, pulling my body against his in an embrace that feels more confining than comforting. "Sleep now. You'll need your strength."

Relief mingles with dread—a reprieve now, but the promise of more to come. Still, exhaustion pulls at me, my body spent from his attentions, my mind tired from the constant vigilance required in his presence. Despite my best efforts, despite the danger of vulnerability before him, sleep claims me, dragging me under while Dante's arms hold me captive against his chest.

My last conscious thought is a question I've asked myself with increasing frequency: How much of this can I endure before the line between resistance and acceptance blurs completely? How long before I forget there was ever a differencebetween what he wants from me and what I want for myself?

The answer whispers at the edges of my consciousness, terrible in its simplicity: Not long. Not long at all.

CHAPTER 15

Dante

Twelve hours have passed since I last touched her, and the separation feels physical, like withdrawal from a potent drug. The security feeds have become my lifeline during these absences—multiple camera angles showing Hannah as she moves through her day according to the schedule I've designed. Currently, she's reading in the window seat, afternoon light catching in her hair, turning the brown strands to honey and copper. She turns a page, her fingers delicate against the paper, and I find myself leaning closer to the monitor, zooming in on that smallmovement. Those fingers have traced patterns on my skin, have clutched at sheets while I claimed her body. The thought sends heat through me, an immediate physical response that I've stopped trying to control. Why fight what is natural, inevitable, ordained by whatever force brought Hannah into my life?

My intercom buzzes, an unwelcome intrusion. "Sir, the representatives from the Milano consortium have arrived for your meeting."

I don't take my eyes from the screen, from Hannah's face as she reads, the slight furrow between her brows indicating concentration. "Reschedule," I say, my finger hovering over the controls, adjusting the camera angle for a better view.

"Sir," Vincent's voice carries a note of concern, "this is the third time we've rescheduled. They've flown in specifically?—"

"I said reschedule." My tone leaves no room for argument. "I'm occupied with more important matters."

The intercom falls silent. Vincent knows better than to press the issue. The Milano deal, worth millions, the culmination of months of negotiation, pales in significance compared to the shifting expressions on Hannah's face as she reads, the wayher teeth catch her lower lip when she encounters a passage that moves her.

What is she thinking? What worlds is she visiting in that book, worlds I haven't sanctioned, haven't controlled? The thought irritates me, a splinter beneath the skin of my satisfaction. I make a mental note to review her reading material more carefully, to ensure nothing plants dangerous ideas, notions of independence or escape.

She shifts position, tucking one leg beneath her, and the movement is so graceful, so unconsciously perfect that my breath catches. Every motion she makes affects me this way now, from the most mundane tasks to the deliberate performances I sometimes command of her. Watching her breathe can occupy me for hours, the rise and fall of her chest a rhythm I've memorized, cataloged, come to expect with chronometric precision.

Someone knocks at my office door, a real knock, not the intercom, which means they've dared to approach despite my instructions for solitude. Irritation flares, hotter than before.

"Enter," I snap, minimizing the surveillance feed without closing it entirely. Hannah remains visible in a corner of my screen, a digital ghost I can't bear to banish completely.

Marco opens the door, his expression carefullyneutral. "Sir, there's a situation with the new shipment at the docks. Customs officials are asking questions."

In my former life—before Hannah, before this all-consuming need took root—such news would have demanded my immediate attention. Now it feels like a gnat buzzing around my head, an annoyance rather than a threat.

"Handle it," I say, already turning back to the screen. "That's what I pay you for."

"Sir," Marco persists, "they're specifically asking for you. They've mentioned discrepancies in the paperwork that only you can address."

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