Page 43 of The Love Clause

In my bedroom—a space no woman has entered before—I deposit her on the bed, the sight of her sprawled across my perfectly arranged comforter sending a surge of possessiveness through me that should be alarming but only feeds the fire.

"Too many clothes," she declares, already pulling at her shirt. I agree, helping to strip away layers until she's naked beneath me, all soft curves and flushed skin.

My own clothes follow, tossed aside with none of my usual care for organization and order. All that matters is getting toher, being skin to skin, claiming her as thoroughly as I've been imagining since that first night.

"You're mine," I growl against her neck, the declaration escaping before I can analyze its implications. "Say it."

She arches beneath me, eyes challenging even as her body responds to my touch. "Make me."

The dare ignites something primal in me. I capture her hands, pinning them above her head with one of mine, using the other to trace a path down her body that makes her shiver and strain against my grip.

"Say it," I repeat, my fingers finding the wetness between her thighs, stroking with deliberate pressure that makes her gasp. "Tell me who you belong to."

"Elliot..." My name is half plea, half warning.

"Tell me." I circle the sensitive bundle of nerves, watching her face as pleasure wars with stubborn pride.

"Yours," she finally gasps as I slide a finger inside her, her body clenching around the intrusion. "I'm yours. God, Elliot, please..."

The admission of ownership—temporary as it may be—satisfies something deep and primitive in me. I release her hands, which immediately find my shoulders, nails digging into skin as I work her toward the edge with fingers and mouth.

When she comes the first time, it's with my name on her lips, her body bowing like a perfect arc beneath me. The sight of her—abandoned to pleasure, walls down, completely real—nearly undoes me.

"Now," she demands, still trembling from her release. "Inside me. Now."

I reach for protection in the nightstand—placed there in a moment of hope or preparation before we left for the weekend—and she watches with hungry eyes as I roll it on, her hands neverleaving my skin, as if she needs the constant contact as much as I do.

When I finally push inside her, we both groan at the sensation. She's tight, perfect, her body accepting mine like we were made for this. For each other. I try to start slow, to maintain some semblance of control, but she's having none of it.

"Harder," she urges, legs wrapping around my waist, heels digging into my lower back. "I won't break."

The permission—the demand—unleashes whatever restraint I've been clinging to. I drive into her with a force that would worry me if not for her enthusiastic response, her nails scoring paths down my back that I'll feel tomorrow. Good. I want the reminder. Want the physical evidence of this connection that defies every logical parameter of my carefully ordered life.

"Mine," I repeat with each thrust, the word a litany, a prayer, a truth I can no longer deny. "Mine, mine, mine."

"Yes," she agrees, meeting me movement for movement, taking everything I give and demanding more. "Yours. God, Elliot, just like that..."

Her second climax triggers my own, her body clenching around me, drawing me deeper as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over us both. For a timeless moment, there's nothing but sensation—her body beneath mine, around mine, her breath mingling with mine as we fall together.

Afterward, I roll to the side to avoid crushing her, but keep her close, unwilling to break contact even for a moment. She curls against me, head on my chest, fingers tracing idle patterns across my skin. The intimacy of it—this quiet aftermath—is almost more overwhelming than the act itself.

"I think I'm falling for you," she whispers after several minutes of silence, the words muffled against my skin. "And it terrifies me."

The confession steals my breath. I should reciprocate. Should tell her about the strange ache in my chest when I think of her leaving, about how she's infiltrated every corner of my carefully constructed life, about how the thought of returning to existence without her seems impossibly bleak.

Instead, I tighten my arm around her, press a kiss to her forehead, and say nothing.

She sighs, the small sound carrying a weight of understanding and disappointment. "It's okay. I didn't expect you to say it back."

"Josie—"

"No, really. It's fine." She props herself up on an elbow, looking down at me with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know this is complicated. I know you need time to process all this…feeling stuff. I just…I needed you to know where I stand."

Her honesty humbles me. Shames me, even. This woman who has nothing to her name but boundless courage offers her heart without guarantee, while I, with all my supposed advantages, can't find the words to match her bravery.

"I'm not good at this," I admit finally.

"I know," she says, brushing hair from my forehead with gentle fingers. "You're good at contracts and clauses and finding the perfect loophole. Feelings are messier. Don't have clear parameters."

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