Chapter 16 Lena
LENA
I woke feeling stronger than I had in weeks.
The hotel crisis had changed something in me. For the first time since my father’s stroke, I had faced a disaster without anyone to save me, and I hadn’t crumbled. I’d organized. I’d commanded. I’d fixed it. The staff had looked at me differently after, with the beginning of respect.
Maybe I wasn’t as helpless as everyone had always assumed.
The manor was quiet as I showered and dressed, choosing clothes that were a shield.
A fitted sweater dress in deep burgundy that fell to my thighs, paired with tall boots that clicked against the marble floors.
I brushed my hair until it gleamed and studied myself in the mirror.
The girl staring back at me wasn’t the same terrified creature who’d signed that contract a month ago.
Good.
His scent hit me before I reached the bottom of the stairs. Rich and dark and male, stronger than usual, with something sharper underneath. Coffee. Sleeplessness. And something else, something almost feral that made the hair on my arms stand up.
Raphael stood in the hallway, arms crossed, blocking the path to the kitchen.
He looked like he hadn’t slept. His dark hair was disheveled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his eyes held a dangerous edge that made my stomach tighten.
He was still wearing yesterday’s shirt, the collar loosened, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Like he’d been prowling this house all night, waiting.
For me.
“Good morning.” I kept my voice steady. Neutral. Like my heart wasn’t suddenly hammering against my ribs.
“Where were you going?”
“To get breakfast.”
“Without permission?”
I blinked. “I didn’t realize eating required permission.”
Something tightened in his expression. A muscle worked in his cheek. “You seem to have forgotten quite a lot about our arrangement lately.”
The warmth I’d woken with began to curdle in my stomach. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“No?” He stepped closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
Close enough that his scent wrapped around me, overwhelming and intimate, filling my lungs until I couldn’t breathe anything but him.
“Yesterday you handled a crisis at your hotel. For hours. Without calling me. Without asking for resources or assistance. Without even letting me know it was happening.”
“I handled it myself.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t need to ask.” The words came out sharper than I intended, fueled by the confidence I’d earned yesterday. “I’m capable of handling problems without running to you for help.”
Something dangerous rose in his eyes. Not anger, exactly. Something hungrier.
“Capable,” he repeated. The word dripped with dark amusement. “Is that what you think you proved yesterday? That you don’t need me?”
“I think I proved I’m not as helpless as everyone assumes.”
His hand caught my chin. Not gentle, not violent, but firm enough that I couldn’t look away. His thumb pressed against my jaw, tilting my face up until I had nowhere to look but into those dark, burning eyes.
“You exist in my world because I allow it,” he said softly. “You run that hotel because I permit it. Every breath you take, every decision you make, happens because I choose not to stop you.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.” His grip tightened fractionally. “I think you need a reminder. You’ve been walking around this house like you own it. Like you have choices. Like your body belongs to you.”
My pulse skipped. “The contract says—”
“The contract says you’re mine.” He stepped closer, crowding me against the wall. The cold plaster pressed against my back, but his body radiated heat, close enough that I could feel it through the thin knit of my dress. “For one year. Every inch of you. And I think you’ve forgotten that.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Then why are you fighting me?” His free hand slid to my hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric of my dress. “Why do you flinch every time I touch you? Why do you run to your hotel like it’s a sanctuary from me?”
“Because I hate you.”
The words came out raw and honest, and I watched them land. Watched something flicker in his expression that might have been hurt if he were capable of it.
“You hate me,” he repeated slowly. “And yet.”
His hand slid from my hip down my thigh, then back up, dragging the hem of my dress with it. I gasped as the cool air hit my bare skin, goosebumps rising in the wake of his fingers.
“And yet your body knows who it belongs to.”
“Stop.”
His fingers traced along the edge of my underwear, teasing, barely there. “Tell me to stop and mean it, and I will. But we both know you don’t want me to stop. You just want to pretend you do.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that I didn’t want this, didn’t want him. But his hand slipped beneath the cotton, and his fingers found me wet.
The sound he made was low and satisfied. Predatory. Like a wolf scenting prey.
“There she is.” His fingers stroked through my folds, spreading the slickness, learning the shape of me. “The girl who kissed me back two days ago. The girl whose body begs for me even while her mouth says no.”
“I don’t—”
He pressed one finger inside me, and the words dissolved into a gasp. My hands flew to his chest, meaning to push him away, but my fingers curled into his shirt instead, anchoring myself as my knees threatened to buckle.
“You’ve never had this, have you?” His voice was a dark murmur against my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Never had a man’s fingers inside you. Never felt what your body can do when someone knows how to touch it.”
“Please.” The word escaped before I could stop it.
“Please what?” He added a second finger, stretching me, and my head fell back against the wall. “Please stop? Or please more?”
I didn’t know. God help me, I didn’t know. I hated him. I hated what he was doing to me, the way he was proving his point with every stroke of his fingers, the way my body was betraying every ounce of independence I’d claimed yesterday.
But the pleasure was building, relentless and unfamiliar, coiling tight in my belly, and I couldn’t make myself say the word that would end it.
He withdrew his hand, and I made a sound of protest that shamed me. A whimper. Needy and desperate and nothing like the capable woman I’d been so proud of this morning.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open. His gaze was molten, intense, burning into mine with an expression I couldn’t read.
“I’m going to make you come,” he said. “Right here in this hallway. And you’re going to remember, every time you think about walking away from me, every time you think you don’t need me, exactly who owns this body.”
Before I could respond, he dropped to his knees.
My brain short-circuited. Raphael Antonov, on his knees in front of me, shoving my dress up to my waist and dragging my underwear down my thighs in one fluid motion.
The cold air hit my exposed flesh, and I shivered, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was.
Half-naked in a hallway. At the mercy of a man who had every intention of destroying me.
“What are you—”
He lifted one of my legs over his shoulder, opening me to him, and then his mouth was on me.
The first stroke of his tongue tore a cry from my throat.
Nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing had prepared me for the hot, wet pressure of his mouth against my most sensitive flesh, the way his tongue found my clit and circled it with devastating precision.
Like he’d done this a thousand times. Like he already knew exactly what would make me fall apart.
My hands scrabbled against the wall, finding nothing to hold onto. “Oh God. Oh—”
“That’s it.” He spoke against me, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation that made my toes curl. “Let me hear you.”
He sealed his lips around my clit and sucked, and I screamed.
My fingers found his hair, tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer even as some distant part of my brain screamed at me to push him away.
When I tried to push against his shoulders, his hand shot up and grabbed my wrist, pinning it to the wall above my head.
His other hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back until my throat was exposed.
“Fight all you want.” His voice was a growl against my wet flesh. “You’re still going to come for me.”
He was proving a point. He was using my body against me. This wasn’t about my pleasure. It was about his power.
But God, the pleasure.
He let go and returned to licking me. His tongue worked me mercilessly, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, reading every gasp and whimper and adjusting his technique accordingly.
Then his teeth grazed my clit, a sharp edge of pain that made me cry out, and the sensation shot straight through me like lightning.
He did it again, scraping gently, and the pain transformed into something else entirely.
He slid two fingers back inside me, curling them to hit a spot I didn’t know existed, and the dual sensation made my vision blur.
“You’re close.” His voice was rough, triumphant. “I can feel it. Your cunt is clenching around my fingers, desperate to come. But you won’t. Not until I give you permission.”
“Please.” The word came out broken, a sob. “Please, I need—”
“What do you need?”
“I need to come. Please. Please let me come.”
“Who owns you?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the words, fighting the truth they carried.
“Who. Owns. You.” Each word punctuated by a thrust of his fingers, a flick of his tongue.
“You do.” It came out as a sob. “You own me. Please—”
“Then come for me.”
He sucked hard on my clit, his fingers driving deep, and the orgasm crashed through me like a wave breaking against rocks. I shattered. My legs buckled, my vision went white, and the only thing keeping me upright was his hands on my hips and the wall at my back.