Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
"I need space," I tell Roman the morning after the gala, the words falling between us like stones into still water.
We're in the kitchen, the marble countertop a barrier I deliberately placed between us.
He looks up from his tablet, his expression unchanged, but something in his eyes shifts—a predator recognizing the first signs of prey attempting to flee.
"Space," he repeats, the word sounding foreign in his mouth.
"Interesting timing, after I caught another man touching what's mine. "
The possessive statement makes my spine stiffen. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Roman. I'm not yours. Not... not permanently. Not like you seem to think."
He sets the tablet down with deliberate care, his movements controlled in a way that makes my pulse quicken. "Have you forgotten our agreement so quickly, Delilah? The contract you signed?"
"The contract gives you control for a month," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "It doesn't give you ownership of my entire existence. What happened last night—the way you acted at the gala—it was excessive. Embarrassing."
"Embarrassing," he repeats, the word dangerously soft. "You were embarrassed by my protection? My claim?"
"It wasn't protection. It was possession. There's a difference." I grip the edge of the counter for support. "James wasn't a threat. He was just being friendly."
Roman's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "James Harrington hasn't done anything 'just friendly' in his entire life.
Every action he takes is calculated for advantage.
" He rises from his stool, moving around the counter with unhurried confidence.
"But that's irrelevant. The issue isn't Harrington's intentions. It's yours."
"My intentions?" I step back as he approaches, something in his deliberate stalking making my heart race. "I was just talking to him."
"No." The single word cuts through my protest. "You were pushing boundaries.
Testing limits. Seeing how far you could go.
" He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I understand the impulse, Delilah. The need to test the cage, to see if the bars will bend. "
"I'm not a prisoner," I insist, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"Aren't you?" His hand rises to cup my face, the touch deceptively gentle. "A prisoner of circumstance, perhaps. Of need. Of desire." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Of your own growing addiction to my attention."
I jerk away from his touch, angry at how accurately he's read me. "That's not true."
"No?" Roman's smile is knowing. "Then why did you beg me to take you in the car last night? Why did you whisper that you were mine as you came apart in my arms?" His voice drops lower. "Why are you trembling now, not with fear, but with anticipation?"
Heat floods my cheeks at the reminder of my surrender last night, of the words I'd gasped in the throes of pleasure. "That was... physical. It doesn't mean—"
"It means exactly what we both know it means," he interrupts, his tone hardening. "It means that despite your intellectual objections, your body recognizes its master. Your mind is simply... lagging behind."
"My mind," I say with all the defiance I can muster, "is the part of me you don't own, Roman. The part you can't control."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—a challenge accepted.
"Can't I?" He steps closer, backing me against the wall, caging me with his body without actually touching me.
"You signed control of your body to me for thirty days, Delilah.
But I think it's time for a more... comprehensive lesson in surrender. "
My breath comes faster, a mixture of fear and unwelcome excitement coursing through me. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he says, his voice dropping to that soft register that always makes my stomach clench, "that you need to be punished for your little rebellion. For allowing another man's eyes and hands on what belongs exclusively to me."
"Punished?" I repeat, the word sending a forbidden thrill through me. "You can't be serious."
His smile is predatory. "I'm always serious, Delilah. Especially about what's mine." He steps back, putting deliberate space between us. "Go to the bedroom. Remove your clothes. Kneel at the foot of the bed and wait for me."
The command is so unexpected, so imperious, that for a moment I can only stare at him. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you're in breach of contract," he says simply. "And the consequences will be... significant."
We both know he's not talking about legal repercussions. This is about the power dynamic between us, about who controls and who submits. About my growing need for his approval, his attention, his possession.
"Five minutes, Delilah," he says, turning back to his tablet as if the matter is settled. "I suggest you use them wisely."
I should refuse. I should remind him that "punishment" wasn't part of our agreement. I should maintain the boundaries I was trying to establish. Instead, I find myself moving toward the bedroom, my heart pounding with a mixture of trepidation and shameful anticipation.
In the bedroom, I undress with trembling fingers, each removed article of clothing feeling like shedding a layer of protection. When I'm completely naked, I kneel at the foot of the bed as instructed, my body betraying my mind's objections with signs of arousal I can't control.
Roman enters exactly five minutes later, his expression inscrutable as he surveys me. He's changed into black slacks and a black button-down shirt, the monochromatic palette making him look more dangerous than usual. In his hands, he carries items I can't immediately identify.
"Good girl," he says, and the praise sends an unwelcome surge of pleasure through me. "Hands behind your back."
I hesitate, then comply, crossing my wrists at the small of my back. Roman moves behind me, and I feel cool silk wrapping around my wrists, binding them together with expert efficiency. Not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough that I can't easily free myself.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice small in the large room.
"Teaching you who you belong to," he says matter-of-factly. He moves to stand in front of me again, holding what I now recognize as a silk blindfold. "Since your eyes wandered to another man last night, I think it's appropriate to remove your sight for this lesson."
Before I can protest, he slips the blindfold over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. The loss of vision immediately heightens my other senses—the sound of his breathing, the scent of his cologne, the feel of the carpet beneath my knees.
"Roman," I begin, uncertain what I even want to say.
"Quiet," he commands softly. "No speaking unless I ask you a direct question. Nod if you understand."
I swallow hard, then nod.
"Good." His hand strokes my hair, a gentle reward that makes me instinctively lean into his touch. "If at any point you need to stop completely, say the word 'red.' If you need to pause but not stop entirely, say 'yellow.' Nod if you understand."
I nod again, surprised by this concession to my consent despite his dominance.
"Excellent. Now..." His voice takes on that dangerous softness that always makes my pulse race. "I'm going to teach you what happens when you test my limits, Delilah. When you allow another man's attention after I've made it clear you belong exclusively to me."
I hear him moving around the room, the soft sounds of preparations I can't see. The anticipation is almost unbearable, my imagination filling in the blanks with possibilities both frightening and thrilling.
His hand suddenly tangles in my hair, pulling my head back with controlled strength. "Who do you belong to, Delilah?" he asks, his mouth close to my ear.
"You," I whisper, the admission torn from me more easily than I'd like.
"I can't hear you," he says, his grip tightening slightly.
"You," I repeat, louder this time. "I belong to you, Roman."
"For how long?"
The question catches me off guard. "For... for the duration of our contract."
His laugh is soft and without humor. "Wrong answer."
Something smooth and cool touches my exposed throat—a piece of ice, I realize as it begins to melt against my heated skin.
Roman trails it slowly down my neck, between my breasts, circling each nipple until they harden almost painfully.
The contrast of the ice against my warm skin makes me gasp, my body arching involuntarily toward the sensation.
"Let's try again," Roman says, his voice controlled despite the tension I can feel radiating from him. "How long do you belong to me, Delilah?"
The ice continues its torturous path down my stomach, circling my navel before traveling lower. I squirm, anticipation building as it nears the apex of my thighs.
"The contract says thirty days," I manage, clinging to the last shreds of my resistance.
The ice stops its downward journey, retreating. "Still the wrong answer," Roman says, disappointment evident in his tone. "I think you need additional persuasion to accept the truth."
I hear the clink of glass, then feel his hand on my shoulder, guiding me. "Stand up," he instructs. When I comply, he leads me forward until my thighs hit the edge of the bed. "Bend over. Chest on the mattress, ass in the air."
The crude instruction makes me flush with embarrassment, but my body responds with shameful eagerness. With my hands still bound behind my back, I awkwardly position myself as commanded, the soft duvet cool against my heated skin.
"Beautiful," Roman murmurs, his hand stroking down my spine to cup the curve of my ass. "So perfect. So mine." His touch disappears for a moment, then returns with a sharp, stinging slap that makes me cry out in surprise.
"Count," he commands. "And after each one, tell me who you belong to."
Before I can process the instruction, another slap lands, harder than the first. "T-two," I stammer. "I belong to you."
"For how long?" Roman asks, his hand caressing the heated skin he just struck.
I hesitate, torn between the answer he wants and the one I've been clinging to. "For... for as long as the contract—"
Another slap cuts off my words, this one hard enough to make tears spring to my eyes behind the blindfold. "Three! I belong to you!"
"For how long, Delilah?" His voice is implacable, demanding surrender.
A fourth strike, then a fifth, each followed by my counting and affirmation of ownership. By the tenth, my resistance crumbles. "Ten! I belong to you forever! For as long as you want me!"
"There," Roman says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "The truth at last."
His hand soothes the heated skin of my ass, gentle now where it was punishing moments before. I feel him bend over me, his clothed body a stark contrast to my nakedness, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"You've always been mine, Delilah," he murmurs.
"From the moment I first saw you. The contract is just a formality, a transition period to help you accept what we both already know.
" His hand slides between my thighs, finding the evidence of my arousal.
"Your body understands, even when your mind rebels. "
I should be outraged by his presumption, his dominance, his casual dismissal of the temporal nature of our arrangement. Instead, I find myself pushing back against his touch, desperate for more despite the lingering sting of his punishment.
"Please," I whisper, all pretense of resistance abandoned.
"Please what?" He withdraws his touch, leaving me aching. "Be specific, Delilah. What do you want?"
"You," I admit, beyond pride now. "I want you, Roman."
"Because?"
"Because I'm yours," I say, the words coming easier each time. "Only yours."
His satisfied hum vibrates against my skin as he presses a kiss to my shoulder. "Good girl. You're learning."
The blindfold is suddenly removed, the return of vision momentarily disorienting. Roman turns me to face him, his eyes dark with a mixture of triumph and desire as he unties my wrists. The moment I'm free, his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's equal parts reward and continued possession.
What follows is unlike anything we've shared before—not just physical coupling but a complete claiming, his dominance extending to every touch, every position, every moment of pleasure.
He controls when I can climax, denying me release until I'm begging, until I've repeated his ownership of me so many times the words are branded on my soul.
When he finally allows me completion, it's with his hand around my throat, his body buried deep within mine, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath more effectively than his grip.
"Mine," he growls as I shatter beneath him. "Say it, Delilah. Tell me the truth you can no longer deny."
"Yours," I gasp as waves of pleasure crash through me. "Always yours, Roman. Only yours."
His own release follows, his control finally fracturing as he claims me with primitive intensity.
In the aftermath, as we lie tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, his possessive grip doesn't loosen—one arm locked around my waist, the other hand still loosely circling my throat in reminder of his control.
"Do you understand now?" he asks, his voice rough with spent passion. "Why I reacted as I did last night? Why I can't tolerate another man's eyes or hands on you?"
I should be disturbed by the intensity of his possessiveness, by how completely I surrendered to his "punishment." Instead, I find myself nestling closer to him, craving the security of his claim even as a small, rational part of my mind warns me of the danger.
"I understand," I whisper, and it's the truth. I understand that Roman's obsession with me has become my obsession with him—a mutual addiction neither of us seems capable of breaking.
"Good," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture almost tender in its possessiveness. "Because I don't share what's mine, Delilah. Not ever. And you are the most precious thing I've ever possessed."
As I drift toward sleep in the cage of his arms, I wonder what will happen when our thirty days are up—and if I'll have the strength to walk away from this dangerous, intoxicating possession when the time comes.