Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Lucy
The elevator climbs to Damon's penthouse with excruciating slowness, our bodies not touching but connected by the invisible current that always runs between us. He hasn't taken his eyes off me since we left the limo, like he's afraid I might disappear if he blinks. The possessiveness that drove me away this morning now feels like sanctuary, a safe harbor after the storm of doubt. When the doors finally open to his—our—home, I step inside first, feeling his presence at my back like a physical touch.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, voice rough at the edges. "You left without breakfast."
The question is so mundane, so normal after the emotional intensity of our sidewalk confrontation, that it startles a laugh from me. "That's what you're thinking about? Food?"
He shakes his head, following me into the expansive living room with its wall of windows overlooking the city. "I'm thinking about taking care of you." The simple statement carries weight beyond the words themselves. "Always."
I turn to face him, taking in the disheveled appearance that's so unlike his usual perfect control. His shirt is still buttoned wrong, his hair a mess from nervous hands. The slippers are gone now—he must have changed into proper shoes before leaving the limo—but the disarray remains. This powerful man has been undone by my absence.
"I don't need taking care of," I say softly, testing the boundaries of our reunion.
His eyes flash, a storm brewing in their gray depths. "Let me rephrase. I need to take care of you." He steps closer, into my personal space but still not touching me. "It's not about your capability. It's about my necessity."
The distinction matters. It shifts the dynamic from condescension to something more complex—his need rather than my weakness. I sway toward him, drawn by the gravitational pull that's been there since we met.
"Then take care of me," I whisper.
His control—already frayed from the morning's panic—snaps. In one fluid motion, he lifts me into his arms, cradling me against his chest like something infinitely precious. I loop my arms around his neck as he carries me through the penthouse to the bedroom we fled from hours ago.
The bed is still unmade, sheets tangled from our passion last night and my hasty departure this morning. Damon sets me down beside it with a gentleness that contradicts the fierce possession in his eyes.
"I need to see you," he says, reaching for the hem of my shirt. "All of you."
There's no resistance in me as he undresses me slowly, each piece of clothing removed with reverent care. Unlike his usual impatience, he takes his time now, pressing his lips to each newly exposed inch of skin. When I stand naked before him, he drops to his knees, pressing his forehead against my stomach.
"When I woke up and found you gone—" His voice breaks, his hands gripping my hips like anchors. "I've never felt fear like that. Not when my parents died. Not when I nearly lost everything in the market crash five years ago." His breath is warm against my skin. "Nothing compares to the thought of losing you."
I thread my fingers through his dark hair, holding him to me. "I'm sorry I scared you."
He looks up, his eyes burning with an emotion too complex to name. "I'm sorry I scared you first. With my need. My possession." His thumbs trace circles on my hipbones. "But I won't apologize for wanting you to be mine. For needing you to be."
"I don't want you to apologize for that." The realization settles into me with perfect clarity. "That's what I figured out today. I want to be yours. I'm just not used to wanting something that feels so...consuming."
He presses a kiss to my stomach, just below my navel. "You think I am?"
The question hangs between us—this acknowledgment that whatever burns between us is new territory for both of us. Damon Blackwell, who controls every aspect of his world with ruthless precision, is as overwhelmed by this connection as I am.
Slowly, he rises to his feet, towering over me again. I reach for the misaligned buttons of his shirt.
"My turn," I tell him, beginning to undress him with the same careful attention he showed me.
His body reveals itself button by button, inch by inch. The broad chest dusted with dark hair. The taut stomach with its trail leading downward. The powerful thighs that have pinned me to this bed countless times. With each piece of clothing that falls away, I see more of the man beneath the powerful CEO exterior—the man who trembled at the thought of losing me.
When he stands naked before me, magnificent in his vulnerability, I place my palm over his heart. It pounds beneath my touch, racing with the same urgency that pulses through my veins.
"Do you understand what you do to me?" he asks, covering my hand with his own, pressing it harder against his chest. "How completely you own me?"
The power in that admission makes me dizzy. This man—this titan who commands empires—surrenders to me as completely as I surrender to him.
He guides me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed, then follows me down onto the rumpled sheets. But instead of covering my body with his own, he settles beside me, propped on one elbow, his free hand tracing patterns on my skin.
"I need to worship you properly," he murmurs, his fingers skimming the curve of my waist. "To apologize for making you doubt us."
"Damon—"
He silences me with a finger to my lips. "Let me."
And he does—with exquisite, torturous patience. His lips follow the path his fingers blaze, tasting every hollow and curve of my body like a man savoring his last meal. He lingers at the bruises his passion left yesterday, pressing gentle kisses to each mark as if in benediction rather than apology.
"So beautiful," he whispers against my inner thigh, where a perfect imprint of his fingers remains from last night. "Mine to mark. Mine to cherish."
The dual nature of his possession has never been clearer—the fierce claiming and the tender care, inseparable aspects of his love. Both essential. Both part of what draws me to him with such irresistible force.
When his mouth finally finds the aching center of me, I arch off the bed with a gasping cry. He holds my hips firmly, keeping me in place as he worships me with lips and tongue. There's reverence in his touch, but also that familiar possessiveness—the message clear in every stroke: This pleasure is his to give. This body is his to know.
And I surrender to it completely, letting the pleasure build and crest until I'm calling his name, my fingers tangled in his hair. He stays with me through every tremor, every aftershock, until I'm limp and gasping beneath him.
Only then does he move up my body, his arousal evident against my thigh. But instead of taking what we both know I'm willing to give, he brushes the hair from my face with surprising tenderness.
"I want to put a ring on your finger," he says, his voice low and sure. "I want to give you my name, so everyone knows you're mine."
The declaration should shock me—we've known each other barely a month—but nothing about our relationship has followed normal timelines or conventions. Instead, it feels like the natural progression of this consuming fire between us.
"And I want to put a baby in your belly." His hand slides to my stomach, splaying possessively over my womb. "I want to see you grow round with my child. I want everything—anything—that binds you to me so completely you can never leave."
Heat floods through me at his words—not just desire, but something deeper. The image he paints—marriage, pregnancy, a future intertwined with his—sparks longing I didn't know existed inside me.
"Are you trying to scare me away again?" I ask, my voice unsteady.
His smile is both predatory and vulnerable. "I'm being honest about what I want. What I need." His hand moves from my stomach to cup my face. "But I'll wait. I'll give you time. As long as I know you're mine, I can be patient."
Patient isn't a word I'd ever have associated with Damon Blackwell, and the concession moves me more than his demands. This is love—not just possession, but consideration. Compromise.
I reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath my fingertips. "Ask me properly," I whisper. "Not as a declaration. As a question."
Something shifts in his expression—uncertainty replacing his usual confidence. It's a gift, this rare glimpse of Damon unsure. He swallows hard.
"Lucy." My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer. "Will you marry me? Will you have my children? Will you promise never to leave me again?"
Three questions, but they're really one: Will you be mine forever?
I search his face, those penetrating gray eyes that see through every defense I've ever built. I think about the fear that drove me from this bed this morning—the worry that loving his possession made me somehow wrong, broken. But I see now that what exists between us isn't about weakness or surrender. It's about finding the one person who accepts your deepest, most hidden desires and meets them with their own.
"Yes," I tell him, watching joy break across his features like dawn. "Yes to all of it."
He claims my mouth in a kiss that's both celebration and promise, his body finally covering mine. When he enters me, it's with a gentleness that contrasts the fierce grip of his hands on my wrists, pinning them above my head. The duality that defines us—tender and fierce, loving and possessive.
"Tell me," he demands against my neck, his hips driving into mine with measured control. "Tell me what I need to hear."
I know what he's asking for. Not just confirmation of my acceptance, but the deeper truth.
"I love you," I gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "I love you, and I'll never leave you."
The words break something open in him. His control shatters, his movements becoming desperate, primal. "Mine," he growls against my throat. "Say it."
"Yours," I promise, wrapping my legs around his waist to take him deeper. "Only yours. Always yours."
Damon lets out a strangled sound as he sheathes his cock deep inside me. I feel a jet of precum spray into me and he curses.
"I won't last," Damon grits out, his hips stuttering against mine. "Not after thinking I'd lost you."
His vulnerability only heightens my desire, knowing this powerful man loses control because of me—only me. I arch up, meeting his thrusts, deliberately clenching around him to drive him closer to the edge.
"Then don't," I whisper against his ear. "Let go for me."
He makes a sound like he's being torn apart, his rhythm faltering as he drives into me with desperate need. His grip on my wrists tightens almost painfully, but I welcome it—physical proof of his possession, his desperation.
"Lucy—" My name breaks in his throat as he comes, his entire body shuddering against mine. The heat of him fills me, marking me from the inside in the most primal way. It triggers my own release, which only makes Damon come harder.
“Oh fuck yes, sweet baby, come all over your man’s cock. Let me feel you falling apart for me, honey.”
The intensity in his face, the raw emotion as he loses himself inside me, pushes me over the edge again. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my body clutching at his, milking him dry as we fall together.
Afterward, he doesn't roll away. Instead, he stays buried inside me, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that feels like shelter rather than confinement. His breath comes in ragged pants against my neck, his heart hammering against mine. I stroke his back, feeling the dampness of exertion on his skin, tracing the powerful muscles now relaxed beneath my touch.
We stay like that for a long time, connected in the most intimate way, neither of us willing to break the physical bond. When Damon finally shifts his weight, he doesn't withdraw completely—just enough to look down at my face, his eyes tracing every feature like he's memorizing me.
"I meant it," he says, voice still rough from our lovemaking. "Every word. The ring. The baby. All of it."
I reach up to smooth his tousled hair, letting my fingers linger against his scalp. "I know you did. And I meant my answer."
Something soft and vulnerable crosses Damon's face as he rolls to the side, pulling me against him. His arms cage me protectively, one hand splayed possessively across my lower belly.
"I'll call my jeweler today," he murmurs against my temple, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "I want that ring on your finger by tonight."
A small, practical part of me—the part that used to count pennies for ramen—wants to protest the extravagance, the rush. But that voice grows fainter every day I spend with Damon.
I tuck myself closer into Damon's side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. The morning's panic seems like a distant memory now, replaced by a bone-deep certainty that settles into me like truth.
"I don't need an expensive ring," I say, tracing patterns on his chest. "I just need you."
His hand tightens on my hip. "You have me. You've had me since the moment you looked at me at that gala."
I smile against his skin. “I guess you had me too.”