Page 18 of The Billionaire's Obsession

I almost come in my pants on the spot, but I grit my teeth and ignore my leaking cock. This is about her.

"You can," I assure her, my voice rough with need. "You will. For me."

I press harder, move faster, my gaze never leaving hers as I drive her toward release. Her pupils dilate fully, her mouthforming a perfect O of surprise as pleasure overtakes her. She's beautiful in her surrender, more precious than anything I've ever possessed.

"Damon!" My name on her lips is a prayer, a curse, a plea as she shatters beneath my hand. Her inner muscles clench around my fingers, her entire body trembling with the force of her climax.

I watch, enraptured, as wave after wave washes through her. This is what I wanted in the bathroom—to see her lose control, to know I'm the cause of her pleasure. But this is better, infinitely better, because it's real. Because she's in my arms, not just in my fantasies.

As she comes down, her body still quivering with aftershocks, I press my forehead to hers. My own need is almost painful, but I ignore it. This moment isn't about me. It's about claiming her, marking her as mine in the most primitive way possible.

"You are the most exquisite thing I've ever seen," I whisper, removing my hand from beneath her skirt, reluctant to break contact even for a moment.

Her eyes, dazed with pleasure, focus slowly on mine. There's confusion there, and wonder, and something else—something that looks dangerously like the emotion burning in my own chest.

"What happens now?" she asks, her voice small but steady.

I stroke her cheek, marveling at how quickly she's become necessary to me. How completely she's infiltrated my carefully ordered existence. "Now," I tell her, "we begin."

Because this is just the start. Just the first taste of what we'll be to each other. And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that I will never get enough of Lucy. Never tire of her responses. Never want to let her go.

She is my addiction. My obsession. My salvation.

Mine.

CHAPTER

TEN

Lucy

The elevator doorsslide open to reveal Damon's penthouse, and my breath catches. It's not just a home—it's a statement, a kingdom high above the city where normal rules don't apply. My single suitcase suddenly feels pathetic in my grip, a reminder of how quickly my life has changed since meeting him. Six weeks of intense pursuit, of Damon Blackwell refusing to take no for an answer, and now here I am, standing on the threshold of his world.

"Welcome home, Lucy." His voice slides across my skin like expensive silk. He takes my suitcase from my nerveless fingers, placing it aside as though my past life weighs nothing at all.

I step into a space of soaring ceilings and walls of glass. The city sprawls beneath us, a glittering carpet of lights that makes me dizzy with the height. Everything is sleek lines and tasteful minimalism—grays, blacks, and the occasional splash of deep blue that reminds me of the ocean at midnight.

"This is...excessive," I manage, my voice small in the vastness.

Damon's mouth quirks, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment. "I don't do things halfway." His hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me further in. "Neither business nor pleasure."

The heat of his palm burns through my thin blouse. I'd dressed carefully this morning—before the movers came, before the papers were signed releasing me from my housing contract. I wonder if someone else has already rented my tiny apartment. The thought creates a spike of panic that I swallow down.

"I can have a decorator come if you want to change anything." Damon watches me with those penetrating gray eyes that seem to catalog every reaction. "Make it feel more like yours."

I almost laugh. Nothing about this austere magnificence could ever feel like it belongs to a twenty-two-year-old grad student who, until three weeks ago, was surviving on ramen and hope.

"It's beautiful," I say instead, because it is—beautiful in the way dangerous things often are.

He guides me through the space. A kitchen with countertops that gleam like wet stone and appliances that look like they've never been touched. A living area with furniture too pristine to seem comfortable. A home office with a desk that faces the city, positioned like a throne.

"And this," he says, stopping before a set of double doors, "is our bedroom."

Ourbedroom. The words send a shiver through me that's equal parts anticipation and fear. He opens the doors to reveal a space dominated by an enormous bed draped in charcoal gray linens that look softer than anything I've ever slept on.

"I had your clothes unpacked earlier," Damon says, nodding toward an open door that reveals a walk-in closet larger thanmy entire former apartment. "Though I've taken the liberty of adding a few things I thought you might need."

I walk toward the closet, drawn by curiosity. Inside, my meager wardrobe occupies maybe a tenth of the space, my well-worn jeans and cotton shirts looking like poor relations next to rows of dresses, blouses, and pants that still bear tags from designers whose names I recognize from magazines.

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