Page 29 of The Billionaire's Obsession

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Lucy

My body pulseswith a delicious ache as I blink into consciousness, aware of Damon's heavy arm draped across my waist like a possession, not just an embrace. The soreness between my thighs, the tender spots along my neck and breasts—all evidence of his need to mark me, claim me. And God help me, I love it. The realization sits in my chest, an uncomfortable heat I recognize as both desire and doubt.

I shift slightly, wincing at the sweet pain. Damon's arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer to his chest even in sleep. His breathing remains deep and even against my neck, warm and reassuring. The penthouse is quiet around us, the silk sheets cool where they touch my bare skin beyond the furnace of his body.

Last night. God, last night.

He took me so many times I lost count.

I remember how his hands had gripped my thighs hard enough to bruise while he kissed me like he owned me. Like I was air and he was drowning.

"Tell me you're mine," he'd demanded against my throat. "Only mine."

And I had. I'd said it over and over as he took me there against the wall, then again in the shower, then finally in this bed. His intensity should have frightened me. Instead, it lit me up from the inside, made me feel seen in a way I never had before.

That's the part that's keeping me awake now, staring at the ceiling as dawn breaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The part that makes me question my own sanity.

Normal women don't crave being possessed, do they? Normal women want equality, partnership—not the consuming fire of a man who speaks of ownership in literal terms. A man who leaves bruises shaped like his fingers on your hips and thighs, who whispers "mine" like a prayer when he thinks you're sleeping.

I slide my hand along the muscled forearm that pins me to the mattress. Damon Blackwell. Billionaire CEO. The man whose name makes boardrooms go silent. I met him three months ago when working as a serve at that gala, and somehow ended up here—in his bed, in his life, becoming an obsession for a man who collects companies like others collect art.

He paid off my student loans, for Christ’s sake and offered me a job for an insance amount of money for a girl still in college.

I should have been insulted. Instead, I'd felt wanted in a way that made my knees weak.

What does that say about me?

I remember my old high school friend complaining about her "possessive" boyfriend who'd glare at other guys who talked to her. That seems laughably tame compared to what Damon does—the way he stands behind me with his hand on my neck when we're in public, the way he insists I sleep naked so nothingcomes between his skin and mine, the way he's programmed my phone to track my location "in case something happens to you."

Yet the truth burns through me like shame: I love it. I've never felt more desired, more important, more...necessary to someone's existence. It's intoxicating.

But is it healthy? The question nags at me, growing louder since yesterday when Damn lost his shit over seeing me smile at another man.

I stare at Damon's sleeping face. He looks different like this—younger, less guarded. The sharp angles of his jaw relaxed, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. So beautiful it hurts to look at him directly, like staring at the sun.

But am I losing myself? Three months ago, I had my own apartment, worked jobs I chose myself. Now I live here, work for him, sleep in his bed. My body carries his marks. My phone broadcasts my location to him.

I try to imagine explaining to my mother, a lifelong feminist who raised me to be independent, that I melt when Damon tells me I belong to him. That I get wet when he grips my jaw and makes me look at him while he tells me I'm never allowed to leave. That sometimes, when he's working late in his home office, I deliberately wear something he's forbidden just to provoke his possessive response.

What kind of woman does that make me?

The doubt grows like a tumor in my chest, pressing against my lungs until I can barely breathe. This room suddenly feels too small, too warm, too full ofhim. I need space. I need to think. I need to remember who I was before Damon Blackwell consumed me like wildfire.

Carefully, I slide out from under his arm. He stirs, reaching for me even in sleep, but doesn't wake. I hold my breath, watching him for a moment longer. The sheets pool around hiswaist, revealing the muscled expanse of his chest, the dark trail of hair leading down his stomach. Mine, he would say. All mine.

But am I his? Should I be? Is it wrong to want to be possessed so completely?

I don't know anymore. And that terrifies me.

My clothes from yesterday are scattered across the floor—casualties of Damon's impatience. I collect them quietly, slipping into my underwear and jeans, wincing at the tenderness between my legs. Evidence of him. Of us. Of whatever this is that I can't seem to name or understand.

"I'll be back," I whisper, though he can't hear me. It feels important to say it, even if only to myself. "I just need to think."

I grab my phone from the nightstand, hesitating over whether to leave it. He'll track me if I take it. So I leave it instead.

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