Page 33 of The Billionaire's Obsession

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, keepingme 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.

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