Page 23 of Bound in Matrimony

Throughout dinner, I restrain my usual impulse to dominate the conversation with plans and decisions. Instead, I listen as she describes an upcoming exhibition, the light in her eyes when she speaks about art reminding me why I was drawn to her from the first moment. Her passion, her expertise, her absolute certainty about what deserves attention and what doesn't—it mirrors my own approach to business in ways that still surprise me.

When she reaches for her water, the candlelight catches the emerald on her finger, sending green fire dancing across the table. Mine. The word still pulses through me with each heartbeat, but tonight it carries a different resonance. Not just possession, but responsibility. Protection. Dedication.

"You're staring," she notes, setting down her glass.

"I'm appreciating." I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine. "Do you know how extraordinary you are, Seraphina?"

A flush colors her cheeks—not embarrassment, but pleasure. "I know you think I am."

"I know you are." I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. "And tonight, I'm going to show you exactly how much I treasure what's mine."

Her pupils dilate slightly, her breath catching. She expects me to carry her to bed now, to claim her with the intensity that defines most of our encounters. Instead, I stand and lead her to the sitting area, where the fire casts dancing shadows across the plush furniture.

"Dance with me," I say, pulling her gently into my arms as a new song begins.

Surprise flickers across her face, but she comes willingly, her body fitting perfectly against mine as we begin to move slowly to the music. I've never been one for dancing—too much yielding of control, too much pointless movement—but tonight, it servesmy purpose. The gradual build, the controlled intimacy, the anticipation.

"What's gotten into you?" she murmurs against my chest, her arms around my neck.

"You have." I press my lips to her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair. "You've gotten under my skin, into my blood. Into every part of me."

We move together for several minutes, her body gradually relaxing against mine, surrendering to the gentle rhythm I've established. When the song ends, I don't release her. Instead, I tip her face up to mine and kiss her—not with the demanding hunger she's accustomed to, but with deliberate slowness. A kiss that savors rather than claims.

Her hands tighten in my hair, trying to deepen the contact, to push us toward the familiar intensity. I resist, maintaining the measured pace, showing her without words that tonight belongs to a different kind of obsession.

"Knox," she breathes against my mouth, confusion and desire mingling in her voice.

"Patience." I trace the curve of her cheek, her jawline, the delicate skin of her throat. "Tonight, I want to memorize every inch of you. Slowly."

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by a different kind of heat—less frantic, more profound. She nods once, a silent agreement to follow where I lead.

I take her hand and guide her to our bedroom, where more candles flicker, casting our shadows against the walls like living art. Standing her before me, I begin to undress her with the same unhurried deliberation that's defined the evening—one button at a time, each newly revealed patch of skin worshipped with my fingers, my lips, my absolute attention.

"You're torturing me," she whispers as I ease the silk blouse from her shoulders, exposing the lace beneath.

"I'm treasuring you." I press my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. "There's a difference."

My hands tremble slightly as I unclasp her bra—not from uncertainty, but from the effort of restraining the primal need to possess her quickly, thoroughly. I've built an empire on controlling my impulses, on delayed gratification, on strategic patience. Tonight, I apply that same discipline to loving my wife.

When she's finally naked before me, I step back to look at her—really look, with the focused attention I usually reserve for critical business decisions. The elegant line of her neck. The proud curve of her breasts. The slight dip of her waist. The strength in her legs. Every detail perfect, every inch mine to protect and pleasure.

"Your turn," she says, reaching for the buttons of my shirt.

I allow her to undress me, watching her face as she reveals the tattoo over my heart—her name, still new enough that the skin remains slightly raised around the letters. Her fingers trace the permanent mark, her touch feather-light but sending electricity through my nerves.

When we're both naked, I guide her to the bed, laying her against the sheets with a care that belies the furious pounding of my heart. I want to devour her, to claim her with the driving intensity that usually defines our lovemaking. Instead, I stretch out beside her, propped on one elbow, and begin a slow exploration of her body with my free hand.

"What are you doing to me?" she asks, her voice catching as my fingers trail across her skin.

"I'm loving you," I answer simply. "Completely. Thoroughly." I lower my head to press my lips to the space between her breasts. "Forever."

Her breath hitches at the word—forever. As if even after everything, the totality of my commitment still surprises her.

"Look at me, Seraphina." I wait until those remarkable green eyes meet mine. "I need you to understand something."

She nods, her gaze never wavering.

"This isn't temporary for me. It isn't a phase or a passion that will burn out." My hand slides lower, feeling her body respond to my touch even as her mind processes my words. "When I say you're mine, I mean for all time. In this life and whatever comes after."

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