Page 49

JAMES

C ontrary to what Ophelia believes, I don’t have cameras inside the house. Other than the one in the cell, of course, which was put there for a specific reason.

To stalk Ophelia.

She’s been searching for them, though she hasn’t flat-out asked me about it. I see her glancing at the corners of each room when she thinks I’m not watching.

Sneaky.

I don’t tell her that having cameras in our home is a vulnerability I can’t afford to have. An enemy could hire a hacker to break into my system.

They—Oliver and Topher included—could pay whatever it takes. Use whatever they unravel to extort me.

But God, do I wish I had a million cameras in every room of the house.

Every day I spend in the office without her carves a deeper hole in my chest. I miss her so badly that my heart feels like it weighs a million pounds when she’s out of my sight.

Getting off on her humiliation isn’t nearly as satisfying as looking at her. Holding her.

I clutch my fingers on the steering wheel of my SUV as I sit in my driveway, watching my home.

My cock is hard. Muscles flexing beneath my suit.

This is what this has come down to. This is the man I’ve become after hours upon hours of denying myself the one thing I truly care about.

Ophelia.

Every time one of the staff members turned their back on her, she must have been furious.

Her cheeks probably flushed red.

I haven’t texted or called Clara to check on Ophelia. Haven’t needed a report on how she’s been doing.

She’s mine. Whatever she’s been going through belongs to me. I’ll hear it from her lips.

Me.

My obsession with her is reaching terrifying levels. I’m aware.

It is what it is.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I hardly recognize the man staring back at me.

My eyes are cold as ever. My expression is bare of any emotion.

That’s what I let everyone in the office see today, especially when they asked about Topher. When I told them he’d come down with the flu.

Nevertheless, I’m not the same.

I’m excited.

I’ve never been eager to come back from the office. To a woman, no less.

I don’t even remember the last time I had sex before Ophelia. Waste of time, breath, and effort.

My time, my breaths, my efforts, they’re all Ophelia’s now.

I’m addicted. Whipped.

In love.

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I scold myself and go to her.

The first thing I notice is the silence inside the house. No shoes clicking on the floor. No clattering of plates as they’re being set on the table.

Second thing is the smell. Something’s burned.

My heart slams against its cage; my feet carry me at full speed toward the kitchen, where the smell is coming from.

She could be lying there dead.

My staff would know how furious I’d be if anything happened to her. It could be the reason they haven’t called to inform me about it.

They’re afraid of me.

They’re right to be.

As soon as I’m in the kitchen, my fear vanishes as quickly as it came.

Ophelia’s there.

Alive.

Dragging her chain as she paces in the opposite direction of me.

Breathing.

Huffing.

Alive.

You love her.

Fine. Fuck. I do. No other way to explain the immense relief surging through me.

If that’s what love is, then fine. I accept.

I love her.

It’s sick. A terrible weakness. No wonder my father had been against it.

But fuck, this relief. It’s like having a C4 detonate inside my body, leaving me to suffer one aftershock after the other.

I need an outlet for the pain.

And she’s going to give it to me.

She’ll let me drive myself inside her until neither of us can breathe. She’ll be screaming my name over and over when she comes.

She’ll beg me to stop.

I will do no such thing.

I’ll fuck her for hours, filling her with my seed over and over again.

Ophelia will learn what it means to make me feel.

I’ve made it one step toward her, ready to strip her. Torture her. Punish her.

“Stupid electric stove.” Ophelia taps a hand over her thigh.

“Too hot, too cold. It can’t fucking decide, can it?

How am I supposed to fix him dinner if this is what I have to work with?

It’s the stupid thing’s fault, right? Not mine.

I’m not the one who’s ruined ten steaks.

The goddamn stove did. Not. Me. I haven’t failed.

I’m not the one who’ll disappoint James. Ugh.”

My brow furrows. Head tilting to the side.

She tried to cook?

For me?

It’s then that I see it. The pans towering in the sink. The oil splotches on the stove and counter. There aren’t any fruit plates on the kitchen island. Only two clean plates, two sets of steak knives and forks.

I can’t take it. This longing. This need.

The warmth spreading through me is insufferable.

Twenty steps and I’m behind her, almost touching.

She’s still cursing the air. “Maybe one minute next time? I know, I know. It’ll be raw. Some of the customers at Laurier’s liked it that way, though. He might like it too.”

“Sonnet.”

The woman I met weeks ago would’ve shrieked.

This version of Ophelia spins to me. She has a broken plate in her hand that I didn’t notice since I was too busy taking in this scene.

“We’re having cereal for dinner.” She pins the sharp point of the shard to my chest. “And that’s final.”

A laugh bubbles in my throat. It’s so fucking foreign that I wonder if I’m having a seizure.

“What?” The corners of her mouth tip up. The plate remains exactly where it is, poking at my shirt. “Why are you laughing?”

The stinging sensation is welcome. I’m proud of her for keeping her guard up.

Let’s see if she’s truly ready.

“Cereal?” My question is meant to throw her off.

Sadly, it does the trick. Her smile widens. “Why not? I mean, I tried to cook an actual meal. But I ruined the last filet so?—”

I steal the broken plate from her, ignoring the pain when it cuts into my palm. I have exactly one second left of Ophelia’s confusion, and I use it well. Turn her. Slam the front of her body to the window wall. Pin her there by my hips.

Her chain clinks along the wood floor. I get off on the sound, on owning her so thoroughly.

My hand winds its way through her long, soft hair. For a second, I let myself lean in to inhale the scent of her shampoo.

Ophelia’s struggles only serve to make my cock harder. Her growl is both aroused and upset. “Argh! You’re infuriating.”

“I laughed because you’re adorable.” I sound soft. Yanking her by her hair and slicing off a lock of it is anything but.

Once I have the lock of hair in my palm, I throw the broken plate to the floor. It shatters into smaller pieces. I assume. I’m too engrossed in Ophelia to look anywhere else. To care about anything else.

That maddens me further. I tug harder on her hair. Rock my hips into her even harder.

The glass wall rattles.

“I’m not adorable,” she growls, twisting her head as much as my hold on her allows. Her dark eyes are accusatory. She fights me while I pocket the lock of her hair. “I was going to get dinner ready. What’s adorable about that? You know what”— moan —“let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I am.”

“You are.”

“Ugh.” She stomps on my shoe. I let her. “If I’m so goddamn adorable, why are you hurting me?”

When violence doesn’t work, she pushes her ass to my cock.

“I’m training you; there’s a difference.

Besides, I enjoy hurting you. I’ve been fantasizing about it all day.

About you.” I pull back to lower her leggings and panties.

I’m an aggressive bastard. Impatient as I take myself out.

“You made me fall for you. I love you, Ophelia. It’s an inconvenience. Spit.”

“I—What?”

“Spit.” My hand is right under her mouth. “I won’t ask you twice.”

“What for?” Her breaths are hot on my palm. Her fear and excitement are intoxicating. “I’m wet.”

“Your ass isn’t.”

There’s a bottle of lube in my bedside table drawer. Another one is in my office. Both were put there for her.

No way am I am leaving her long enough to get either of them.

“Oh,” she whispers, then spits while grinding her naked ass into my cock.

“Jesus, you’re a filthy one.” I’m turned on. An animal. I yank her head back up, and she gasps so pretty for me. I take advantage of that too, spitting into her open mouth. “Spit that in my hand too.”

Her eyes are furious. That doesn’t stop her from doing as I said. From pushing her hips back, begging for my cock.

“You love me,” she accuses. “You love me.”

“I love my steak too.”

She blushes, the pink color spreading across her nape. I’m a bastard for getting turned on by that. For stretching her ass with two wet fingers. Precum wets the tip of my cock when she groans in pain.

“But there’s none here.” I rub the spit on my cock. Watch her face turning into a picture of resolution. “No staff, either.”

“Mine,” she grits out behind clenched teeth, spreading her legs. “I threatened them. Told them to leave for the day before they could get to dinner. You’re mine. I’m more than a womb. More than a plaything to wait for you here. I?—”

I pull my fingers out of her, lifting her hips. I press her face to the window with my clean hand.

We both moan when the head of my cock slips past the rim of her tight hole.

“You what?” I’m breathing hard, spitting on my hand to lube my dick again. Hanging by a thread, desperate to tear into her.

“James.” Hot tears follow. Angry tears, judging by the way she bares her teeth at me. There’s fire in her eyes. “I love you.”

Her words settle inside my heart. She’s building a house there. A mansion. No plans to leave.

Not like I’ll ever let her.

“It hurts.” The first sign of vulnerability from her.

That angers her more than anything.

She thinks she’s disappointing me.

God, another second of not ramming into her, and I’ll die.