Page 13 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Thirteen

Knox

I've cleared my schedule for the rest of the day.

Billions in potential deals can wait. Board meetings can be postponed.

The empire I've built from nothing will continue standing without my constant attention for a few hours.

Nothing matters right now except the woman who confessed, with those remarkable green eyes steady on mine, that she loves my obsession with her.

Seraphina Vance—my wife, my possession, my reason for everything—understands the depth of my need in a way no one else ever has.

And tonight, I intend to show her a side of myself I've rarely revealed: patience.

For once, I won't take her hard and fast, claiming her body with the same ruthless determination I apply to business acquisitions.

Tonight, I'll make love to her slowly, deliberately, proving that my obsession has layers she hasn't yet discovered.

The penthouse is transformed according to my exacting specifications by the time we arrive home.

Candlelight bathes every surface in warm, golden light.

Dinner—prepared by a chef I flew in from Paris for the occasion—waits under silver covers.

Her favorite flowers fill the space with subtle fragrance.

Music plays softly from the hidden speakers—a playlist I curated myself from the classical pieces she favors.

"What's all this?" Seraphina asks as I guide her inside, her eyes widening at the scene I've created.

"This is me showing you that obsession has many forms." I take her coat, my fingers lingering at the nape of her neck. "Not all of them involve acquiring galleries behind your back."

Her laugh is soft, without a trace of the resentment another woman might harbor. "I rather liked that particular demonstration of your possessiveness."

"I know." I lead her to the table, pulling out her chair. "That's why you're dangerous, Seraphina. You encourage my worst tendencies."

"Or your best ones." She settles into her seat, the candlelight catching the gold in her honey-blonde hair. "Depending on your perspective."

I pour sparkling water into her glass and take my seat across from her. The distance between us feels like an unwelcome obstacle, but I remind myself of my purpose. Patience. Control of a different sort than I usually exercise with her.

Her acceptance of my obsessive nature has unlocked something in me.

Most women would have been horrified to discover I'd secretly purchased their workplace.

They would have seen it as controlling, manipulative, excessive.

Seraphina saw it for what it was—a manifestation of my need to protect and possess what matters most to me.

And instead of fighting against it, she embraced it.

Embraced me, with all my sharp edges and consuming needs.

I owe her something in return. A glimpse of the vulnerability that drives my relentless pursuit of her. A demonstration that my obsession isn't just about control—it's about devotion.

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 serves my 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."

A slight tremor runs through her, and I can't tell if it's from my touch or my words.

"I've never believed in anything I couldn't see, couldn't build with my own hands." I position myself above her, looking directly into her eyes as I align our bodies. "But I believe in this. In us. In forever."

"Knox..." Her voice breaks on my name, her hands coming up to frame my face.

I join our bodies then, with exquisite slowness, maintaining eye contact as I fill her completely. The sensation is overwhelming—not just the physical pleasure, but the connection, the absolute certainty that this woman was made for me and I for her.

"I promise you forever, Seraphina Vance." The declaration comes from someplace deeper than conscious thought as I begin to move within her, setting a rhythm that's gentle but inexorable. "Every day. Every night. Every breath. Yours. Mine. Ours."

Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, but her smile is radiant. "Forever," she echoes, her body moving in perfect counterpoint to mine.

I maintain the measured pace, fighting against my nature, showing her with every careful thrust that my obsession isn't just about possession—it's about devotion. About cherishing what I've claimed.

When I feel her body beginning to tighten around mine, I whisper her name, watching her eyes as pleasure transforms her face.

The sight of her coming undone beneath me—trusting me enough to surrender completely—pushes me over the edge.

My release hits with unexpected intensity, drawing a sound from deep in my chest that's part groan, part her name, part wordless promise.

Afterward, I hold her against me, her head on my chest, directly over her name etched into my skin. My fingers trace lazy patterns on her back as our breathing gradually slows.

"That was different," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my chest.

"Different good?"

She shifts to look up at me, her eyes soft in the candlelight. "Different perfect." Her hand comes up to touch my face, her thumb brushing across my lower lip. "I didn't know you had that in you."

"Neither did I." The admission comes easier than I expected. "You change me, Seraphina. You make me want to be more than just the man who takes what he wants."

"But you're still that man too." There's a smile in her voice. "The one who buys galleries without telling me. The one who replaces my entire wardrobe with his name stitched into every piece."

"Always." I tighten my arms around her. "That part of me will never change."

"Good." She settles more comfortably against me. "Because I meant what I said earlier. I love your obsession. All versions of it."

As her breathing evens out into sleep, I stare at the ceiling, marveling at the woman in my arms. The only person who's ever embraced the darkest, most consuming aspects of my nature.

The only one who understands that my need to possess her completely comes from the same place as my promise of forever.

My wife. My obsession. My eternity.