Page 21 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Twenty-One

Knox

Her words echo in my mind, resonating like a perfect frequency that makes everything inside me vibrate with recognition.

Obsessed. She's obsessed with me. The admission I've been waiting for since the moment I claimed her as mine.

Seraphina sits across from me on the veranda of our island home, the setting sun painting her in shades of gold and amber, her confession still hanging in the air between us.

Claire sleeps peacefully between us, unaware that her mother has just given me the one thing I've needed more than anything—confirmation that the consuming fire that burns in me for her is matched by an equal flame in her.

I've built an empire on reading people, on sensing weakness, on knowing when I have the advantage.

But in this moment, I'm stripped of all calculation, reduced to a single, primal response: need.

"Say it again," I demand, my voice barely recognizable.

Her eyes—those remarkable green eyes that have seen through me from the beginning—meet mine without hesitation. "I'm obsessed with you, Knox. Completely. The way you've always been with me."

The words hit me with physical force, a blow to the center of my chest where her name is permanently etched into my skin.

For a man who craves control in all things, the violence of my reaction should be concerning.

Instead, it feels like the most natural response in the world—this surge of hunger, of possession, of absolute certainty.

She understands. Finally, completely, she understands what drives me.

What has driven me since the moment I saw her in that gallery, coolly dissecting that hideous installation with the precision of a surgeon.

She knows what it is to need someone with every cell of your being.

To feel that they are an extension of yourself, essential to your continued existence.

Claire stirs between us, reminding me of her presence. The desire to claim Seraphina immediately wars with my protective instincts toward our daughter. Seraphina reads the conflict in my face—she always reads me perfectly—and rises from her seat with fluid grace.

"I'll put her down," she says, gathering Claire into her arms. "Her evening nap usually lasts an hour."

The look she gives me over her shoulder as she carries our daughter inside holds a promise that makes my blood surge hot in my veins.

I give them five minutes—enough time for Seraphina to settle Claire in the nursery, for the baby monitor to be activated, for our daughter to be secure in her routine.

Five minutes exactly, and then I follow.

I find Seraphina in our bedroom, standing by the open doors that lead to our private section of beach. The sunset bathes her in fire, her honey-blonde hair aflame with golden light, her skin glowing. She's removed her cover-up, standing in just the white bikini she wore earlier. My wife. Mine.

"Claire?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I'd never proceed otherwise.

"Sleeping soundly." She turns to face me, and the look in her eyes is one I've seen in my own reflection countless times—hungry, possessive, certain. "The monitor's on. We'll hear if she needs us."

I cross the room in three long strides, eliminating the distance between us with the efficiency that defines all my important actions. My hands find her waist, feeling the warm silk of her skin beneath my palms. "Tell me what you feel."

She doesn't pretend to misunderstand. Her arms twine around my neck, her body pressing against mine with delicious intent.

"I feel like I'll die if I don't have you.

Like you're a part of me that I can't survive without.

Like I need to mark you, claim you, make sure everyone knows you're mine.

" Her lips curve in a smile that's both self-aware and primal. "Sound familiar?"

The last thread of my control snaps. I lift her, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist, and carry her to our bed. The California king—specially designed and shipped to our island at obscene expense—receives us as I lay her down, covering her body with mine.

"Do you know," I say against her throat, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips, "how long I've waited to hear you say those words? To know that what I feel for you isn't one-sided? That you need me the way I need you?"

Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling my mouth to hers for a kiss that's all heat and hunger. "I think I always have," she admits when we break apart, both breathless. "I just wasn't ready to admit it. To you or to myself."

I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand while the other traces the curve of her cheek, her jaw, the delicate line of her throat. "And now?"

"Now I can't deny it anymore." Her eyes hold mine, unflinching in their honesty. "I'm obsessed with you, Knox Vance. With possessing you. With being possessed by you. With knowing that nothing and no one will ever come between us."

Her words ignite something molten in my core, a need so intense it borders on violence.

I release her wrists only to rid her of the scrap of white fabric covering her breasts, then the matching bottom.

She's naked beneath me in seconds, her body as familiar to me as my own yet somehow always new, always a revelation.

"Mine," I growl against her skin, my mouth claiming her breast, then her stomach, then lower. "Say it again."

"I'm yours," she gasps as my tongue finds her center, her back arching off the bed. "Completely yours. Just like you're mine."

I worship her with mouth and hands, driving her to the edge and over it, absorbing her cries like they're sustenance I can't live without. When she's trembling, still coming down from her peak, I rise above her again, shedding my own clothes with desperate efficiency.

"No one else," I tell her, positioning myself between her thighs, my control hanging by a thread. "No one else has ever understood. No one else has ever matched me like you do."

Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging in slightly as she pulls me closer. "No one else ever will. For either of us."

I enter her with a single thrust, the feeling of her body accepting mine still as overwhelming as it was the first time.

We fit together perfectly, two pieces of the same puzzle, designed for each other down to a cellular level.

I set a punishing rhythm, driven by the need to claim, to possess, to mark—and by the knowledge that she feels the same desperate hunger.

"I've wanted to hear you say it," I confess against her mouth between kisses that are more consumption than affection. "That you're obsessed. That you need me the way I need you. That it's not just me being controlling or possessive or too much."

She meets my every thrust, her body rising to accept mine, her eyes never leaving my face. "It's never been just you," she says, her voice breaking as pleasure builds between us. "I was just afraid to admit how much I needed this. Needed you."

The honesty in her voice, the vulnerability beneath her passion, touches something beyond lust. I slow my movements, shifting from frantic claiming to deliberate worship. My hand cradles her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with a gentleness that contrasts the intensity of our connection.

"You're everything," I tell her, the words torn from someplace deeper than conscious thought. "The reason for everything I've built, everything I've done. The purpose behind every decision since the moment I met you."

Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, though her smile is radiant. "And you're mine, Knox Vance. My obsession. My completion. The only man who could ever make me feel this way."

Her words push me to the edge of control.

I gather her closer, changing our angle, ensuring that every thrust brings her pleasure along with mine.

Her eyes widen, her breath catching as she begins to tighten around me again.

I watch her face as she comes apart beneath me, absorbing every detail of her expression, every sound she makes.

The sight of her surrender triggers my own, my release hitting with an intensity that whites out my vision for several heartbeats.

Afterward, I hold her against me, unwilling to break our connection even as our breathing gradually slows. The Caribbean breeze drifts through the open doors, cooling our overheated skin, carrying the scent of salt and flowers and us.

"I meant it," she says against my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns across my skin. "Every word. I'm obsessed with you, Knox. With having you. Keeping you. Making sure nothing ever comes between us."

I lift her chin, needing to see her eyes as I respond. "Good. Because that's exactly how it should be. Both of us, equally consumed." I brush my lips across hers, gentle now that the initial storm has passed. "Equally obsessed."

She settles back against me, her body fitting perfectly into the curves of mine, as if designed specifically for this purpose.

Through the open door of our bedroom, I can see the ocean stretching to the horizon, the sky painted in the deep purples and blues of approaching night.

Our island. Our sanctuary. The perfect setting for the family we've created.

"Where's the baby monitor?" I ask, not willing to relax completely without confirmation that Claire is still sleeping soundly.

Seraphina reaches to the bedside table, turning the screen toward me so I can see our daughter's peaceful form in her crib.

The sight of her—this perfect being we created together—fills me with the same fierce protectiveness that drove me to purchase this island, to create this sanctuary where both the women in my life can be completely safe.

"She'll be up in about twenty minutes," Seraphina murmurs, pressing a kiss to the place where her name is tattooed on my chest. "We should probably get dressed before then."

"Probably," I agree, though I make no move to release her. Instead, I tighten my arms around her, inhaling the scent of her hair, memorizing the weight of her body against mine. "But not quite yet."

In this perfect moment—my wife in my arms, our daughter sleeping peacefully nearby, our island securing us against the world—I allow myself to acknowledge a truth I've known from the beginning:

I've never needed Seraphina to be obsessed with me to justify my own obsession with her.

I would have continued loving her with the same consuming intensity regardless of whether she matched it.

But hearing her admit that she feels the same driving need, the same possessive hunger—it completes something in me I didn't know was unfinished.

She's mine. I'm hers. Completely. Obsessively. For all time.

And nothing in the world has ever felt more right.