Page 35 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)
His expression softens slightly. "She found peace in creating beauty," he says after a moment. "It was her way of imposing order on circumstances beyond her control."
The parallel to my own use of floral design isn't lost on me, though I choose not to highlight it. "Did she spend much time here?" I ask instead.
"As much as was permitted," he replies, the careful phrasing revealing more than perhaps intended. "This villa was her preferred residence during her final years."
I absorb this information silently, recognizing it as significant though not yet understanding exactly how. "Thank you for sharing that," I say finally.
He nods, returning to his usual controlled demeanor. "Dinner will be served at seven, either in the formal dining room or on the terrace if you prefer the evening air."
"The terrace would be lovely," I reply, responding to the offered choice with genuine preference rather than passive acceptance.
"I'll inform Madame Rousseau," he says, rising from his chair. "If you'll excuse me, I have one final call before we transition to evening."
Alone in the library, I browse shelves that contain an impressive collection spanning centuries and languages.
Many volumes show signs of actual reading rather than decorative acquisition—cracked spines, occasional pencil notations in margins, the subtle evidence of books that serve purpose beyond appearance.
I select a volume of poetry—Rilke in the original German with facing-page French translations—and settle into a window seat overlooking the front gardens. The combination of beautiful language and beautiful surroundings creates temporary respite from constant awareness of my situation.
Dinner passes in a fog of expensive wine and gourmet food I barely taste.
Conversation remains carefully neutral—observations about the villa, the journey, the Parisian skyline visible from the terrace.
Gage watches me with that assessing gaze I've grown accustomed to, measuring my compliance, my adaptation, my surrender.
When we finish, he stands, extending his hand. "Shall we retire? The time difference is significant."
The inevitable moment has arrived. I place my hand in his, allowing him to lead me back to our suite. Inside, the bedroom has been prepared for night—lights dimmed, sheets turned down, the space transformed into a romantic setting that mocks the reality of our arrangement.
"I'll give you privacy to prepare for bed," he says, his tone neutral but his meaning clear.
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. I've been dressed in an ivory silk nightgown—another item selected without my input, delivered to the villa ahead of our arrival. It skims my body like water, the material so fine it's nearly transparent.
When I emerge, Gage stands at the window, silhouetted against the Parisian night. He's changed into black silk pajama pants, his chest bare, revealing the lean muscle of a man who maintains physical discipline as rigidly as he controls his business empire.
"You're beautiful," he says simply, eyes tracking my movement as I hover uncertainly near the bathroom door.
"Let's not pretend this is anything but what it is," I reply, voice steadier than I feel. "A transaction. A business arrangement with physical requirements."
He looks slightly disappointed.
"Come here, Penelope," he says, voice dropping to a tone that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I remain where I am, clinging to this final moment of defiance. "And if I refuse?"
"You won't." The confidence in his tone infuriates me, especially because he's right. What purpose would refusal serve now? The ceremony is complete, the papers signed, the cage door firmly locked.
I cross the room slowly, stopping just out of reach. "Is this where you claim your property, Mr. Blackwood?"
His hand moves with surprising speed, catching my wrist and pulling me against him in one fluid motion. "My wife," he corrects, his other hand sliding to the nape of my neck. "Legally bound. Publicly acknowledged. Mine in every way that matters."
Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine in a kiss unlike our previous encounters—demanding, possessive, brooking no resistance. His tongue parts my lips, taking rather than asking, exploring with a thoroughness that leaves me breathless when he finally pulls back.
"Your body knows what your mind refuses to accept," he murmurs, his hand moving from my neck down my spine, pressing me more firmly against him. The hard length of him is evident even through the layers of silk between us.
"Physical response isn't consent," I manage, hating the breathlessness in my voice.
"No," he agrees surprisingly. "But the prenuptial agreement you signed is. Reasonable expectation of marital relations, remember?"
The cold reminder of legal documents in this moment is so quintessentially Gage—practical, strategic, emotionless despite his evident desire.
His hands move to my shoulders, pushing the thin straps of the nightgown down my arms. The silk slides like water, pooling at my feet, leaving me naked and exposed beneath his gaze.
"Perfect," he says, voice roughened with desire as his eyes travel over my body with proprietary appreciation. His fingertips trace a path from my collarbone down between my breasts, barely touching yet leaving fire in their wake. "Even more exquisite than I imagined."
I fight the urge to cover myself, refusing to show the vulnerability he's surely looking for, even as my nipples harden under his scrutiny. "Get it over with, then."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
Without warning, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the bed, depositing me in the center with surprising gentleness before covering my body with his.
The weight of him presses me into the mattress, his skin hot against mine, the silk of his pants doing nothing to disguise his substantial arousal.
"This isn't something to 'get over with,' Penelope," he says, his thigh sliding between mine, creating delicious friction against my core. "This is something to savor. To remember."
His mouth finds mine again as his hands begin to explore—tracing the curve of my breast, thumbs circling but never quite touching my aching nipples, mapping the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip.
I tell myself I won't respond, won't give him the satisfaction of my surrender.
But my treacherous body has other ideas, nerve endings firing at his expert touch, heat pooling between my legs against my will.
When his thumb finally brushes across my nipple, then pinches lightly, an involuntary gasp escapes me. He smiles against my mouth, clearly pleased with the reaction as he rolls the hardened peak between his fingers.
"Your body doesn't lie," he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck to capture my other nipple between his teeth, tugging just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain racing through me. "No matter what defiance you maintain in your mind, your body is honest about what it wants."
I turn my face away, unwilling to watch my own surrender. He immediately catches my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze, the blue of his eyes nearly swallowed by dilated pupils.
"No," he says firmly. "You don't get to pretend this isn't happening. I want to see your eyes when you come apart for me. I want to watch pleasure overtake that stubborn resistance."
"I hate you," I whisper, the words lacking conviction even to my own ears as heat spreads through my veins.
"Hate and desire aren't mutually exclusive," he replies, shifting to position himself between my thighs, the silk of his pants sliding tantalizingly against my sensitive skin. "In fact, they often amplify each other."
His hands capture my wrists, drawing them above my head and pinning them there with one large hand. The position arches my back, pressing my breasts more prominently against his chest, emphasizing my vulnerability in a way that sends another unwelcome surge of arousal through me.
"You're mine now," he says, his free hand moving between our bodies, finding the center of my desire with unerring precision.
"Legally. Physically." His fingers slide through the evidence of my body's betrayal, gathering the wetness there before circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that draws an unwilling moan from my throat.
"Say it, Penelope. I need to hear you acknowledge who you belong to. "
"Never," I manage, though the word breaks on a gasp as his fingers continue their relentless assault on my senses, circling, pressing, retreating only to advance again with more intensity.
His mouth moves to my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin, then soothing with his tongue. "Say it," he demands again, fingers sliding inside me now, curling to find a spot that makes my hips buck involuntarily and sends sparks of pleasure shooting through my nervous system.
I bite my lip, determined to deny him this victory at least, even as my hips lift involuntarily into his touch, seeking more of the exquisite sensation he's creating. My inner walls clench around his invading fingers, hungry for more.
"So stubborn," he murmurs, adding another finger, stretching me deliciously as his thumb continues circling my clit with devastating precision. "But your body knows the truth. It's already surrendering to me."
He's right, damn him. Despite every effort to remain unmoved, my body responds to his skilled touch with embarrassing eagerness. Tension coils tighter and tighter in my core, building toward a release I simultaneously crave and resent.
"Stop fighting it," he commands, watching my face with intense focus as his fingers move faster, deeper. "Let go. Show me what I already know—that I can make you come apart whenever I choose."