Page 36 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

The combination of his words, his touch, and the weight of his body pinning me to the bed proves too much.

Release crashes through me in waves of unwanted pleasure, my back arching as my body surrenders completely to his control, inner muscles pulsing around his fingers as a cry tears from my throat.

"Tell me you want this," he says, his voice strained with desire but controlled. "I need to hear it."

"I want this," I admit, the honesty of my body impossible to deny in this moment. "Please."

Before the aftershocks have subsided, he releases my wrists to shed his pants in one fluid movement, revealing his impressive arousal.

He positions himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against me, demanding entry.

With one powerful thrust, he fills me completely, drawing a gasp from my lungs at the sudden stretch and fullness.

"There," he says, voice strained with desire but still controlled as he seats himself fully inside me. "Perfect."

He begins to move with measured strokes, establishing a rhythm designed to rebuild the pleasure he's already forced upon me. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider, angling my hips to take him deeper with each thrust.

"You're mine," he says again, punctuating the statement with a particularly deep thrust that hits a spot inside me that makes me cry out.

"My wife. My woman." His pace increases, driving harder, deeper, the sound of our bodies coming together filling the room.

"Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep. "

To my horror, I feel myself responding again, my body welcoming his invasion, inner muscles clenching around him in a way that draws a groan from deep in his chest. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating outward, building toward another peak I can't resist.

"Say it," he demands, his control beginning to fray at the edges as his movements become more urgent. "Tell me who you belong to."

I shake my head, clinging to this last vestige of defiance even as my body betrays me completely, hips rising to meet his thrusts, seeking more of the pleasure I don't want to acknowledge. My legs wrap around his waist of their own accord, pulling him deeper.

His hand releases my hip, moving instead to my throat—not squeezing, just resting there with gentle pressure, a reminder of his physical dominance. The other slides between us, finding my over-sensitized clit and pressing down in tight circles.

"Say. It." Each word punctuated with a thrust that hits something deep inside me, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my system, pushing me relentlessly toward another climax.

"Yours," I finally whisper, the admission torn from me against my will as pleasure spirals beyond my control. "I'm yours."

Something flares in his eyes—triumph, satisfaction, possession. "Again," he demands, increasing his pace, his hand tightening slightly at my throat as the other continues its merciless assault on my clit.

"I'm yours," I repeat, louder this time, the words coinciding with another wave of pleasure building toward crescendo. My nails dig into his shoulders, leaving marks of my own as my body arches beneath him.

"Mine," he confirms, driving into me with renewed intensity, his control finally shattering. "My wife. My Penelope."

The second climax hits with even greater force than the first, my body arching beneath him as pleasure explodes outward from my core, muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses.

The intensity of my release triggers his own—with a final, powerful thrust, he stills deep inside me, his body shuddering as he finds completion, filling me with his warmth.

For several long moments, we remain connected, his weight supported on his forearms to avoid crushing me, our breathing gradually slowing, heartbeats returning to normal rhythm. His lips find mine in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle, almost tender in its exploration.

When he finally withdraws, rolling to lie beside me, I feel hollow in more ways than one. Empty physically, emotionally drained, mentally exhausted from the conflict between my body's surrender and my mind's continued resistance.

Tears well unexpectedly, streaming silently down my temples into my hair. I turn away, unwilling to let him see this final vulnerability, this ultimate admission of defeat.

His hand catches my shoulder, preventing escape. "No," he says quietly. "Don't turn from me."

"Haven't you taken enough?" I ask, voice breaking despite my effort to maintain control.

Instead of answering, he pulls me against him, my back to his chest, arms encircling me completely. One large hand splays across my stomach, the other curves around my breast, thumb lazily circling the sensitive nipple. Even now, spent and satisfied, he maintains possession.

"Sleep," he murmurs against my hair, his lips brushing my neck in a gesture that feels almost affectionate.

I lie awake long after his breathing has deepened into sleep, tears drying on my cheeks, body still humming with the aftereffects of unwanted pleasure.

The physical intimacy had been undeniably satisfying—Gage clearly knows how to please a woman, how to coax response from reluctant flesh, how to make a body sing even when the mind rebels.

It's that very competence that terrifies me most. If my body surrenders so completely to his touch, how long before my mind follows? How many nights of this exquisite torture before I begin to crave it, to anticipate it, to genuinely desire the man who stole my freedom?

His arms tighten around me even in sleep, as if sensing my turmoil, ensuring I remain exactly where he wants me—pressed against him, contained within his embrace, prisoner of both his body and my own traitorous responses.

I stare into the darkness, the weight of his wedding ring pressing against my skin where his hand rests possessively on my breast, a constant reminder of the chains I now wear—invisible, intangible, but no less binding than steel.