Page 37 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

M orning light filters through gauzy curtains when I wake, my body sore in places I'd forgotten existed. For a moment, I'm disoriented—the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of an arm draped possessively across my waist, the scent of expensive sheets mingling with the lingering musk of sex.

Paris. The villa. My wedding night.

I shift slightly, testing the range of movement allowed by Gage's unconscious embrace. Even in sleep, he maintains control, his body curved around mine like a living cage.

His breathing changes subtly, a nearly imperceptible shift that tells me he's awake before he moves. His hand slides upward, fingers splaying across my ribcage just beneath my breast.

"Good morning, wife," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep as his lips brush against my shoulder.

I don't respond, not trusting my voice. The mental clarity of morning brings renewed awareness of my situation—of what happened last night, of the surrender he extracted from my unwilling body.

"Still pretending?" he asks, amusement evident as his hand moves higher to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens against his touch. "After the way you came apart for me last night?"

"Don't," I whisper, the word lacking conviction even to my own ears.

"Don't what?" His mouth traces a path along my shoulder to my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin before biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. "Don't remind you how your body responded to mine? Don't touch what's legally and rightfully mine?"

Before I can answer, he shifts suddenly, moving down my body with predatory grace. The sheets are pulled away with one swift motion, exposing me completely to the cool morning air and his hungry gaze.

"What are you doing?" I ask, pushing up onto my elbows.

His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wide with casual strength, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh near my core. "Having breakfast," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre that sends unwanted heat flooding between my legs.

I barely have time to process his meaning before his mouth is on me—hot, demanding, possessive. His tongue parts my folds with a long, deliberate stroke that makes my back arch off the bed involuntarily. My hands fly to his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he growls against my sensitive flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core. "So wet already. Your body knows who it belongs to, even when your mind resists."

His technique is devastating—broad strokes alternating with focused attention on my clit, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth before flicking his tongue against it with relentless precision.

My thighs begin to tremble, my breathing ragged as pleasure builds with frightening intensity.

"Look at me," he commands, pulling back just enough to make me whimper at the loss. "I want to see your eyes when I make you come with my mouth."

Despite myself, I meet his gaze—those intense blue eyes watching me from between my thighs, his expression dark with possession. The sight of him there, powerful and controlled even in this submissive position, sends a fresh rush of wetness that he acknowledges with a appreciative groan.

"Say my name," he demands before his tongue darts out to circle my clit. One long finger slides inside me, curling to find that spot that makes my vision blur. Then a second finger joins the first, stretching me, preparing me.

I bite my lip, determined to maintain this small rebellion. His response is immediate—a sharp nip to my inner thigh that makes me cry out, followed by a soothing lap of his tongue over the slight sting.

"My name, Penelope," he insists, his fingers pumping inside me with deliberate precision while his thumb replaces his tongue on my clit. "Let me hear who's making you feel this way."

"Gage," I whisper, my voice breaking as pleasure coils tighter.

"Louder," he demands, increasing the pressure, adding a third finger that creates a delicious fullness. His mouth returns to my clit, sucking hard while his fingers thrust deeper.

"Gage!" His name tears from my throat as release crashes through me, my body convulsing around his fingers, my hands fisting in his hair as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me.

Before I've recovered, he's moving up my body, positioning himself between my thighs.

His cock, thick and heavy, slides through my soaked folds, coating himself in my arousal.

Without warning, he thrusts inside—one powerful stroke that fills me completely, stretching me to the point of exquisite pain.

"Christ, you're tight," he hisses through clenched teeth, holding himself still for just a moment as my body adjusts to his considerable size. "So perfect. So made for me."

Then he begins to move, setting a punishing rhythm that steals what little breath I've regained. One hand pins both my wrists above my head while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise, angling me perfectly to receive each devastating thrust.

"Mine," he growls, driving into me with increasing force. "Every. Fucking. Inch." Each word punctuated with a thrust that hits something deep inside me, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward from where we're joined.

"I'm going to fill this perfect cunt with my cum," he says, voice rough with exertion and desire. "Watch your belly swell with my child. See you heavy with my heir. Mark you as mine inside and out."

The words should horrify me—this final claim, this ultimate possession. Instead, my treacherous body responds with a clenching intensity that draws a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

"You like that idea," he observes, slowing his pace to grind himself against me, the base of his cock creating delicious friction against my still-sensitive clit. "Your pussy gets tighter every time I talk about breeding you. Filling you with my seed. Making you pregnant with my child."

"No," I deny weakly, even as my hips rise to meet his thrusts, seeking more, deeper, harder.

"Liar," he says, almost fondly. His hand releases my wrists to slide beneath me, gripping my ass to lift me higher. "Your body knows what it wants. What it needs. What it was made for."

He shifts suddenly, flipping us so I'm straddling him, his cock still buried impossibly deep inside me. His hands grip my waist, lifting me before pulling me down hard onto his length.

"Ride me," he commands, his eyes dark with lust as they rake over my body. "Show me how much you want my cum."

I should resist, should refuse this active participation in my own surrender.

Instead, I find myself moving, rising and falling on his thick length, my hands bracing against his chest for leverage.

The new position allows me to take him even deeper, hitting places inside me that send sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.

"That's it," he encourages, one hand moving to where we're joined, his thumb finding my clit with unerring precision. "Take what's yours. Take all of me."

His other hand reaches for my breast, pinching my nipple just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my core.

The dual stimulation—his cock stretching me to my limits, his thumb circling my clit, his fingers tugging at my nipple—builds a pressure inside me that threatens to shatter me completely.

"I can feel how close you are," he says, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Your pussy's squeezing me like a vise. So fucking perfect. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my children."

These possessive declarations, combined with the relentless stimulation from everywhere his body touches mine, push me toward a second climax that builds with terrifying intensity.

When it breaks, it's even more powerful than the first—waves of pleasure so overwhelming that I throw my head back, a scream tearing from my throat as my entire body convulses around him.

With a final, shuddering push, he sinks into me fully, his body taut as warmth floods deep inside, marking the moment with trembling intensity. I can feel him pulsing, hot and thick, filling me with each spurt of his release.

"Take it all," he groans, grinding me against him to ensure his seed stays deep inside. "Every last drop. Going to keep you full of my cum until you're swollen with my child."

The sensation of his release, combined with his filthy words, prolongs my own pleasure—aftershocks rippling through my inner muscles as I collapse against his chest, completely spent.

For several long moments, we remain locked together, both breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sliding against skin. His arms wrap around me, keeping me pressed against him, his cock still half-hard inside me.

When he finally allows me to roll to the side, I expect him to release me. Instead, he pulls me against his chest, one hand possessively cupping my breast, the other sliding down to rest on my lower abdomen.

"Good morning," he says again, as if we'd just exchanged routine pleasantries rather than engaged in the most primal claiming possible. His hand strokes my stomach in slow circles, like he's already imagining it rounded with his child.

I remain silent, mind struggling to reconcile the intensity of physical pleasure with the emotional turmoil beneath it. My body feels thoroughly used, utterly satisfied in ways I've never experienced, while my thoughts race with confusion and reluctant awareness.

"Hungry?" he asks after a moment, his tone conversational, though his hand remains possessively on my stomach. "Madame Rousseau prepares an excellent breakfast."

The ordinariness of the question, the domestic normality it implies after what just transpired between us, finally breaks through my disorientation.

"Is that really what you want to talk about right now?" I ask, voice still rough from screaming his name. "Breakfast preferences?"