Page 38 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

His hand slides lower again, fingers dipping between my thighs to find the evidence of our coupling—his release mixed with my own wetness.

"Would you prefer to discuss how eagerly your body took mine?

How tightly you gripped me when I talked about putting a baby inside you?

How your thighs are still trembling from coming on my cock? "

Heat rushes to my face at his explicit description. "Stop."

"Reality makes you uncomfortable," he observes, not unkindly, as his fingers continue their gentle exploration. "But reality is what we have, Penelope. A marriage consummated thoroughly and enthusiastically, despite your mind's continued resistance."

"There was nothing enthusiastic about it," I lie, unable to meet his gaze.

"No?" His hand slides between us, fingers dipping between my thighs to find the evidence of my body's betrayal. "This suggests otherwise."

I push his hand away, finally extracting myself from his embrace to sit on the edge of the bed, back to him, suddenly acutely aware of my nakedness.

"I'll take breakfast on the terrace," I say stiffly, reaching for the robe draped across a nearby chair.

His hand on my shoulder stops me. "No hiding," he says firmly. "Not between us. Not anymore."

I turn to face him, finding his expression serious despite the intimacy we've just shared. "What exactly do you want from me, Gage? Beyond the obvious physical demands."

"Honesty," he replies without hesitation. "Acknowledge what exists between us, even if you resist it."

"What exists is a legal arrangement and physical compatibility," I say carefully. "Don't mistake one for the other."

"For now," he says finally, rising from the bed in one fluid movement. "The terrace, then. Thirty minutes?"

I nod, watching as he walks naked to the adjoining bathroom, completely unselfconscious in his magnificent physicality. When the door closes behind him, I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

The robe feels like armor when I finally pull it around my body—thin silk providing illusion of protection rather than actual coverage. I move to the window, looking out over Parisian gardens now bathed in full morning light.

My body thrums with lingering satisfaction, nerve endings still sensitive from his attentions. Whatever resistance my mind maintains, my physical response to Gage is undeniable—a chemistry that transcends the circumstances of our arrangement.

This, perhaps, is the most dangerous aspect of my captivity—not the legal bonds or physical restrictions, but the pleasure he can extract from my unwilling body. The possibility that, given enough time, the line between coercion and desire might blur beyond recognition.

Breakfast on the terrace feels surreal—fresh croissants, perfect coffee, fragrant flowers in crystal vases—all the trappings of honeymoon romance without the underlying emotional connection such displays typically represent.

Gage sits across from me, hair still damp from his shower, dressed casually in linen pants and a white shirt that emphasizes his tan. He reads news on his tablet while sipping coffee, the picture of domestic normality.

"The weather is ideal for exploring the city," he observes, setting aside the device to focus on me. "If you're interested."

The offer of leaving the villa takes me by surprise. "I thought we were confined to the property for the first week."

"Not confined," he corrects smoothly. "Privacy was arranged for your comfort, not to restrict movement. We can certainly venture out if you wish."

I consider the potential freedom, however limited, of exploring Paris rather than remaining within these beautiful walls. "I would like that," I admit.

He nods, apparently pleased by my answer. "We'll leave after breakfast. Any specific sights you'd like to visit?"

"The Musée de l'Orangerie," I say without hesitation, having long wanted to see Monet's water lilies in their oval galleries. "If possible."

"Of course." He makes a note on his phone. "I'll have the car brought around at ten."

We finish breakfast in relative silence, the tension between us neither exactly comfortable nor overtly hostile. When I rise to return to our suite and dress for the day, he catches my wrist gently.

"One request," he says, his thumb tracing circles on my pulse point. "Shower with me first."

It's not really a request, despite the phrasing. We both know this.

"All right," I agree, watching his eyes darken at my consent.

The bathroom is a marvel of marble and glass, the shower large enough for four people, with multiple heads and bench seating along one wall. Steam fills the space as Gage adjusts the temperature, the glass walls already beginning to fog.

He helps me out of the robe with deliberate movements, his eyes trailing over my body with unabashed appreciation.

"You're exquisite," he says simply, hands skimming my sides before turning me toward the shower.

Inside, warm water cascades from multiple directions, enveloping us in a private world of steam and sensation. Gage takes his time washing me, hands gliding soap-slicked across every inch of skin, paying special attention to places still sensitive from our earlier activities.

When his fingers slip between my thighs, I gasp despite myself, my body responding instantly to his touch.

"Still so responsive," he murmurs against my ear, pressing me against the cool tile wall. "So ready for me."

What follows is another claiming—less gentle than before, more urgent. My hands brace against marble as he takes me from behind, one arm wrapped around my waist to hold me steady against his forceful thrusts, the other hand working between my legs to ensure my pleasure.

Water cascades over us, washing away evidence of previous encounters only to create new ones. His groans echo off tile walls as my body welcomes him, accepts him, responds to him with embarrassing eagerness.

When we finally emerge, skin flushed from hot water and exertion, I feel marked by him in ways that transcend the visible. My reflection in the steamed mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—hair darkened by water, eyes bright with lingering pleasure, lips swollen from his kisses.

This is the woman the world will see today—Gage Blackwood's wife, physically satisfied if emotionally conflicted, moving through Paris on his arm as if she belongs there.

Paris unfolds around us like a dream—golden light on ancient buildings, narrow streets opening to unexpected vistas, the Seine flowing languidly beneath historic bridges. In the back of Gage's luxury car, I watch the city pass by the window, conscious of his hand resting casually on my knee.

"We'll start with l'Orangerie as requested," he says, checking his watch. "I've arranged private access before regular opening hours."

Of course he has. Nothing is impossible when you're Gage Blackwood—no door remains closed, no schedule can't be adjusted, no rules apply that he doesn't choose to acknowledge.

The museum is indeed empty when we arrive, a nervous curator greeting us at a side entrance with effusive welcome. Gage responds in flawless French, introducing me as his wife with casual possession that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

"This way, Madame Blackwood," the curator says, switching to English for my benefit.

The name still feels foreign—a label applied to a person I don't fully recognize. I follow without comment, aware of Gage's hand at the small of my back, guiding me through empty galleries toward the oval rooms housing Monet's masterpieces.

When we enter the first room, I stop involuntarily, breath catching at the immersive beauty of the enormous canvases. Water lilies stretch across curved walls, surrounding us completely, drawing the eye into painted depths that seem to continue infinitely.

For the first time since our arrival in Paris, I forget my circumstances completely—forget the legal bindings, the physical claims, the uncertain future. Art has always affected me deeply, and these paintings more than most, their tranquil beauty a balm to troubled minds.

I move slowly around the room, absorbing each panel, each subtle variation in color and texture. Gage remains a few paces behind, allowing me this moment of genuine appreciation without interruption.

"They're even more beautiful than I imagined," I say finally, unaware I've spoken aloud until Gage responds.

"The curved walls were Monet's idea," he says, stepping closer. "He wanted viewers surrounded by the paintings, immersed completely in his vision of serenity."

I glance at him, surprised by both the information and the evident appreciation in his voice. "You're familiar with his work?"

"My mother was an admirer," he explains. "She had several smaller Monet pieces in her personal collection."

This glimpse of Gage's background—of the woman who shaped him before her untimely death—catches me off guard. It's the third mention of his mother since our arrival in Paris, all without my prompting. Significant, though I'm not yet sure how.

We move to the second oval room, equally breathtaking in different hues. Here, Gage stands beside me rather than behind, our shoulders nearly touching as we observe the paintings together.

"What do you see in them?" he asks unexpectedly.

I consider the question honestly. "Peace," I say finally. "A moment of perfect stillness captured forever. The artist's vision of paradise preserved for others to experience."

He nods thoughtfully. "My mother said something similar. That Monet painted not just water lilies, but the silence between heartbeats."

The poetic description surprises me, revealing a sensitivity I wouldn't have associated with the calculated businessman I've come to know.

"She sounds like a remarkable woman," I offer carefully.

"She was," he agrees, his expression softening momentarily before returning to its usual controlled neutrality. "We should continue if you want to see the Jeu de Paume before lunch."