Page 39 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

The spell breaks, reality reasserting itself. I am still his wife by arrangement, still bound by legal documents and physical possession. This moment of shared appreciation changes nothing fundamental about our situation.

Yet as we move through Paris together, from museum to gallery, from historic church to hidden courtyard, I find myself observing him with new awareness.

Gage moves through the world with confident authority, yet there's genuine appreciation in his interaction with art and architecture.

He speaks knowledgeably about history and culture, revealing an education far broader than purely business-focused.

At lunch in a small bistro hidden from tourist paths, he watches me with evident pleasure as I taste wines selected specifically to pair with each course.

"You enjoy seeing me appreciate things," I observe during a momentary lull in conversation.

"I enjoy seeing you experience pleasure," he corrects, his gaze direct. "In all its forms."

Heat rises to my face at the deliberate double meaning. "Is that what this tour is about? Providing pleasure to make me more compliant?"

His expression hardens slightly. "Do you truly believe everything I do has manipulative intent? That I can't simply want to show my wife a city I appreciate?"

"I believe you acquired a wife through manipulation and coercion," I reply quietly. "So yes, I question the motivation behind subsequent actions."

He studies me for a long moment. "Fair enough," he concedes unexpectedly.

"Consider this, then—I want you to associate pleasure with our marriage.

Physical, aesthetic, intellectual pleasure.

Not solely to make you compliant, though that's certainly convenient, but because a marriage based entirely on obligation becomes tedious for both parties. "

The frank admission is oddly refreshing after weeks of careful phrases and strategic interactions. "At least you're honest about it."

"I've never lied to you, Penelope," he says, signaling for the check. "Withheld information, certainly. Operated strategically, of course. But never outright lied."

I consider this as we leave the restaurant, his hand settling at the small of my back with possessiveness. The distinction matters to him, I realize—this adherence to technical truth while manipulating circumstances to his advantage.

The afternoon continues our exploration of Paris, though with a more intimate understanding between us now. When his hand brushes mine, when his gaze lingers, when his voice drops to that timbre that sends shivers along my spine—I recognize the deliberate seduction for what it is.

And despite everything, I respond. My body leans into his touch, my pulse quickens at his proximity, my mind catalogues the breadth of his shoulders beneath tailored linen and the strength of his hands as they guide me through crowded streets.

By the time we return to the villa in early evening, physical awareness thrums between us like electrical current. Inside the entrance hall, he doesn't bother with pretense, pulling me against him as soon as the door closes.

"I've wanted you all day," he murmurs against my neck, hands already working at the buttons of my dress. "Watching you move through the city, knowing what's beneath these clothes, remembering how you feel around me."

I should resist. Should maintain some semblance of emotional distance even as my body surrenders. Instead, I find my hands reaching for him, unfastening his shirt with fingers that tremble slightly with urgency.

We don't make it to the bedroom. The entrance hall floor is marble, cool against my back as he takes me there, both still half-clothed in our hurry to connect. It's rough, urgent, primal—his control fraying as he drives into me with powerful thrusts that send me sliding against polished stone.

"Mine," he growls, hands pinning my wrists above my head. "Say it, Penelope. I need to hear it."

"Yours," I gasp, no longer certain if the admission is purely physical or something more complex. "I'm yours, Gage."

His response is a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, his movements becoming even more forceful, more demanding. When release claims us both, it's with an intensity that leaves me trembling, boneless against the cool floor.

Later, in our bed, he holds me with unexpected gentleness as twilight filters through gauzy curtains. His fingers trace patterns on my bare shoulder, his breathing steady against my back.

"What happens when we return to Chicago?" I ask finally, the question that's lingered beneath today's explorations.

His arms tighten slightly around me. "Our life begins."

The confidence should infuriate me.

"You're thinking too much," he observes, fingers brushing hair from my face.

"It's what I do," I reply.

"I know." He leans forward, pressing his lips to my forehead in a gesture almost tender. "It's one of many things I find fascinating about you."

Before I can respond to this unexpected admission, he shifts position, rolling me beneath him once more. "But right now," he continues, voice dropping to that timbre that sends heat pooling low in my abdomen, "I'd prefer you focus on feeling rather than thinking."

His mouth claims mine, ending conversation in favor of sensation. My body responds instantly, eagerly, to his skilled touch—arms winding around his neck, legs parting to welcome him between them.

For now, I allow myself this escape—this surrender to physical pleasure that temporarily quiets the conflict in my mind.