Page 40 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he Chicago skyline materializes through the airplane window, familiar skyscrapers reaching toward clouds tinged pink with approaching sunset. After two weeks in Paris, the city looks simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar, like a dream half-remembered upon waking.

I sit beside Gage in the private jet, hands folded in my lap, wedding ring catching the fading light.

My body bears invisible marks from our honeymoon—places claimed and reclaimed daily, sometimes hourly, by the man who now legally owns me.

The man who spent fourteen days methodically dismantling my resistance through relentless physical pleasure.

"Home," Gage says, his hand settling over mine with casual possession.

The word carries weight I can't quite process. Home had been my apartment above Wildflower, the shop I built, the life I created. Now home is wherever Gage Blackwood decides to place me.

"The staff has prepared the east wing suite for us," he continues, scrolling through messages on his tablet. "You'll find your personal items have been transferred from your previous rooms."

I nod, the gesture automatic now. Two weeks of Paris have taught me the value of strategically chosen battles, of conserving energy rather than wasting it on futile resistance.

"Your first official appearance as Mrs. Blackwood is scheduled for Friday," he adds, setting aside the tablet to focus on me. "The Children's Hospital fundraiser. Black tie, significant press coverage."

"I remember," I say, maintaining the neutral tone I've perfected.

He studies me with that assessing gaze, searching for cracks in the compliant facade I've constructed. "You've been... oddly compliant since Paris."

The observation carries unstated question. I meet his gaze directly, revealing nothing. "I'm practical, as you've often noted."

His lips curve slightly. "Indeed."

The plane touches down with barely a tremor, the pilot's voice announcing our arrival through the cabin speakers. Within minutes, we're transferring to the waiting car, Victor opening doors with practiced efficiency, staff loading luggage under his watchful direction.

Chicago flows past the window as we drive toward the estate.

The estate appears exactly as we left it, manicured perfection maintained by invisible hands. Mrs. Henderson waits at the entrance, warmth in her greeting as she welcomes us home, informs us dinner will be served at seven, asks if we require anything after our journey.

Gage's hand settles at the small of my back as we climb the stairs—that familiar possessive gesture now so routine I barely register it. The east wing suite proves larger than my previous accommodations, decorated in subtle shades of blue and cream.

My clothing hangs in walk-in closets, organized by type and color. My toiletries rest on marble counters in the bathroom. My grandmother's pendant sits in a velvet-lined drawer of the jewelry box on the dressing table.

Everything arranged with meticulous attention, everything selected and placed according to Gage's specifications.

"Does the arrangement suit you?" Gage asks, watching me survey the space that will now be our shared domain.

"It's beautiful," I reply honestly. The suite is objectively stunning, its luxury beyond anything I might have selected for myself but tasteful rather than ostentatious.

"Your studio has been prepared in the south conservatory," he adds, moving to open doors that reveal a spacious balcony overlooking the gardens. "Supplies delivered yesterday, workspace arranged according to specifications from your previous setup."

The consideration catches me off-guard despite similar gestures throughout our honeymoon.

"Thank you," I say, the words emerging with unexpected sincerity.

His lips curved in that dangerous almost-smile. "I do try, wife."

Wife. The word still felt foreign, a role I'd been forced into but was now performing with increasing conviction.

"Paris changed nothing," I said, needing to remind us both of reality even as my body leaned toward his.

"Didn't it?" His hand came up to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip. "Your body seems to disagree."

Before I could form a retort, his mouth captured mine in a kiss that held nothing back. Gone was the calculated restraint he'd shown in the early days of our arrangement. This was pure possession, hungry and demanding.

My hands flew to his shoulders, whether to push him away or pull him closer, I couldn't say. But when his tongue slid against mine, tasting of the champagne we'd shared on the private jet, my fingers curled into the expensive fabric of his suit.

"I've been thinking about this since we boarded the plane," he growled against my lips, hands sliding down to grip my hips. "About getting you home, about claiming what's mine."

"I'm not—" I began, the familiar protest dying as his teeth scraped the sensitive skin of my neck.

"Not what?" His voice was dangerously soft as his fingers worked the buttons of my blouse. "Not mine? Your body knows better, Penelope."

My head fell back against the wall as his mouth traced a burning path along my collarbone. "We already had sex today," I managed.

"I don’t care." The words brooked no argument. "I want you again. Now."

His hands pushed my blouse from my shoulders, leaving me in the lace bra he'd selected in Paris—black, delicate, barely containing my breasts. The cool air against my heated skin made me shiver, but not nearly as much as the intensity in his gaze as he took in the sight of me.

"Perfect," he murmured, one finger tracing the edge of lace, dipping beneath to brush against my nipple. "Every inch of you. Mine to touch. Mine to taste."

My breath caught as he unhooked the bra with practiced ease, letting it fall to the marble floor. His mouth replaced his fingers, hot and demanding against my sensitive skin. I couldn't stop the moan that escaped my lips or the way my back arched, pressing me more firmly against him.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, hands sliding up my thighs, bunching my skirt around my waist. "I want to hear you say it."

"You know what I want," I whispered, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of begging.

His fingers traced the edge of my panties, teasing but not giving me what we both knew I needed. "Say it, Penelope."

"Touch me," I finally gasped, hating my weakness but unable to resist. "Please."

The victorious gleam in his eyes should have infuriated me. Instead, it sent another wave of heat through my core. He hooked his fingers in the delicate lace of my underwear and tore—the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the silent bedroom.

"I'll buy you more," he said dismissively when I gasped in surprise.

Then his fingers were where I needed them, sliding through the evidence of my arousal with confident precision. My head fell back against the wall again as he worked me with deliberate strokes, building tension with practiced skill.

"So wet for me already," he observed, voice rough with desire. "So ready to take my cock. Tell me, wife—is this the response of a woman who doesn't want what I'm giving her?"

I couldn't answer, couldn't form words as his fingers circled my clit with devastating accuracy. My hips moved of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"Answer me," he demanded, slowing his movements to an agonizing tease.

"No," I admitted through clenched teeth. "You know it's not."

His smile was triumphant as he slid two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that spot that made my vision blur. "See? Honesty isn't so difficult."

I might have hated him in that moment if my body hadn't been so desperately craving his. The sound of his zipper lowering sent another rush of wetness between my thighs, my inner muscles clenching in anticipation.

In one swift movement, he lifted me, pinning me against the wall with his body. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the position opening me completely to him.

"Look at me," he commanded as he positioned himself at my entrance. "I want to see your eyes when I take what's mine."

I forced my gaze to his, defiance mingling with desire. The head of his cock teased my sensitive flesh, thick and hot and promising pleasure I'd come to crave despite myself.

"Say you want this," he demanded, pushing just slightly inside, enough to make me gasp but not enough to satisfy.

"I want this," I whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. "I want you."

With a growl of satisfaction, he thrust forward, filling me completely in one powerful stroke. My nails dug into his shoulders, the sensation of fullness overwhelming.

"Christ, you're perfect," he groaned, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in. "Made for me. Made to take me."

His pace was relentless, each thrust driving me higher, the angle ensuring he hit that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids. The wall behind me was cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat where our bodies joined.

"Mine," he growled with each thrust, the word a possession and a promise. "Say it, Penelope. Tell me who you belong to."

I tried to resist, to hold onto some shred of defiance, but my body betrayed me utterly. "Yours," I gasped as pleasure coiled tighter in my core. "I'm yours, Gage."

His rhythm faltered at my admission, his control fraying. One hand slid between us, finding my clit with unerring precision, circling in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he demanded, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Let me feel you fall apart around my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pressure inside me pushed me over the edge. Release crashed through me like a tidal wave, my body clenching around him, waves of pleasure so intense I cried out his name.

He slams into me one last time, muscles locking as thick, hot release pours into me, each pulse sending a jolt through my core.