Page 28 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)

"This could work," Dominic says, surveying the plans taking shape before us. His voice holds a note of wonder, as if he's glimpsing a future he never allowed himself to imagine.

"It could," I agree, equally surprised by how seamlessly our professional approaches have merged.

" We could work." He looks up, meeting my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath.

The simple statement carries a weight that instantly shifts the atmosphere. The professional electricity that has been building all afternoon transforms into something more primal and untamed.

Feral.

One moment, we’re colleagues reviewing production forecasts; the next, I’m gasping into his mouth as he drags me into his lap, sending a blizzard of papers fluttering to the floor.

"Elena," he breathes, my name a demand and a vow. "I’m not letting you go."

I answer with my mouth, teeth grazing his lower lip, fingers threading through his thick hair as his hands disappear beneath my sweater. No patience now. No restraint. Just raw need, finally unshackled.

We don’t make it to the bedroom. Dominic doesn’t use beds for this.

No, we take the floor of his office, scattering notes on vintages and yield projections, reducing meticulous planning to forgotten clutter.

He lays me down like a possession, body heavy and urgent above me.

This isn't the slow seduction of our first night.

This is hunger breaking loose.

Clothes vanish. His belt flies. My skirt tears. He doesn't ask permission, but his eyes lock on mine as he pushes inside me with a groan that seems to scrape from somewhere deep in his chest. I cry out, hips rising to meet him, the stretch of him so perfect it almost hurts.

His rhythm is merciless, and I take every brutal thrust like my body was made for him. Fingers dig into my hips, anchoring me, branding me. I meet every stroke with equal fervor, letting go of decorum, letting go of everything but this.

"Look at me," he commands, voice hoarse. "I want to see you break."

And I do. Shattering on a cry, clenching around him as he follows me over the edge with a strangled curse. We cling to each other, trembling, breath sawing in and out, a tangle of sweat-slick limbs and wild heartbeats.

Dominic whispers my name like a prayer as we move together, his eyes never leaving mine, creating an intimacy more profound than the physical joining of our bodies.

I'm not normally vocal during lovemaking, but something about his focus, his absolute presence in the moment, breaks through my restraint. I let him hear exactly what he does to me, how completely he unmoors me from my carefully constructed control.

For a moment, all is still. My head rests on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. The scent of sex clings to us, rich and raw. His fingers trace idle patterns on my back. Papers crinkle beneath us like some ironic reminder of where this began.

"I didn't intend for that to happen," Dominic murmurs against my hair as we lie tangled together, catching our breath. "Though I can't say I regret it."

"That was..." I start, but words evade me.

"Urgent," he finishes, a smile in his voice. "But not what I had in mind."

I lift onto my elbow, meeting his gaze. "Oh?"

The heat in his eyes doesn't fade. It darkens. Focuses. My breath catches.

"What I want to show you requires a proper setting," he says, voice dropping an octave. "And time."

I shiver, pulse quickening again. "I’m not going anywhere."

He rises in a fluid motion, pulling me with him. He grabs his discarded shirt and slips it over my shoulders, the fabric falling to mid-thigh, soft and warm with his body heat. Somehow, it feels more intimate than being naked.

"Good," he murmurs, brushing his thumb across my cheek. "Because I want to teach you about surrender."

I try for levity. "I think I surrendered pretty thoroughly."

His smile is slow and dangerous. "That was mutual pleasure. What I’m talking about is different." His eyes hold mine, steel and silk. "It’s about trust. Letting go completely."

"Show me." Instead of fear, a strange, heady anticipation floods me.

He leads me into the main living area, dominated by a massive stone hearth. The fire is down to embers, but he rekindles it quickly, the flames casting flickering amber light that dances across the room.

"Wait here," he says, voice edged in command that makes my knees weak and my skin prickle in anticipation .

He disappears, then returns with a length of black silk, a satin blindfold, and a small leather paddle. My breath hitches.

"We don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with," he says, his voice gentler now. "This is about pleasure. Expanding what you think you know about yourself."

"What do I do?"

"Surrender."

"I don’t know what that means."

"You give me the power to do whatever I want to do. It’s as simple as you letting me tell you what to do, and you doing it."

"Whatever you want?"

"That’s where surrender and trust come in. Do you trust me?"

"I trust you," I say, surprised by how deeply I mean it.

"Good." His smile grows. "But we need a word. Something to stop everything immediately if you need it."

"Forecast," I say after a beat. The word feels absurdly clinical and somehow perfect.

He chuckles. "Perfect. Say it if you need to. That’s part of the trust."

My throat tightens with anticipation. He steps closer.

"Take off the shirt," he murmurs. "Slowly."

It's strange—we just had sex on his office floor, yet this feels more exposed. I unbutton his shirt, hyperaware of his gaze. There's no fumbling, no rush. Each movement becomes a performance under his watchful eyes.

When I stand naked before him, the firelight casting golden patterns across my skin, he circles me, not touching, just looking. I resist the urge to cover myself.

"Kneel," he commands. "Hands behind your back."

The command does something to me, something strange. Exciting.

I comply, the soft wool against my knees, the heat of the fire warming my front while my back remains cool. He stands over me, still partially clothed, an imbalance of power made physical that sends an unexpected thrill through me.

The rug is soft beneath my knees. The heat from the fire kisses my skin, but my back chills in the air. I obey, my breath shallow and unsure.

"Sex is the one place adults can truly play," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate in my chest. "Where we can explore parts of ourselves society tells us to keep hidden."

He kneels behind me, his chest against my back, his lips at my ear. "Do you know why people surrender control, Elena?"

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

"You spend your life in control," he murmurs, lips at my ear.

"In work. In expectations. Holding onto control all the time is exhausting.

" His fingers trace my spine, feather-light.

"In the boardroom, in your career, you're always the one making decisions, bearing responsibility.

" His hand slides around to cup my throat, not squeezing, just resting there.

"I'm offering you a gift—the freedom to feel without thinking. I’m going to bind your wrists.

" Silk brushes my wrists. "Still with me? "

"Yes."

He binds my wrists with reverent care, snug but not painful.

"Try to get free."

I twist my wrists, testing the bonds. They hold firm.

"Good," he murmurs, and the approval in his voice sends warmth flooding through me. "Now for your eyes."

The blindfold comes next, soft satin blocking out the firelight, intensifying every other sensation—the heat on my skin, the wool beneath my knees, the sound of his breathing, the scent of sandalwood and smoke.

"When we remove one sense," Dominic explains, his voice now coming from somewhere in front of me, "the others heighten. When we remove control..." His fingers brush my cheek unexpectedly, making me gasp. "Pleasure intensifies."

He moves around me, never touching for long enough for me to anticipate his next move.

A touch brushes my thigh. Then another at my collarbone.

The leather paddle skims my flank. A brush of his fingers on my shoulder.

The warmth of his breath at my nape. The lightest trace of what must be the leather paddle along my thigh.

"I'm going to touch you," he says. "And sometimes, I'm going to strike you lightly, just enough to wake up your nerve endings. If you don't like something, say 'yellow' and I'll adjust. If you want to stop completely?—"

"Forecast," I whisper.

"Good Girl."

Two simple words that somehow set my body on fire. I've never considered myself submissive—quite the opposite. I'm the one in charge, the decisive one. Yet hearing him call me 'good girl' makes me melt.

The first touch is his hand, smoothing over my hair, down my back. Gentle. Almost reverent. Then it’s gone.

I wait, breath held, for the next contact. When it comes, it's the paddle—a light tap against the curve of my bottom, barely more than a pat. Not painful, just surprising. The next is firmer, creating a warm bloom of sensation that spreads under my skin.

"Breathe," he reminds me, and I realize I've been holding my breath.

I inhale deeply, and as I exhale, the paddle connects again—a perfect counterpoint that somehow amplifies the sensation. He establishes a rhythm—unpredictable enough to keep me alert, consistent enough to build a rising tide of sensation.

Between strikes, his hands soothe and explore, finding places I didn't know could be so responsive.

I moan. I plead. I feel everything.

Time vanishes.

"How do you feel?" he asks after what could be minutes or hours.

"Alive," I whisper, startled by the raw honesty in my voice. "Every nerve ending is awake."

"That’s the point." He presses a kiss to my shoulder.

He unties the blindfold, and the firelight seems impossibly bright after the darkness. His face comes into focus, eyes dark with desire but watchful, assessing my reactions with careful attention.

"Still with me?"