His fountain pen clattered onto the desk, the sound stark in the thick silence that followed. Linnea's skin hummed, the ink feeling like a brand, a cold, possessive claim she could feel with every shaky breath. Her gaze remained fixed on the dark, shimmering reflection of the word on the desk's surface.
Mine.
Chase's hand, the one that had so precisely marked her, now closed around her upper arm. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was absolute, a steel band of intent that brooked no argument. He guided her up from her knees, her legs trembling with a confusing mix of weakness and fire.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. He didn't point to a chair. He guided her toward his own imposing leather chair behind the desk. He sat first, pulling her down onto his lap. The position was shockingly intimate, her back pressed against the solid wall of his chest, her legs dangling over his.
He turned the chair, forcing her to face the wall of windows. The Seattle skyline sprawled before them, a panorama of glittering towers and dull grey sky. She was on display, a doll positioned for his viewing pleasure.
"Look out there," he murmured, his lips so close to her ear she could feel the warmth of his breath on her sensitive skin. It was a stark contrast to the chill of the window glass she was nearly pressed against. "All those people. All that ambition. None of it matters right now."
His hands settled on her waist, his thumbs making slow, absent circles on the thin fabric of her blouse. The gesture was almost soothing, a dire contradiction to the tension coiling in her belly."From this moment on," he whispered, the words a soft, dark promise delivered directly into her ear, "you are my woman."
Linnea's breath caught in her throat. The declaration was so bald, so arrogant, it should have made her seethe. Instead, a treacherous thrill, hot and liquid, shot through her.
He must have felt the tiny jolt that went through her because his voice turned even colder, clarifying the terms. "I want this to be perfectly clear in that clever little head of yours. This isn't romance. I don't do poetry and flowers. I don't believe in that shit. This is about possession. You're a complication I've decided to acquire. A beautiful, infuriating complication that belongs to me."
His hands slid from her waist, around to her stomach, his palms flat against her. One hand splayed possessively over the word he'd written, as if sealing it into her flesh. The other hand drifted lower, over the fine wool of her pencil skirt, coming to rest high on her thigh.
"Touch yourself," he said, the command delivered as casually as if he'd asked for a spreadsheet.A shocked gasp escaped her. "What?"
"You heard me, woman." The new nickname was a deliberate dismissal of her name, her title, her identity outside this room. It reduced her to what she was in this moment: his. "I want to watch. Show me what you do when you're alone. Show me what's mine."
His finger traced the hem of her skirt, a silent reinforcement of the order. Humiliation warred with a dark, rising need. Her fingers, trapped in her lap, felt clumsy and foreign. This was madness. This was degradation.
And yet, her body was betraying her, a warm, heavy ache beginning to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. The cold, indifferent glass in front of her, the teeming city oblivious below, the hard strength of the man behind her—it all coalesced into a terrifyingly potent aphrodisiac.
Slowly, hesitantly, she brought a hand to the buttons of her blouse. Her fingers fumbled, the simple task suddenly Herculean.
"Not there," he corrected, his voice chillingly patient. "Lower."
Her hand stilled. She closed her eyes, shutting out the vastness of the city. This was the price. This was the real sealing of the deal. With a shuddering inhalation, she let her hand drift down, over the skirt, her palm pressing against the aching warmth he'd instructed her to ignore.
A soft sound, half gasp, half moan, escaped her as her own touch sent a jolt through her system. She felt him shift behind her, his arousal a firm pressure against her back. His lips returned to her ear.
"That's it," he encouraged, his tone devoid of warmth but full of dark approval. "Just like that. Let me see."
He moved again, his own hands gripping her hips. In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted her slightly and pressed her forward, until her upper body was flush against the cold, unyielding window pane. The shock of the temperature against her feverish skin made her gasp. Her cheek was against the glass, her own hot breath fogging a small circle on its surface. Below, the world continued, unknowing.
He held her there, pinned between the icy window and the heat of his body. His voice was a gravelly whisper against her ear, laced with a possessiveness that carved its way deep into her soul.
"Look at them," he growled. "And know that you are up here. With me. Mine."
His hand covered hers on the glass, not to guide it, but to feel her movement, to feel the desperate, circling pressure she was applying to herself through the fabric. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold glass, the rough texture of her skirt, the firm pressure of his hand on top of hers, and the relentless, building tension coiling tighter and tighter within her.
She was adrift in a sea of sensation, her mind going quiet, all her sharp observations and professional defenses melting under the brutal, focused intensity of his will. He was mapping her every reaction, learning the rhythms of her pleasure with the detached focus of a strategist studying a battlefield.
His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the shell of her ear before his voice, dark and laced with a thrilling promise of more, whispered his next command.
