The first thing Ariyah became aware of was warmth. A solid, heavy warmth wrapped around her middle, anchoring her to the world. Then came the scent sandalwood, clean cotton, and something uniquely, musky male that was now inextricably linked to safety and sin.
Memory returned not with a jolt, but with a slow, delicious flood. The hallway. The kiss on her palm. The shattered look in his eyes. The feel of silk ripping. The burn, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of him moving inside her. The way he'd roared her name as he fell apart.
She kept her eyes closed, savoring the echo of it in her sore, well-used muscles. His arm was a possessive band across her bare stomach, his hand splayed wide, fingers curled slightly as if even in sleep he was claiming her. His chest was a solid wall of heat at her back, his breathing deep and even against her hair.
A smile touched her lips. She had done it. She had walked through the door and taken what she wanted. What they both wanted.
Wayne's POV
He woke to the feel of her, soft and pliant in his arms. For a disorienting second, he thought it was another one of the vivid, torturous dreams that had haunted him for two years. Then the reality seeped in the scent of her skin and their lovemaking, the silken weight of her hair against his chin, the perfect curve of her hip under his palm.
Peace, profound and unfamiliar, washed over him. Then, a sharp, protective terror.
I can never go back. I will never let her go.
His eyes opened, adjusting to the grey Parisian dawn filtering through the windows. His gaze fell on the side of her neck, where a dark, vivid mark stood out against her brown skin his brand. A fierce, primal satisfaction surged, followed immediately by a flicker of shame. He'd marked her. He'd lost control.
He shifted slightly, lifting his hand from her stomach to trace the edge of the bruise with the very tip of his finger. A feather-light touch, full of awe and apology.
She stirred, a soft sigh escaping her. She turned her head on the pillow, her sleepy, golden-brown eyes finding his. There was no fear in them. No regret. Just a deep, sated warmth that made his heart clench violently in his chest.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice raspy from sleep and last night's cries.
He couldn't speak. Words felt too crude, too small for what was swelling inside him. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead, a kiss of such quiet reverence it felt like a sacrament. When he pulled back, he saw her smile widen.
"Coffee," he finally managed, his own voice gravel. "You should have coffee."
He extracted himself from the tangle of her limbs and the sheets, feeling exposed in the cool air. He pulled on a pair of discarded trousers and padded, barefoot and bare-chested, to the suite's kitchen. The act of measuring grounds, starting the machine, felt surreal. He was Wayne Collins, and he was making coffee for his wife, who was naked and warm in his bed because she had chosen to be.
When he returned with two steaming cups, she had sat up, the sheet pooled around her waist. The morning light gilded her shoulders, her breasts, the beautiful, confident slope of her back. She took the mug from him, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
They drank in a silence that was no longer tense, but thick with a new, intimate awareness. Every glance, every shift of the sheets, was a conversation.
"Are you…" he started, then cleared his throat. "Are you… alright?"
She knew what he meant. Not just 'how did you sleep,' but 'did I hurt you, did I take too much, was it what you wanted.'
She set her mug down and reached for him. Her hand was warm on his stubbled cheek. "I'm perfect," she said, and he believed her.
The day dissolved into a lazy, syrupy stream of time. They didn't leave the apartment. They ordered food that arrived and was forgotten. They talked.
Wrapped in matching monogrammed robes, they sat on the vast sofa overlooking the city. He told her about being eight years old, hiding in his father's library with a book of architectural drawings, dreaming of building things that soared, not just bank accounts. She told him about her first heartbreak at sixteen, a boy who hadn't understood her fire, and how her grandfather had taken her for ice cream and told her to never apologize for it.
The conversation, inevitably, circled back to the charged space between them.
"Last night…" Ariyah began, tracing the edge of her robe's silk belt. She chose her words with deliberate care. "It was… intense. More than I imagined." She looked up at him, her gaze direct. "I've always thought that the most powerful intimacies live in contrasts. The friction between strength and surrender. The beauty of absolute trust within… absolute control."
She watched him. He had gone very still, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. The relaxed ease of the morning vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused tension. His blue eyes locked on hers, searching, probing for her true meaning.
Wayne's POV
Her words were a key sliding into a lock he'd thought permanently sealed. Absolute trust within absolute control. It was a near-perfect description of the secret hunger he'd carried, a language he'd never dared hope to speak.
He set his cup down with a soft click. The noise was loud in the silent room. His heart was a drum against his ribs. This was a vulnerability greater than nakedness.
"I have…" he started, his voice low. He had to force the words out, each one a risk. "Objects. In my study. At home. They are… beautifully made. Engineered. I acquired them years ago, appreciating the… craftsmanship." He was faltering, the businessman unable to articulate the heart of it. He took a breath, looked down at his hands, then back into her fearless, curious eyes. "I never imagined showing them to anyone. The idea of sharing that… particular language… with you terrifies me."
It was the most honest confession of his life.
Ariyah's POV
His admission hung in the air, precious and fragile. She saw not a titan of industry, but a man afraid of his own shadow, offering her the blueprint to his deepest self. The power of that trust was dizzying.
She didn't smile, didn't rush to reassure him. She treated the moment with the gravity it deserved. She simply nodded, once. "I understand."
The afternoon melted into evening. They shared a bath in the deep, marble tub, the warm water easing her soreness, his hands soaping her back with a tenderness that made her throat tight. Afterward, wrapped in towels, he led her not to the bed, but to the sitting area of his bedroom.
From his wardrobe, he retrieved not the titanium cuffs she knew existed, but a simple, exquisite tie of midnight-blue silk. He held it in his hands, running the fabric through his fingers.
"Tonight," he said, his voice calm but layered with a new, quiet authority that made her skin prickle with anticipation, "we play a game. There is only one rule. One word: 'Rouge.' Red. You say it, and everything stops. Instantly. Always. Do you understand?"
The French word, spoken in his low baritone, was impossibly erotic. She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. "I understand."
"Your safe word is 'Rouge.' Now, give me your hands."
She extended her wrists to him, her pulse fluttering visibly at the delicate skin. He didn't grab them. He took them gently, turning them palm-up. He brought first one, then the other, to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to each inner wrist, right over the frantic beat of her heart. The gesture was so tender it brought tears to her eyes.
Then, with deliberate, meticulous slowness, he began to wrap the silk tie around her wrists. He looped it, crossed it, creating a firm but not painful binding. His focus was absolute, his fingers sure and careful. He wasn't restraining a prisoner; he was creating a ritual.
When he was done, her wrists were bound together, the dark silk a stark contrast against her skin. He held the loose ends, not as a leash, but as a connection.
"Stand up," he murmured.
She did. He guided her to stand before the full-length mirror. He stood behind her, a tall, powerful shadow, his hands settling on her bare shoulders. She was clad only in her towel, her wrists bound before her.
"Look," he commanded softly.
She looked. The woman in the mirror had wild, damp curls, flushed skin, and eyes dark with a mixture of nervousness and raw excitement. The silk tie was a beautiful, shocking violation. And the man behind her… his gaze was hot, possessive, and utterly captivated.
"This is about focus," he whispered in her ear, his breath stirring her hair. "About sensation. About trust." He took the ends of the tie and gently guided her bound hands up, placing them on her own shoulders. "Touch yourself."
Her eyes flew to his in the mirror. His held a challenge and a promise.
Slowly, she let her bound hands slide down her own arms, feeling the difference the constraint made every movement was slower, more deliberate, more noticed. He watched, his eyes following her every move.
Then his own hands joined. He would guide her bound hands to trace the line of her collarbone, to cup the weight of her own breast. He would interlace his fingers with hers and bring their joined, bound hands down her stomach. It was an exquisite, maddening dance of control and participation. She was both actor and instrument, and he was the composer, directing a symphony of touch solely for her pleasure.
When he finally led her to the bed and began to love her, it was unlike anything before. It was slow, agonizingly deliberate. Every kiss, every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his hips was magnified by the knowledge that her hands were bound, that she had willingly given him this control. He used the tie to adjust her position, to angle her hips, his focus entirely on her responses, on drawing out every shiver, every gasp.
The climax, when it came, was not a violent shattering, but a deep, rolling wave of pleasure so intense it felt spiritual. She cried out, her bound hands clutching at the sheets, her body bowing against his. He followed her over, his release a quiet, shuddering groan against her throat, as if even in his own ecstasy, he was listening for her.
Afterward, he moved immediately. He untied the silk with the same care he'd used to bind her, kissing each wrist as he freed it. He pulled her into his arms, her back to his chest, and held her.
"Color?" he asked, his voice rough against her ear. It was the safety check-in.
She turned in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest, right over his pounding heart. "Vert," she whispered. Green.
A tremor went through him. He buried his face in her hair. That single word, her safe, willing 'green,' felt like the greatest victory of his life.
Later, in the deep quiet of the night, the real world began to whisper at the edges of their paradise.
"Wayne?" Her voice was small in the dark.
"Hmm?"
"The will. The… heir clause."
He tensed, the old specter rising between them. Then he forced himself to relax, pulling her tighter against him. "What about it?"
"We should talk about it. On our terms. Not the lawyers', not our families'. Ours."
He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was fierce, absolute. "I don't want a child from you because a piece of paper demands it, Ariyah. I want a family with you because we demand it of each other. The clause is noise. Our timeline, our reasons, are ours alone. It is a want, not an obligation. Do you understand the difference?"
Tears of relief and joy stung her eyes. He had reframed their entire future with a single sentence. "Yes," she breathed. "I understand."
On their last morning in Paris, they dressed to go out. He zipped up her simple, elegant dress, his fingers lingering on the nape of her neck. She turned and straightened his tie, her hands steady, her gaze soft.
They looked at themselves in the mirror together the powerful tycoon and his brilliant, beautiful wife. But the reflection had changed. The cold alliance was gone. In its place stood partners. Lovers. A team, secretly forged in fire and silk, bound by a trust deeper than any contract.
As they stepped out of the apartment building into the Parisian sun, his hand found hers. Not for the cameras there were none. Not for show. He laced his fingers through hers, a simple, solid connection.
The honeymoon was ending. But their marriage, their real, messy, passionate marriage, was just beginning. They were returning home no longer as strangers in a deal, but as a united front, ready to face whatever and whoever awaited them. Together.