Page 9 of Bound

“You thought about that.”

“I think about everything that touches you.”

“Obsessive.”

“Yes.”

“Unhealthy.”

“Yes.”

“Us,” she says.

She looks around again. Her fingers trail over the back of the chaise, pressing into the velvet. “It’s beautiful.”

I feel a thrill at the word, hating how much of me is kneeling invisibly at her feet, waiting for approval.

“Everything in this room is yours,” I say.

Her gaze cuts to mine. “Mine?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

I step inside and close the door behind us. Her pulse jumps at the base of her throat, a sign she can’t control. She’s always putting on a brave face, her pride in the way.

She never fooled me, anyway. Not even the first night I met her.

A thread of the animal I was before I met her still exists. In this room, it can prowl freely.

Erin walks deeper into the room, pretending curiosity is stronger than nerves. She touches nothing directly except fabric. Velvet. Silk. The edge of the cabinet. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are too bright.

She likes it. She’s afraid to like it. She’s worried she’s too innocent for this, for us.

For me.

I worry I’ve stepped over her invisible line. As much as she talks about me having one, hers is electrified.

This is familiar ground for us.

Finally, she stares at me. “You may have had the workforce to have this built last night. But you couldn’t have designed it as well. You were watching me sleep all night.”

“I was,” I admit.

“You planned this before Iceland.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze narrows. “Before Red Shutters?”

“Yes.”

Her hand drops to her side. “Why?”

I move toward her. “Yes.”

She turns, pressing her back against a cabinet.