The penthouse feels different when I know he's coming.
It's 8 PM. I've been here for three days now, and each night I've been alone. Dominic texts constantly—checking on me, asking what I need, reminding me he's thinking about me—but he hasn't actually come to the penthouse.
Until tonight.
Dominic: I'm coming over. I need to see you.
Me: It's late. Don't you have an early meeting tomorrow?
Dominic: I don't care. I haven't touched you in three days. I'm going insane.
My stomach flips. The raw honesty in his words does something to me—makes me feel wanted in a way that's almost overwhelming.
Me: The door code is...?
Dominic: I own the building, Bella. I don't need a code.
Right. Of course he doesn't.
I look around at the penthouse. I'm wearing his t-shirt—found it in the drawer, put it on without thinking. It smells like him. Like that cologne that's been driving me crazy for three years.
I should change. Should put on something appropriate. Should prepare for this like it's a business meeting instead of—
The elevator dings.
He's here.
Dominic steps out of the elevator carrying takeout bags and a bottle of wine that probably costs more than my monthly rent used to.
He's still in his work clothes—dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. He looks exhausted and tense and absolutely magnetic.
His eyes scan me from head to toe, lingering on the t-shirt.
"That's mine." His voice is rougher than usual.
"I found it in the drawer. I can change—"
"Don't." He sets the bags and wine on the kitchen counter, never breaking eye contact. "Don't change. Don't move. Just... let me look at you for a second."
I stand frozen as he drinks me in—bare legs, his oversized shirt, my hair loose around my shoulders. The intensity in his gaze makes me feel more exposed than if I were actually naked.
"Three days." He walks toward me slowly. "Three days of maintaining professional distance. Of pretending you're just my assistant. Of not being able to touch you the way I want to."
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.
"I'm done pretending." His hand reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek. "At least here. In private. When it's just us."
"Dominic—"
"I brought dinner." His thumb traces my lower lip. "Chinese. Your favorite. The place on Fifth Street that you mentioned once six months ago that you love but never have time to go to."
He remembered. Of course he remembered. He remembers everything about me.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." His hand slides down to my neck, his thumb resting against my pulse point. "I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to see you in my space, wearing my clothes, waiting for me."
The possessiveness in his words should bother me. Instead, it makes warmth spread through my chest.
"Are you going to feed me, or are you just going to stand there being intense?" I try to inject some lightness into the moment.
His smile is slow and devastating. "Both."
We eat at the kitchen island—him on one side, me on the other—but even this simple act feels intimate with Dominic.
He watches me eat like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. His eyes track every movement—the way I use chopsticks, the way I close my eyes when I taste something good, the way I wipe my mouth with a napkin.
"You're staring." I keep my voice light.
"I'm memorizing." His response is completely serious. "Every expression. Every reaction. I want to remember what you look like when you're relaxed. When you're not worried about HR or Marcus or what people think."
"And what do I look like?"
"Beautiful." He says it simply, like it's an obvious fact. "More beautiful than you were with him because you're not performing anymore. You're just... you."
The compliment hits differently than others. It's not about my appearance—it's about him seeing something deeper.
"Tell me about your day," he says, pouring wine into glasses that appeared from somewhere. "The real version. Not the professional summary."
"It was..." I pause, considering. "Lonely. The penthouse is beautiful, but it's big. Empty. I kept expecting someone to walk through the door, but no one did."
"I should have come sooner." His expression shifts—something almost vulnerable breaking through. "I wanted to. But I thought you might need space to adjust."
"I've had three days of space." I meet his eyes. "I don't want more space, Dominic. I want..."
"What?" He leans forward. "Tell me what you want, Bella. I'll give you anything."
"I want to feel less alone."
Something in his expression softens. He stands and walks around the island to my side. Without a word, he pulls me off the stool and into his arms.
It's not sexual. It's just... close. His arms wrapped around me, my face pressed against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. I can hear his heartbeat—steady and strong and real.
"You're not alone," he murmurs into my hair. "You'll never be alone again. That's what choosing me means, Bella. It means I'm always there. Always present. Always yours."
I should find it suffocating. Instead, I burrow deeper into his embrace.
"I missed this," I whisper. "Missed you. Even though I shouldn't. Even though I barely know what this is between us."
"You know exactly what this is." His arms tighten. "You've known since the moment I kissed you in that conference room. This is obsession. This is possession. This is two people who can't exist separately anymore."
He pulls back just enough to tilt my face up toward his. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with something that looks dangerously close to love.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he says softly. "Not because I'm trying to seduce you or manipulate you. Just because I've been thinking about kissing you for three days straight and I can't wait another second."
"Then don't wait."
He kisses me.
It's different from the conference room. That was desperate, explosive, three years of tension releasing all at once. This is slower. Deeper. More deliberate.
His hand cups the back of my neck, angling my head exactly how he wants it. His other hand slides under the t-shirt—his t-shirt—resting on the bare skin of my lower back.
The kiss is thorough. Consuming. Like he's trying to memorize the taste of me, the feel of me, the way I respond to him.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Bedroom," he says against my lips. "I want you in a bed. Properly. Not rushed or interrupted or hiding."
"Dominic—"
"I'm not going to do anything you don't want." His eyes search mine. "But I need to hold you. I need to be close to you. I need to know you're real and here and mine."
I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.
The bedroom is dimly lit by the city lights streaming through the massive windows. Dominic removes his tie, his dress shirt, revealing the body I've only imagined beneath expensive suits.
He's not overly muscular, but he's fit—defined chest, flat stomach, strong shoulders. There's a scar on his ribs that I want to ask about but don't.
He catches me looking and smiles. "See something you like?"
"Maybe." I try to sound casual, but my voice gives me away.
He crosses the space between us and gently pushes me backward until my legs hit the bed. I sit, and he kneels in front of me—this powerful man on his knees, looking up at me with something like reverence.
"Can I?" His hands hover near my legs.
I nod.
He slowly pushes the t-shirt up my thighs, his hands warm against my skin. Not sexual—just touching. Learning. Claiming in the gentlest possible way.
"You're shaking." His voice is soft.
"I'm nervous."
"Why?" He looks genuinely confused. "It's just me."
"That's why I'm nervous." I try to explain. "Because it's you. Because this matters. Because once we cross this line, there's no going back."
"We crossed the line weeks ago, Bella." His hands slide up to rest on my hips. "This is just making it official."
He stands and joins me on the bed, pulling me against him. We're lying face to face, his arm around my waist, our legs tangled together.
"I'm not going to rush this," he whispers. "I've waited three years. I can wait a little longer to do this right."
"What if I don't want you to wait?"
His eyes darken. "Then tell me what you want. Specifically. I need to hear you say it."
"I want..." I pause, gathering courage. "I want you to touch me. I want to feel close to you. I want to stop thinking and just feel."
His hand slides under the t-shirt, palm flat against my stomach. "Like this?"
"Higher."
His hand moves up slowly, deliberately, until it's resting just below my breast. He pauses, giving me time to stop him.
I don't stop him.
His hand moves higher, and I gasp as he touches me properly for the first time. His palm is warm, his touch gentle but possessive.
"You're so soft." His voice is rough with want. "So perfect. I've imagined this so many times, but reality is better."
He kisses me while his hand explores—learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch against him, what makes me grip his shoulder and pull him closer.
"Dominic—" His name is a plea.
"I know." He shifts, moving over me, supporting his weight on his forearms. "I know what you need. Let me give it to you."
His mouth moves to my neck, kissing along my pulse point. His hand continues its exploration, and I'm overwhelmed by sensation—his weight, his heat, his absolute focus on my pleasure.
"You're mine." He says it against my skin like a prayer. "Say it. I need to hear you say it."
"I'm yours." The words come easily now. "I've been yours since the moment you wouldn't let me walk away."
He makes a sound deep in his chest—satisfaction and possession and something deeper. His hand slides lower, between my legs, and I'm trembling with want and need and the overwhelming sensation of finally surrendering completely.
"That's it." His voice is rough, encouraging. "Let go, Bella. Stop fighting. Just feel."
And I do. I let myself feel everything—his touch, his words, his absolute certainty that I belong to him. I let myself stop analyzing and just exist in this moment where nothing matters except the two of us and this connection that's been building for three years.
When pleasure finally crashes over me, I cry out his name. He holds me through it, his hand gentle now, his lips pressing kisses to my temple, my cheek, my mouth.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful when you let yourself feel."
I'm trembling in the aftermath, my mind hazy with pleasure and emotion and the reality of what just happened.
He shifts to lie beside me, pulling me against his chest. His heart is racing—evidence that this affected him as much as it affected me.
"Stay with me tonight," he whispers into my hair. "Don't go back to the guest room. Just stay here. Let me hold you."
"Okay." My voice is drowsy now, exhausted from emotion and sensation.
"I love you, Bella." He says it quietly, like he's afraid of how I'll respond. "I know I'm obsessed and possessive and probably unhealthy. But underneath all of that, I love you."
I should be terrified by the admission. Should question whether love and obsession can coexist.
Instead, I burrow deeper into his arms and whisper back: "I love you too."
I feel him relax against me, like he's been holding his breath waiting for those words.
We fall asleep tangled together, and for the first time in weeks, I don't have nightmares about choices and consequences.
I just sleep, safe in the arms of the man who will either save me or destroy me—and I'm no longer sure there's a difference.