Bound to the Ruthless Billionaire

Chapter 9: The Devil in the Dark

The door of the Bentley slammed shut with a heavy, final thud that seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the car. Outside, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi were still strobing against the tinted windows, but inside, the world had shrunk down to the scent of expensive leather and the terrifying heat of Dominic’s presence.

Dominic didn’t speak. He didn't even look at her. He reached forward and tapped a button on the door console. With a soft, mechanical whir, the privacy partition rose, cutting them off from the driver and plunging the back seat into a suffocating, shadow-filled sanctuary.

Claire pressed herself against the door, her heart hammering so hard she feared it might bruise her ribs. The midnight-blue velvet of her dress felt like it was constricting her, and the diamond collar at her throat—the one he had called his—felt like it was glowing in the dark.

"Dominic," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You’re being unreasonable. Julian is…"

"Don't say his name."

The words weren't a request. They were a growl, low and vibrating with a primal fury. Dominic turned toward her then, his silhouette blocking out the passing streetlights of London. In the intermittent glow of the city, his eyes looked like shards of obsidian, dark and hungry.

"You are wearing my diamonds, Claire. You are wearing my ring. You are living under my roof," he said, his voice dropping to that gravelly, dangerous register that made her blood run hot. "And yet, the moment that pathetic excuse for an Earl’s son looks at you, you smile? You let him think he still has a claim on you?"

"He doesn't have a claim!" Claire snapped, her Sterling pride finally sparking. "No one has a claim on me! This is a contract, not a…"

"The contract says you are mine," he interrupted, lunging across the seat.

He didn't grab her roughly, but his movement was so fast she had no time to react. He pinned her against the leather, his large hands framing her head, his body a solid wall of heat pressing against her. The scent of him, sandalwood, bergamot, and pure, unadulterated testosterone, swirled around her, making her head spin.

"I told you I don't do 'fake', Claire. I don't do marriages on paper. And I certainly don't share what I’ve paid for."

"I am not a thing you bought," she gasped, though her breath was hitching in a way that betrayed her.

"Aren't you?" Dominic’s gaze dropped to her lips. "Then why is your heart racing? Why are you looking at me like you’re waiting for me to take what I want?"

"I'm not…"

He didn't give her the chance to lie. He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, his lips a hair’s breadth away. "You hate me, don't you? You hate that I saved you. You hate that I own you."

"I do," she breathed, but as his thumb traced the line of her lower lip, pulling it down, the word felt like a lie.

"Prove it," he whispered.

Then, he crashed his lips onto hers.

It wasn't a sweet kiss. It wasn't a "first kiss" from a fairytale. It was a collision. It was a desperate, breathless encounter that tasted of champagne and territorial fury. It was a man claiming his territory and a woman finally realising she had been starving for the touch.

Claire’s hands, which had been meant to push him away, found their way into his hair instead, her fingers tangling in the thick, dark locks. She groaned into his mouth, a sound of surrender that only seemed to fuel his fire. Dominic’s kiss grew deeper, more demanding, his tongue slicking against hers as he tasted every inch of her.

One of his hands slid down from the seat to her waist, his fingers digging into the velvet of her dress, pulling her flush against him until she could feel every hard line of his body. He was iron and heat, and for the first time in her life, Claire felt the terrifying power of a man who wanted her with an obsession that bordered on madness.

The car swerved as it turned a corner, throwing her more firmly into him. Dominic didn't miss a beat. He moved his hand to her thigh, the heavy velvet of the dress sliding up as his palm met her bare skin. The contrast of the cool, soft fabric and the searing heat of his hand was electric, a jolt of pure lightning that made her back arch against the leather seat.

"Mine," he growled against her lips, the word vibrating through her entire body. "Say it, Claire. Say you’re mine."

She couldn't speak. She could only breathe him in, her mind a blurred mess of desire and desperation. Every time he pulled back for air, she chased his lips, her body acting on an instinct she hadn't known she possessed. She wanted him. She wanted the man who had ruined her life and saved her family. She wanted the monster in the tuxedo.

The tension that had been building since she walked into his office days ago finally exploded. It was a slow-burning fire that had turned into a forest fire in the back of a speeding Bentley. Claire felt her resistance melting, her "Old Money" ice evaporating under the sun of his possessive heat.

As the car began to slow, signalling their arrival at the penthouse, the kiss became even more frantic. Dominic’s hands were everywhere—her hair, her waist, her throat, marking her, claiming her, ensuring she knew exactly who she belonged to before they stepped back into the world.

The Bentley glided to a halt in the private garage, the engine cutting out with a soft purr. The silence that followed was even louder than the kiss. Dominic pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, both of them gasping for air.

Claire’s lips were swollen, her hair a mess, and her eyes were glazed with a hunger that terrified her. She reached out, her fingers grazing his jaw, wanting, needing, him to pull her back in. She wanted the night to never end. She wanted to stay in this dark, leather-scented bubble forever.

"Dominic..." she whispered, her voice a broken plea for more.

Dominic looked at her, his eyes unreadable in the shadows. He didn't lean back in. Instead, he reached over and opened the car door, the cold garage air rushing in and shattering the heat.

"Rule number two, Claire," he rasped, his voice cold and controlled once more, though his chest was still heaving. "I always get what I want. But I get it on my terms. And I haven't decided if I'm finished with you yet."

He stepped out of the car, the click of his dress shoes on the concrete floor sounding like a gavel. He didn't look back once, leaving the door standing wide open, a silent command for her to follow him like the well-behaved acquisition he had paid for.

He’s playing a game, she realized, her hand trembling as she touched her bruised lips. And I’m not just losing... I’m begging to play.