Chapter 4 Contract Marriage

• Marisol
• We didn’t meet in a romantic way.
• There was no spark. No instant connection. No story I could tell anyone without sounding insane.
• Dominic and I met in a lawyer’s office.
• He sat across from me, jacket off, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp and assessing like he was already calculating what I was worth. He didn’t flirt. Didn’t pretend this was anything other than a transaction.
• “You’ll be protected,” he said.
• “You’ll have everything you need.”
• “And what do you get?” I asked.
• “A wife,” he said. “On paper.”
• That was it.
• No love. No lies. Just an agreement.
• I thought I could keep my feelings out of it.
• I couldn’t.
• Somewhere between the events and the quiet nights in a house that was too big for two people, he started coming into my room instead of staying in his office.
• At first he just stood in the doorway.
• Watching.
• Then one night he crossed the space between us without saying a word and took my wrist as I turned from the dresser. And kissed me.
• It was slow, deliberate, controlled — like he was testing how far I’d let him go. His mouth stayed on mine longer than necessary, his breath uneven against my lips.
• I should’ve stopped him.
• Instead, I leaned into him.
• That changed everything.
• His hands moved to my waist, then my back, then lower, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. I felt the tension in him — the way his body was holding back while his mouth kept going.
• “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said quietly.
• I didn’t answer.
• I kissed him again.
• Harder.
• His control slipped after that.
• He backed me toward the bed, still kissing me, still touching me like he was afraid to rush but couldn’t slow down either. His hands slid over my hips, my thighs, drawing a soft, involuntary sound from my throat when he pressed me down onto the mattress.
• He followed me there immediately, his weight settling over me, solid and real and very hard to ignore.
• He kissed down my jaw, my neck, lingering long enough to make me arch into him. His voice was low, rough against my skin.
• “You have no idea what you do to me.”
• My hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in when his body pressed closer, when his hips shifted against mine in a way that left no doubt what he wanted.
• The heat between us spiked. I felt him — hard, solid — pressing right where I needed him, no teasing.
• His mouth dragged along my throat, open and hot, and when his hips rolled forward again, slower this time, deeper, I gasped his name before I could stop it.
• He groaned against my skin like he was unraveling one thread at a time.
• “Marisol…” It wasn’t a question. It was a confession.
• His hands slid beneath my thighs, lifting me just enough to tilt my hips, aligning us completely. He moved again — firmer this time — and this time, there was no mistaking the friction, the depth, the way he entered me like he’d been holding back for too long and didn’t have to anymore.
• My head fell back, breath catching in my throat.
• The first few thrusts were slow. Measured. Like he wanted to memorize everything — the way my body arched into him, the way I clutched at his back, the way I couldn’t hold back the sounds I made every time he filled me deeper.
• “You feel that?” he murmured, voice rough, almost ragged. “That’s all for you.”
• He wasn’t asking for permission anymore. He already had it.
• Each movement grew more deliberate, more demanding — not rushed, but relentless. His body pressing into mine, hips rocking in a rhythm that built heat between us like pressure behind glass.
• The air was thick with it — sweat, breath, tension, want.
• I bit down on his shoulder when the angle changed and the pressure hit a spot that made my whole body jolt. He hissed, grunted, drove into me again like he wanted to feel that reaction a second time.
• His rhythm shifted, picking up pace, urgency creeping into his every move. My hands tangled in his hair, dragging him down to kiss me — open-mouthed and hungry, all teeth and tongue and heat.
• I didn’t realize how close I was until I broke. Until the pressure snapped. Until my whole body clenched around him and I cried out, pulse thudding in my ears as pleasure tore through me like fire.
• He wasn’t far behind.
• I felt it in the way his body locked against mine, in the way his breath broke into a curse, in the way he pushed deep one final time and stayed, burying himself with a low, guttural sound that didn’t sound anything like control.
• Then stillness.
• Just our breathing. Our skin. His weight braced above me.
• After, he stayed.
• Not because he had to.
• Because he didn’t want to move.
• He lay beside me, one arm heavy across my waist, his breathing still uneven, fingers tracing slow lines against my skin like he was grounding himself in the fact that I was still there.
• “Maybe we did this backwards,” he said.
• I laughed softly. “Marrying first?”
• “Yes.”
• “That’s your fault.”
• He smiled.
• And that was the version of Dominic I fell for.
• Not the boss.
• Not the contract.
• The man who stayed in my bed like it meant something.
• Which was exactly why it was dangerous.
• Because I didn’t realize until much later that intimacy feels real even when the foundation isn’t.
• And by the time I figured that out, I was already too deep to pull away.