Chapter 1: The Taste of Dawn**

Chapter 1: The Taste of Dawn

The private jet had touched down ninety minutes ago, but Liam Blackwood only truly arrived home the moment he stepped across the threshold of their bedroom. The stale, recycled air of the cabin and the sterile scent of the corporate world clung to him like a shroud he was desperate to shed. Fourteen hours in Tokyo, closing a deal that would shift the global tech landscape, felt like a lifetime spent in a bloodless, gray dimension.

Here, in the pre-dawn stillness of their sanctuary, was the only reality that mattered.

The room was cast in the soft, ethereal glow of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a million distant stars in their private sky. And there, in the center of their sprawling bed, was his sun.

Chloe.

He stood by the door, his bespoke suit suddenly feeling like a constricting cage. With methodical, silent movements, he stripped it off, letting the thousand-dollar jacket fall to the floor with a soft thud he didn't care about. The tie followed, loosened and discarded. Each item of clothing he shed was an layer of Liam Blackwood, the billionaire CEO, being peeled away to reveal the man who existed only for her.

She was asleep on her side, facing away from him. The silk sheet had pooled around her waist, leaving the magnificent curve of her back, the gentle slope of her hip, and the powerful shape of her thigh exposed to his hungry gaze. Her auburn hair, a chaotic halo on the white pillow, caught the dim light and shimmered with threads of fire. The sight of her, so peaceful and unguarded, sent a possessive ache straight through his core. It was a primal, territorial pang that travel and distance always sharpened to a razor's edge.

He had spent the last three days surrounded by sycophants and sharks, his mind a fortress of strategy and cold calculation. But every spare second, every lull in negotiations, his thoughts had fled back here. To her. To the scent of her skin, the sound of her laughter, the way her warm brown eyes could see straight through his armor.

He padded silently across the plush carpet, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin. He didn't get into his side of the bed. That felt too routine, too mundane for the reverence churning inside him. Instead, he knelt on the floor beside her.

This was his altar. She was his worship.

His desire was a living thing, a coiled beast in his gut. It wasn't just lust, though that was certainly present, a heavy, demanding weight. It was a deeper, more profound hunger. The need to reaffirm his claim. To erase the scent of the outside world from her skin and replace it with his own. To remind her, and himself, that before the sun rose and they put on their masks for the world, she was his. Utterly. Absolutely.

He reached out, his hand hovering over the curve of her hip. He knew her body better than he knew his own financial reports. He knew every dip, every swell, every freckle. His fingers finally made contact, his touch as light as a whisper. He traced the faint, silvery lines that fanned out over her hip, the beautiful, perfect scars of their children. The world saw a billionaire’s wife, a philanthropist, a society figure. He saw the mother of his sons, the woman whose body had carried their life, and it made him weak with a devotion so fierce it bordered on pain.

Her skin was warm, soft. He leaned in, inhaling the scent of her—jasmine from her lotion, a hint of something musky and uniquely Chloe, and the faint, sweet smell of sleep. It was the scent of home. The scent of his sanity.

A low growl rumbled in his chest. Words were inadequate. Waking her with a kiss felt too gentle for the storm raging inside him. He needed to consume her, to taste his ownership on his tongue.

His lips followed the path his hand had blazed. He kissed the stretch marks, reverently, tasting the faint salt of her skin. She stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips, her body instinctively arching toward his touch even in her unconscious state. He smiled against her skin. Her body knew him. Her soul recognized his.

He shifted, moving lower, his hands sliding beneath her, cupping the soft, heavy weight of her backside, lifting her slightly. He nudged her legs apart with his shoulder, settling between them. The intimacy of the position was a jolt to his system, a confirmation of his place in her world. Here, between her thighs, was the center of his universe.

He breathed her in again, deeper this time. The scent was richer here, intoxicating. It was the fragrance of raw femininity, of desire still slumbering but ready to be awakened. His tongue flicked out, tracing the delicate inner curve of her thigh.

Chloe gasped in her sleep, a sharper, more distinct sound. Her leg twitched. She was coming awake now, not to a sound or a sudden movement, but to a slow, deliberate, escalating pleasure. It was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to wake up already drowning, already his.

He found her then, the heart of her. He didn't hesitate. His mouth closed over her, a hot, wet brand of possession. He wasn't gentle. This wasn't a request; it was a declaration. A claiming. He drank her in, his tongue skilled and merciless, learning the taste of her all over again after days of deprivation. It was the taste of honey and heat, the taste of dawn breaking over his parched soul.

She was awake now. He could feel it in the sudden tension of her body, in the way her fingers clenched in the sheets. A low moan vibrated from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and pleasure.

"Liam..."

His name. A broken, breathy whisper. It was the only answer he needed.

He drove her, his rhythm relentless, his hands gripping her hips to hold her steady as her body began to tremble. He knew exactly where to press, how to circle, how to draw the pleasure out until it was a fine, taut wire of sensation. He felt the first tremor of her climax building, the tell-tale tightening of her inner muscles against his tongue. He chased it, pushing her higher, faster. The air grew thick with her ragged breaths, each one a testament to his dominion.

She was on the very edge, her hips starting to buck against his mouth in a desperate, searching rhythm. Her surrender was imminent, a shattering release that would be his victory, his welcome home. Right there, on the precipice of her oblivion, he held her. Just for a moment. He wanted her to feel it. To feel the agonizing, exquisite control he had over her. To know, before the day even truly began, who she belonged to.