His Property: A Billionaire Possession Romance

The city pulsed beneath the penthouse windows, glittering like a thousand secrets waiting to be confessed.

But inside the quiet bedroom, none of that mattered.

Only the sound of his breath.

Only the way he looked at her.

Aria stood by the window, wrapped in a soft black robe that barely reached mid-thigh. Her hair was still damp from the shower. Her skin glowed in the golden hue of the bedside lamps, and her eyes—

They weren't seductive.

They weren't guarded.

They were... open.

"Close the door," she said softly.

Leon didn't move at first.

He'd seen her like this before. In heels, in gowns, in fury.

But never like this.

Not as a storm.

As peace.

He stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him.

She turned, facing him fully. "I'm not asking for promises."

"I know."

"I'm not asking for love."

He swallowed. "You don't have to."

She walked to him slowly.

Her fingers reached up to his chest, unfastening the buttons of his shirt one by one.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I just want to stop pretending I don't need this."

His hands moved to her waist—hesitant, reverent.

"Are you sure?"

She stepped closer. Pressed a kiss to his throat.

"Don't make me beg."

He let out a breath that trembled. Not from restraint. From the weight of feeling.

Then he kissed her.

Slowly.

With his whole soul.

They didn't rush.

Every movement was measured.

Intentional.

She peeled his shirt from his shoulders, fingers skimming his skin like she was memorizing the shape of him.

He let her.

Watched her.

Wanted her.

Not as a prize or possession or performance.

As a woman.

The only one who had ever unraveled him and made him like it.

When he slipped the robe from her shoulders, she didn't flinch.

He didn't devour.

He looked at her like she was art.

And when he laid her back against the sheets, she pulled him down with her—not as surrender…

But as invitation.

Their mouths met again—lips brushing, teeth grazing, breathing each other in.

She arched into him with soft sounds that made his control fray at the edges.

But he didn't lose it.

He wanted to feel everything.

The softness of her thighs wrapping around him.

The tremble of her voice when she whispered his name.

The way she gasped when his fingers traced along the inside of her knee, higher, higher, until—

"Leon," she breathed, eyes fluttering.

He paused, reading every line of her expression.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured.

She pulled him closer.

"Don't you dare."

They moved together like they'd been waiting years for this.

She clung to him, fingernails digging into his back, kisses growing deeper, needier.

He murmured things against her skin—soft, broken things he never meant to say.

"You feel like fire…"

"I don't know how to be gentle, but I want to try…"

"You undo me, Aria…"

She whispered back: "Then stay undone."

And he did.

When they reached the edge—when she cried out his name and he lost himself inside her—it wasn't the climax that undid him.

It was her hand sliding up to cup his cheek after.

The way she looked at him.

Like he was worth something.

Like he mattered.

They didn't speak for a long time after.

They just lay there, bodies tangled, breath shallow, hearts racing.

The sheets were half-kicked down, the room warm with the scent of them.

Leon rested on his side, arm beneath her head, hand spread across her bare back.

"Still think I don't matter?" she asked softly, eyes closed.

He didn't answer right away.

Then:

"You're the only thing that does."

Later, when she was asleep—peaceful, lips parted slightly against his chest—Leon stared at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes.

Because something inside him had shifted.

Not like a crack.

Like a break.

The good kind.

The kind that lets the light in.

He didn't just want her.

He wanted to deserve her.

And for a man like him…

That was the most dangerous craving of all.