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Mammon's hand hasn't left her waist since they walked through the door.
Not in the casino, where demons with too much money and not enough sense kept shooting her appreciative glances. Not in the car ride home, where his fingers traced possessive patterns on her thigh. And certainly not now, as he kicks the bedroom door shut behind them and finally—finally—lets that carefully controlled energy snap.
"Do you have any idea," he murmurs against her neck, backing her toward the bed, "how many demons were eye-fuckin' you tonight?"
She laughs, breathless, letting him guide her. "I was only looking at one demon."
"Damn right you were." His teeth graze her pulse point, and she feels him smile against her skin. "But they were all lookin' at you. In that dress. Knowin' they can't have you."
They've been together for three years now—long enough that the possessiveness isn't a red flag but a promise. Long enough that she knows the difference between his controlling instincts and this, the primal need to remind them both who she belongs to.
"Did you like it?" she asks, tilting her head to give him better access. "Watching them want me?"
"Fuck yeah, I did." His hands find the zipper of her dress, drawing it down with agonizing slowness. "Liked watchin' 'em realize they don't stand a chance. That you're goin' home with me. That you're mine."
The word sends heat pooling low in her belly. Mine. She's heard it a thousand times in three years, and it still makes her knees weak.
"Yours," she confirms, and feels him shudder against her.
The dress pools at her feet, and Mammon steps back to look at her. Really look. His eyes track over every inch of exposed skin with an intensity that makes her feel like art in a museum—priceless, worshipped, owned.
"Three years," he says, voice rough with emotion and desire, "and you still take my breath away."
She reaches for him, but he catches her wrists gently. "Nuh-uh. Not yet. Just... let me look at you."
There's something vulnerable in his eyes, underneath the possessive heat. Something that says even after all this time, he can't quite believe she's real. That she chose him. That she stays.
"Mammon—"
"Please." The word is soft. "Let me worship you properly."
Her breath catches. When he gets like this—reverent and possessive all at once—she knows she's in for a long night in the best way possible.
She nods, and he guides her to sit on the edge of the bed. Then, impossibly, the Avatar of Greed—the demon who personifies taking and having and wanting—drops to his knees before her.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, hands sliding up her calves with the kind of attention usually reserved for counting money. Slow. Thorough. Appreciative. "These legs. Been thinkin' about 'em all night. Thinkin' about how they looked in those heels, how every demon in that casino was imaginin' them wrapped around—" He stops himself, jaw clenching. "But they can't have that. Can they?"
"No," she breathes. "Only you."
His hands continue their journey—over her knees, up her thighs, thumbs tracing patterns that make her shiver. "Only me," he repeats, like a prayer. "This body. Every inch of it. Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Mine to worship."
He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, and her fingers tangle in his hair instinctively.
"That's it," he encourages, voice dropping lower. "Hold on to me. 'Cause I'm not stoppin' until you remember exactly who you belong to."
His mouth traces a path up her thigh, and she's already trembling. Three years, and he still knows exactly how to take her apart. Knows every sensitive spot, every place that makes her gasp, every touch that drives her wild.
"Mammon, please—"
"Please what?" He looks up at her, gold eyes burning. "Tell me what you want."
"You. I want you."
"You've got me." His hands span her waist, thumbs brushing just below her ribs. "You've always got me. But I need you to understand somethin'." He stands slowly, towering over her, backing her further onto the bed until she's lying beneath him. "I need you to understand that when those demons were lookin' at you tonight, all I could think about was this. Gettin' you home. Remindin' you—" He leans down, bracing himself above her. "—remindin' both of us that you're mine."
She pulls him down into a kiss that's equal parts desperate and familiar. Three years of learning each other, three years of building trust, three years of love that started chaotic and settled into something solid. Something real.
When they break apart, his forehead rests against hers. "I love you," he says, and underneath the possessive edge is pure devotion. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
"I love you too." Her hands slide up his back, pulling him closer. "Now show me."
Something feral flashes in his eyes. "Oh, I'm gonna show you, treasure. Gonna worship every inch of you until you can't remember anyone else's name but mine."
He starts with her neck—kissing, sucking, teeth grazing in a way that'll leave marks. Evidence. Proof that she's his. His hands map her body like he's memorizing treasure, and maybe he is. Maybe that's what she is to the Avatar of Greed—the most valuable thing he's ever possessed.
"Perfect," he murmurs against her collarbone. "Every part of you is perfect." His mouth travels lower, lavishing attention on every inch of skin. "These shoulders. This collarbone. The way you shiver when I kiss you here—" He demonstrates, and she arches into him. "Yeah, just like that."
His hands are everywhere—cupping, caressing, claiming. He takes his time removing the rest of her clothing, treating each revealed section of skin like unwrapping a gift. And with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of praise, she feels worshipped. Adored. His.
"You're mine," he breathes against her stomach, pressing kisses there. "Mine to love. Mine to hold. Mine to—" His voice drops, hands sliding lower. "Mine to pleasure."
When his fingers finally touch where she needs them most, she gasps his name like a prayer.
"That's right," he encourages, watching her face with rapt attention. "Say my name. Let everyone in the Devildom know who makes you feel this good."
He's teasing now, building her up slowly, thoroughly, the same way he counted grimm when they first met—with complete focus and dedication. His mouth follows his hands, and she's lost in sensation, in the overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly worshipped.
"Mammon—" She's close, trembling, desperate.
"Not yet." His voice is strained with his own need, but he's determined. "Not until I've appreciated every part of you."
It's torture. Sweet, exquisite torture. He takes his time, mapping her body with hands and mouth, finding every spot that makes her sigh, every touch that makes her moan. And through it all, he keeps up a running commentary of praise and possession that makes her head spin.
"So beautiful. So perfect. So mine."
When he finally moves to remove his own clothes, she helps with shaking hands, needing to touch him, to map his body the way he's mapped hers. Fair is fair, after all.
"Your turn," she murmurs, pushing him onto his back and straddling him. "My turn to worship."
The look on his face—surprise and pleasure and desperate need—makes her smile. She takes her time, kissing and touching and reminding him that possession goes both ways. That he's hers just as much as she's his.
"You're killin' me," he groans when her mouth trails down his chest.
"Good." She looks up at him through her lashes. "Now you know how it feels."
His laugh is breathless. "You're evil. I love it. I love you."
When she finally takes mercy on him—on both of them—and guides him home, the sound he makes is pure reverence. Like he's exactly where he belongs.
They move together with the kind of synchronization that comes from three years of learning each other's rhythms. He holds her close, hands spanning her back, one sliding up to tangle in her hair.
"Look at me," he demands softly, and she does. Gold eyes meet hers, burning with possession and love and need. "I want you to see me. Want you to know who's makin' you feel this way."
"I know," she gasps. "I've always known."
"Mine," he breathes, pulling her down into a kiss. "Mine, mine, mine."
The word becomes a rhythm, matching their movements, and she echoes it back to him because it's true both ways.
"Yours. I'm yours."
When she finally shatters, his name on her lips, he follows moments later with hers, and they cling to each other like drowning people finding shore.
After, when they're tangled together in sheets and catching their breath, he traces idle patterns on her shoulder.
"You know I'm not actually worried, right?" His voice is quiet. "About other demons lookin' at you."
"I know." She turns to look at him, sees the vulnerability there. "But you still like reminding us both."
"Yeah." He grins, sheepish. "Is that weird?"
"No." She kisses him softly. "It's you. And I love you."
"Even when I get all possessive and caveman-ish?"
"Especially when you get possessive and caveman-ish." She settles against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow under her cheek.
"You're my treasure. My most valuable possession. And I don't share my treasure with anyone." He promises, arms tightening around her.
"Good." She smiles against his skin. "Because I don't plan on being shared."
They lie there in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of building trust and love and a life together. Eventually, she feels him press a kiss to her hair.
"Hey," he murmurs. "You wanna go back to that casino next week? I really liked watchin' those demons realize they couldn't have you."
She laughs, exhausted and happy and so thoroughly loved she can barely stand it. "You're ridiculous."
"Yeah, but I'm your ridiculous boyfriend."
"Mine," she agrees softly.
And later, when she's falling asleep in his arms, she hears him whisper one more time:
"Mine."
It sounds like a promise. Like a vow. Like forever.
She wouldn't have it any other way.