Page 11 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

Her mouth is soft and warm against mine, and for a moment I forget everything except the way she tastes like wine and danger and something uniquely her. When we break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against hers and try to remember how to form coherent sentences.

"About the Hunt," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "I meant what I said. If you want in, I can make it happen."

Even as the words leave my mouth, something dark and possessive coils in my chest. The thought of other Club members looking at her, touching her, claiming her—it makes me want to burn the whole organization to the ground.

Which is... unexpected. And more than a little concerning.

I've never been possessive about women. They come and go like seasons, beautiful and temporary and ultimately interchangeable. But the idea of sharing Delilah with anyone else makes me feel genuinely violent in a way that should probably alarm me.

"Graham?" She's studying my face with those sharp eyes, reading micro-expressions like she's decoding a particularly complex puzzle. "You look like you're having second thoughts."

"Never," I lie smoothly, though part of me wonders if she can see straight through to the truth. "Just considering logistics."

She laughs, low and throaty. "Logistics. Is that what we're calling it?"

Before I can respond, her hands are on my shirt, fingers working at the buttons with efficiency. It’s not rushed, but it’s intentional, like she knows exactly what she’s doing—knows exactly what it’s doing to me.

Each brush of her fingers against my skin sends a jolt through my entire body, and I have to grip the terrace railing to keep from pulling her against me and forgetting everything else. The night air feels too hot, the city too far away. It’s just her.

"Jesus," I breathe, because that’s all I can manage, but she swallows the word with a kiss that’s deeper this time—demanding, devouring. I’m supposed to be the one in control, but fuck if she isn’t stripping that from me with every second that passes.

She pushes my shirt off my shoulders, hands sliding down my chest, nails dragging just enough to make me suck in a breath. I don’t even remember unfastening my pants, but they’re gone too, like she’s stripping me down to the parts of myself no one gets to see.

Her dress slides to the ground like liquid silk, pooling at her feet, leaving her standing in nothing but moonlight and shadows. And fuck, she’s breathtaking.

There’s a heartbeat—a single, suspended moment—where I could stop this. Where I could regain control. But I don’t.

I don’t want to.

I grab her, pull her down onto the chaise lounge.

“Bet that pretty pussy tastes even sweeter than I imagine. I’m not stopping until you’re a fucking mess for me.”

I murmur it against her throat, my lips brushing over that racing pulse, kissing her slow and feeling it hammer beneath my lips like she’s barely holding on.

Then I start moving lower—dragging my mouth down her body inch by inch, tasting the salt of her skin, the faintest trace of the wine she drank, and her.

Her chest rises and falls hard. I take one nipple between my lips, sucking until she gasps, until I feel her arch, begging for more without a single word. Then I move to the other, teasing it with my tongue, my teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver.

Lower still. Over her stomach, slow and deliberate, like I’ve got all the time in the world. I flick my tongue over her navel, grinning when she sucks in a breath so sharp it’s almost a moan.

I nudge her thighs apart, watching the way she opens for me without hesitation.

And then I’m there. Face to face with the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen—wet, glistening, like she’s been waiting for this as badly as I have.

“Fuck, look at you. Dripping for me already.”

I drag my tongue through her pussy, slow at first, savoring the way she’s already wet and ready. I groan against her, the taste of her hitting me like a fucking drug. I do it again, licking deeper, flattening my tongue and pulling back just to suck her clit into my mouth.

Her hips jerk. Her hands tangle in my hair, but I’m not stopping. I want her wrecked. I want her dripping down my chin, begging, trembling.

I fuck her with my tongue, slow and deep, then faster, then slow again, until she doesn’t know which way is up. I circle her clit, flick it, suck it between my lips while my fingers slide inside her—two at first, then curling just right, finding that spot that makes her cry out.

“Graham—Oh, God. Don’t stop.” Her words are a broken plea, and it makes my cock harder than I’ve ever been in my life.

I don’t stop. I don’t let up. I keep going until she’s shaking beneath me, thighs clenched around my head, moaning my name like a prayer. I feel her come apart, feel her clamp down on my fingers, feel the rush of her against my tongue as she falls.

And still I don’t stop. I draw it out, licking her through it, fucking her slow with my fingers, savoring every tremor, every ragged breath, until she’s gone soft beneath me, completely undone.

But she’s not finished.

She moves, slow and sure, pushing me back, sliding between my legs with that same look that’s been driving me insane all night. Her hands trace over my thighs, up to my hips, nails scraping just enough to make me curse under my breath.

Her mouth is everywhere—kissing, biting, licking up the inside of my thigh, over my hipbone, teasing lower, but not where I need her most. She’s taking her time, and it’s torture. My cock’s so fucking heavy, desperate to sink into her.

I grip the edge of the chaise, fighting every instinct to flip her over and take what we both want. But no. I want her to choose it. I want her to lose control and beg for it like I’m begging inside.

She kisses up my stomach, my chest, slow and thorough, like she’s claiming me right back. Every press of her mouth feels like a brand, and I swear my skin aches for her.

When her lips finally find mine, it’s different. Softer. Like she’s trying to memorize the taste of me the way I’m trying to memorize the taste of her.

That's when I feel it. The familiar texture of a small pill slipping from her tongue to mine, bitter and unmistakable.

I should be angry. I should be concerned about security, about being vulnerable, about what Mrs. Kim is going to say when she finds me passed out naked on the terrace tomorrow morning—again.

Instead, I start laughing.

The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, rich and genuinely delighted. She's done it again. This magnificent, impossible woman has managed to outmaneuver me twice, and all I can think is how charmed I am by her audacity.

"You're incredible," I murmur against her lips, even as I feel the familiar heaviness starting to creep through my limbs. "Absolutely incredible."

"You're not what I expected," Delilah admits, settling beside me as my body begins to surrender to unconsciousness.

"Neither are you," I reply, reaching up to trace the line of her jaw one last time. "Which is exactly why you're so dangerous."

The darkness is pulling me under now, warm and soft and irresistible. But before I let it take me completely, I pull her down for one more kiss—deeper this time, hungrier, trying to memorize the taste of her before I lose consciousness entirely.

"Goodnight, beautiful," I whisper against her mouth.

And as the world goes black, one last coherent thought flashes through my mind: Fuck. I might actually be in love with this woman.