Page 17 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

She drags me by the silk knot of my tie until my back hits a shelf stacked high with printer paper. One ream wobbles precariously before settling back into place. Her perfume hits me like a memory I haven't made yet but desperately want to.

"Rules," I say, catching her wrist before things spiral completely out of control. "We do this my way?—"

She arches one perfectly sculpted brow. "Of course you think there are rules for this."

"Consent rules," I clarify, dropping my voice low. "Use your words with me. Tap my shoulder if you want me to slow down. Tell me 'red' if you need me to stop completely."

Something shifts in her expression—the calculation melts into something softer and more genuine. "Green," she says clearly. “Neon green."

I can't help but grin. "Good girl."

"Don't get cocky about it."

"Impossible. It's practically a medical condition at this point."

When I kiss her, it's like I've been starving for this moment since doors were invented.

She tastes like expensive champagne and the kind of trouble that makes front-page headlines.

Her mouth opens under mine and her hands slide under my jacket, and suddenly we're both very serious about removing every obstacle between us.

My jacket hits the floor first, followed by her blouse. A button pops off somewhere and pings against a shelf before disappearing forever into office supply purgatory.

"You're completely infuriating," she murmurs against my jaw.

"Among my many other talents."

Her fingers work my belt with ruthless efficiency while I find the zipper at the back of her skirt. I tug it down slowly just to hear that sharp intake of breath she doesn't mean to give me. The fabric slides down her thighs and my brain temporarily short-circuits.

"Say yes," I ask, even though she's already pulling me closer.

"Yes." She breathes my name like a prayer. "Graham."

God, my name in her voice. I could tattoo it under my ribs.

I lift her onto the waist-high shelf—top row paper, bottom row me losing religion—her thighs bracketing my hips. We’re heat and slide and the kind of friction HR definitely frowns on. I’m this close to home.

“Wait,” she says, palms flat to my chest, not pushing—just stopping time. “Fairness doctrine.”

“Now we’re bringing policy into this?”

Her smile is wicked. “I need to even the score.”

I open my mouth to say that seems both noble and profoundly dangerous in a supply closet, but she’s already slipping down, eyes bright with mischief. She glances up at me from far too interesting an angle for me to refuse.

"Permission?" The word carries the lightest tease.

My hand finds the back of her neck, thumb resting against her pulse. "Only if you want to. And only because I'm currently dying here."

"I do want to." Simple words that hit like lightning. "Just hold still for me."

"Define 'still.'"

"Graham."

"Right. Still-adjacent it is."

The next few minutes become a blur of perfect sin and catastrophic judgment calls.

My head knocks against the shelving and I catch sight of a small congregation of binder clips, briefly considering whether this qualifies as a religious experience.

She's thorough and clever and completely uninterested in my pathetic attempts to maintain any composure.

She's on her knees, and I forget how to breathe.

Red lace. That’s all she’s wearing. I wanted this, sure. But, I didn’t expect to feel like I was going to pass out seeing her now, crawling between my legs like she’s about to fucking end me.

Which she is.

And I’m perfectly fine with that.

“Jesus,” I mutter, already bracing a hand behind me, my palm slamming against some off-brand box of legal envelopes that doesn’t deserve to witness this. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smirks up at me, all lips and lashes and malevolent glee. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Then she wraps that mouth around me and it’s game over.

Warm. Wet. Fucking velvet . Her lips seal around the tip and she sucks—just once, just enough to make my spine arch off the shelving like she hit me with a live wire. Her tongue does this swirl, this flick , and my head thuds against the cabinet hard enough I might see God.

But not God. Just her. Only her.

I try to play it cool. Because I’m me. Because I have to .

But she’s got both hands working now—one on the base, the other on my thigh, holding me down like she knows exactly what I’m about to do if she lets go.

Her rhythm is slow and purposeful, a dangerous little drag of suction and glide that has me biting down on the inside of my cheek just to keep from begging.

And fuck me, it’s not working.

“Sophia, baby—” Her name breaks out of me like a confession. Like prayer. “Slow down—I’m gonna?—”

She pulls off. Just for a second. Her mouth is glistening. Eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to lie.

“You want me to stop?” she whispers.

God, no. I want her to ruin me. I want her to hollow me out and crawl inside and never leave.

But I nod. Because I’m an idiot. Because I’m trying to pretend I’m still the one in control.

She tilts her head, licking her lips. “Liar.”

And then she sinks back down, deeper this time, her mouth stretching around me until her nose brushes skin and I shatter .

Spectacularly. The kind of release that erases browser histories and half your childhood memories. My knees buckle and I have to steady myself against a crate of toner cartridges like some kind of office supply gentleman.

For several long moments, I'm just a man trying to remember how basic breathing functions work.

Then she rises with fluid grace and I snag her waist, hauling her back up to me.

My mouth finds hers, greedy and desperate, kissing her deep enough to steal back my own oxygen.

She tastes like victory and warm laughter and choices I'm definitely going to make again.

"God, you're absolutely filthy," she says against my lips, smiling.

"Only for you, sweetheart."

She laughs—real and delighted—and the sound lands somewhere under my sternum and detonates like a small bomb.

"Your turn now," I say, voice rough around the edges. "Since you essentially shut down the ride for the next fifteen minutes or so. Give me a moment to find some juice and crackers."

"Fifteen minutes?" She tilts her head with mock consideration. "That's generous math."

"I'm rounding up. It's a leadership skill." I slide my hands along her hips, toying with her panties. "Now let me return the favor."

"Tempting offer." Somehow the word becomes both a knife and a caress. But she's already tugging her skirt back into place, smoothing fabric like she's erasing evidence. "But I have orientation to get to."

"I'm the boss. I'm officially declaring you can skip it."

"I would never dream of missing mandatory training," she says with faux primness that makes me want to kiss her senseless.

"I can make giving you orgasms mandatory too."

Her eyes spark with dangerous light. "Where would be the fun in that?"

"Literally everywhere?" I try, nipping at her lower lip. "Look, I'm extremely gifted at multitasking. I can deliver mission statements and wreck you at the same time."

She slips from my hands, bending to scoop her blouse from the floor. She straightens her hair with insulting efficiency and I've never harbored such violent thoughts about bobby pins.

"You're absolutely devastating," I tell her, gesturing at the crime scene our clothing has become.

"I'll add it to my resume under special skills." Her fingers flick my tie deliberately crooked like she's signing her work. "One hour gave me the building layout. The closet gave me you."

"Is this some kind of quid pro?—"

She cuts me off with a kiss that's quick and mean and absolutely perfect. "Consider us even now, Mr. Ellsworth."

"Even?" I sputter because I have principles about these things. "We are definitely not even. We're in serious arrears here. I owe you at least?—"

"Find me after orientation." She's at the door now, hand resting on the handle, voice deliberately light. "If you think you can manage it."

"Oh, sweetheart." I step after her, catching the door above her head, caging her in without actually trapping her. "Hide and seek is cute child's play. Hunt and claim is my goddamn religion."

"Mmm." She pretends to consider this seriously. "Try not to get too tired this time around."

"I was drugged," I remind her with mock solemnity. "You were there. Allegedly witnessed the whole thing."

"Maybe the champagne had gone bad," she suggests with perfect innocence.

"Then I'll bring my own bottle next time and open it with my teeth."

"You really are impossible."

"And you're late for orientation." It kills me to let the door go but I force myself to step back. "Down the hall, left at those motivational eagle posters, right at the HR fortress. Or, go ahead and add yourself to my calendar as a 'strategic emergency.'"

She slips out with one last glance back—a flash of triumph mixed with something much warmer. "One hour."

"That was my line," I call after her, but she's already gone. Her perfume ribbons through the air leaving me wanting so much more.

I stand there in the sudden quiet of the supply closet, shirt untucked and tie completely ruined, wearing a grin that probably violates several workplace conduct policies.

A sheet of adhesive labels chooses that moment to flutter loose and drift down like the world's most anticlimactic confetti.

"Best supply closet encounter of my entire career," I inform the toner cartridge display. Which actually isn’t as short a list as one would think.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sebastian:

Orientation going well? Remember to stay hydrated. Also, please stop terrifying HR with your cardio routine.

I tuck my shirt back in, attempt to fix my tie, fail miserably, then fail again on purpose because it looks better that way.

After scooping up my jacket and pocketing what's left of my dignity, I step back into the corridor like a man who absolutely did not just get baptized against a shelf of printer paper.

Game fucking on.