Page 18 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Day two arrives with the kind of crisp morning light that makes bad decisions look like brilliant strategy.

Yesterday's one-hour bet turned into a spectacular disappointment for Graham.

Orientation dragged on like a root canal performed by someone who learned dentistry from YouTube videos.

By the time they released us into the wild, my brain fog had cleared enough to let me think mostly in a straight line.

The new plan: Slow things down. Keep him wanting.

Make him work for what he thought he'd already won.

Problem is, playing hard to get with Graham Ellsworth is like trying to diet at a chocolate factory. The harder I resist, the more I crave exactly what I'm denying myself.

I practically sprinted out of the building yesterday without so much as a goodbye. One look at those eyes and I knew I'd crumble faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. Better to leave him hanging than to let him finish what we started in that supply closet.

Didn't stop my imagination from working overtime once I got home though. Three cold showers and a bottle of wine later, I was still thinking about his hands. His mouth. The way he said my name like a prayer he was afraid to finish.

But today I have a plan.

Turn the tables on him.

Drive him past the point of crazy. Push every button until his legendary control snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. Make him sloppy. Make him desperate. Make him forget to lock his computer or secure his files or do whatever paranoid rich men do to protect their secrets.

Then I pull back the curtain, grab my money and disappear into the sunset like some kind of corporate phantom.

At least that's what I keep telling myself I'm going to do.

My actions would seem to indicate otherwise.

Case in point: the outfit I've chosen for today's psychological warfare.

Black pencil skirt that hugs every curve like it was sewn directly onto my body.

Silk blouse in deep emerald that brings out my eyes and dips just low enough to be professional but distracting.

Heels that add four inches and make my legs look like they go on for miles.

I catch my reflection in the elevator's polished steel doors and barely recognize the woman staring back. She looks dangerous. Predatory. Like she could destroy a man's sanity before lunch and still have time for a manicure.

Perfect.

The elevator dings and I step onto Graham's floor with the confidence of someone who absolutely knows what she's doing. Even though I'm making this up as I go along and my heart is beating like a hummingbird on espresso.

Time to see just how much torture one impossibly arrogant CEO can take before he breaks.

I know exactly when the call starts because it's circled on his calendar like a national holiday. "Quarterly Stakeholder Alignment" blazes across the screen in aggressive yellow highlighting—the kind that screams important people will be listening, so don't fuck this up .

Naturally, I decide to fuck it up.

Not loudly or obviously. Just enough to make him sweat through his expensive suit.

I give it ten minutes. Long enough for the obligatory introductions and weather small talk. Long enough for someone to clear their throat passive-aggressively about quarterly metrics. Then I slip into Graham's office with a folder in hand and my hips swinging like I'm walking a runway.

He spots me instantly. Doesn't say a word but tracks my every movement like I'm simultaneously his employee and a threat to national security.

The voices drift through his speaker system as I approach the filing cabinet. "Graham, we're seeing some interesting trends in the Southeast division. What's your take on the regional performance indicators?"

"Absolutely," Graham responds smoothly. "The Southeast numbers have been particularly strong this quarter. We're looking at roughly fifteen percent growth year-over-year, which puts us ahead of our initial projections."

That's when I start filing. Bottom drawer first.

I bend all the way down—not a practical squat but a slow, deliberate fold at the hips that makes my skirt ride dangerously high. One hand braces against the cabinet while I stretch luxuriously, making my ass the centerpiece of his entire office.

His breath catches audibly.

"The, uh—" Graham's voice cracks like a teenager's. "The regional breakdown shows particularly strong performance in—hold on just a second?—"

A chorus of polite murmurs comes through the speaker. "Take your time, Graham."

"Right. As I was saying, the quarterly—" He stops mid-sentence as I reach for a higher file, rising onto my tiptoes. The movement tightens every curve and tilts my hips back even further. "The quarter-to-date numbers are strong across all our verticals."

I hear the faintest mechanical whir as every blind in his office slides shut. Sunlight disappears and the room fills with dangerous privacy. Then comes the telltale beep of the mute button.

"Strip." The command cuts through the air like he's issuing orders at gunpoint. "Or you're fired."

I turn slowly, crossing my arms under my chest with deliberate defiance. "You know HR would have an absolute field day with that threat."

"HR doesn't make it into my office unless I personally invite them." His voice drops to something dark and hungry. "And I'm currently very fucking busy."

I take one step toward his desk. Then another.

I’m close enough now so that I’m sure he can smell my perfume. "You really shouldn't tempt me with dares."

"Then prove you're as dangerous as you claim to be."

God help me, but I want to.

So I start with the buttons of my blouse.

One by one, fabric parts to reveal black lace and satin straps—expensive enough to look classy, wicked enough to suggest it never stays on very long.

His eyes follow every inch of skin I expose like he's been starving and this is his first real meal in weeks.

The skirt comes next, pooling around my ankles in a whisper of silk. Then the panties—delicate scraps that slide down my thighs and join the growing pile of discarded clothing.

He doesn't move. Doesn't even seem to breathe. But I watch his chest rise and fall in shallow, tight rhythm.

I drop to my knees on the plush carpet, every movement deliberate and obscene. My heart pounds as I crawl toward him because this isn't just another game or elaborate con. This is him—the man who was supposed to be just a mark but is becoming something much more dangerous.

When I reach his chair, I settle between his knees and reach up to unmute the call.

"Graham?" A concerned voice immediately fills the silence. "Everything all right over there? You cut out for a moment."

He fumbles for composure, clearing his throat like it's his only remaining defense. "Fine. Everything's fine. Please continue with your analysis."

"Well, as I was saying," the voice continues, "we're projecting a potential shortfall in the Northwest territories if current trends hold. What's your strategy for addressing those gaps?"

I look up at Graham through my lashes, positioning myself inches from the growing bulge in his expensive slacks.

"Let's see how long you can fake composure, boss," I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

His hand grips the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles go white.

"Our strategy for the Northwest," he begins, voice carefully controlled even as I start working his belt, "involves reallocating resources from our stronger regions to support—Christ—to support underperforming territories."

"That sounds like a solid approach," someone else chimes in. "Are you looking at temporary reallocations or more permanent structural changes?"

I free him from his slacks and take my time, letting him feel my breath against heated skin while he struggles to form coherent sentences.

"Temporary for now," he manages, voice strained. "We'll reassess after Q4 to determine if permanent changes are—fuck—are necessary."

"Graham, you're cutting out again. Connection issues?"

"No," he says quickly, one hand tangling in my hair as I take him into my mouth. "Just some minor office... distractions. Please continue."

The voices drone on about market penetration and growth strategies while I work him with precision. Every flick of my tongue, every gentle scrape of teeth, designed to push him closer to the edge while he fights to maintain professional composure.

"What's your timeline for implementing these changes?" asks another participant.

Graham's breathing grows ragged. "Implementation should begin—God—should begin early next quarter with full rollout by?—"

I take him deeper and his words dissolve into a choked groan.

"Graham? Are you feeling all right? You sound a bit off."

"Just a slight headache," he lies smoothly, free hand pressed to his forehead while the other guides my movements. "Long day of meetings. But I'm tracking everything you're saying."

"Maybe we should wrap this up so you can rest," suggests a helpful voice.

"No," Graham says too quickly. "I'm fine. Let's finish the quarterly review."

But his control is slipping. I can feel it in the way his muscles tense, hear it in the careful restraint of his breathing. When I glance up, his eyes are dark with need and something that looks dangerously close to desperation.

"The projections for next quarter look promising," someone continues obliviously. "Assuming we can maintain current momentum..."

Graham nods along even though they can't see him, making appropriate sounds of agreement while I bring him steadily closer to complete destruction. His fingers tighten in my hair and I know he's fighting a losing battle.

"Any other concerns we should address before we adjourn?" asks what sounds like the meeting leader.

"None from my end," Graham says through gritted teeth. "Everything looks... solid."

I choose that moment to do something particularly wicked with my tongue. His hips jerk involuntarily and a strangled sound escapes his throat.

"Graham?"

"Sorry, just—dropped something," he lies desperately. "All good here."

But we both know he's about to fall apart completely, professional facade crumbling while voices discuss profit margins through his speaker system.