Page 19 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

This is hell.

Conference-call, corporate-voiced, million-dollar-hell.

Because Delilah is on her knees between my thighs, her lips and tongue working me like I’m just another one of her marks. And I’m trying to talk quarterly revenue while she’s swallowing me down inch by inch.

I manage to wrap the call without choking on my own tongue, but it’s a close thing. Someone says something about KPIs and deliverables and I say words back—don’t ask me which ones—and the second the line disconnects, I hit the button to end the meeting, shove my chair back, and lean in close.

“You think you’re in control here, don’t you?”

Her grin is all teeth and victory. “I know I am.”

I cup her chin, thumb sliding across her slick lower lip.

“Wrong.”

She opens her mouth to respond—maybe something clever, maybe something cruel—but I’m already lifting her.

One smooth motion, up onto the desk, papers scattering to the floor like confetti.

I grab her thighs and spread her wide, and Jesus Christ, she’s soaked .

Glossy and pink and already pulsing for me.

“You’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you?” I murmur, dragging her to the edge.

She nods. Barely. “Every night.”

I sink to my knees.

Her taste? Fucking lethal. Sweet and sharp and addictive. I bury myself between her thighs, tongue tracing every slick, swollen inch until she’s clawing at the polished surface, until the office walls echo with sounds that have no place in a boardroom.

“Graham—” she moans, breathless, and that’s it. That’s the moment I know I’ll burn the company to the ground if it means I get to hear her fall apart like this again.

But I’m greedy.

Always have been.

She’s hot and salty and divine, and I suck her clit into my mouth like it’s the only thing I was put on this earth to do.

And maybe it is.

Delilah moans— loud —and tries to squirm, but I growl against her and she stills, one trembling hand knotting into my hair.

“Fuck, Graham—God?—”

“You started this,” I rasp, pulling back just enough to drag my tongue flat and slow across her slit again. “You want the reward, baby? You take the whole prize.”

And then I stand, grab her waist, and flip her.

One quick movement. She climbs over me, straddling my face, lowering herself down while I’m still hard and aching in her hands.

And suddenly we’re locked in a perfect, filthy symmetry—her mouth full of me, my tongue deep inside her, both of us chasing ruin together.

“Sixty-nine,” I murmur, guiding her mouth down as I bury mine between her thighs again. “You wanted mutual destruction? Here it is.”

And fuck, she goes for it.

Warm, wet, perfect. Her mouth wraps around my cock while I feast on her like I’m starving.

The desk shakes with every movement. I suck, she moans, I groan, she takes me deeper.

Her hips rock against my face, my fingers dig into her ass, and the whole thing devolves into pure, desperate rhythm—slick heat, tongue-flicks, breathy cries and strangled groans.

She’s dripping onto my tongue, thighs clenched around my head like a vice, and I’m about to explode down her throat because her mouth is just that good, just that hungry.

The sounds are obscene. Wet, desperate, unhinged. Her hips grind down against my tongue just as I buck into her throat, the two of us daring the other to break first.

And when it finally hits—when she shudders around my mouth and I spill down her throat at the same time—it’s cataclysm. A detonation. The kind of release that leaves us both gasping, trembling, wrecked.

She collapses forward, lips still wet, laugh muffled against my stomach.

“That,” she says, voice hoarse, “is what I call a productive meeting.”

I grin, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, utterly gone for her.

“Sweetheart,” I rasp, “I think we just closed the deal of the century.”

She starts redressing like she didn’t just come all over my face.

Smooth. Unbothered. Like she’s clocking out of a meeting instead of dripping onto my desk while the ink on my Q3 report is still drying.

I watch her tug her blouse closed, one button at a time, and it feels like a goddamn tragedy. A cover-up. A crime against art. That black lace is back in place, that skirt zipped tight again, and I suddenly hate the concept of clothing on a spiritual level.

“You’ve got a dinner,” she says, smoothing her hair in the reflection of my office window like she isn’t the reason my mouth still tastes like heaven and I can’t feel my legs.

“Dinner?” I blink like the word’s in a foreign language. “With who?”

She lifts a brow. “Potential new clients. You know—networking? Relationship building? All that soft-skill bullshit you pretend to hate.”

Oh, right. That dinner.

The one I was going to show up to, make a few veiled threats wrapped in charm, and leave before dessert.

But now?

Now I have a better idea.

“Perfect,” I say, standing and fixing my tie like I’m not still half-hard and covered in her scent. “You’re coming with me.”

She freezes mid-step. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

I grin. “Because I said so.”

She narrows her eyes. “Not a reason.”

“Fine. Because I want to show you off. Because you look hot in business casual and even hotter in business carnal and I like knowing I’m the only one in the room who knows which lingerie you’re wearing.”

She opens her mouth, probably to deliver something devastating, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand.

“Nope. Don’t protest. You’re coming. You’re sitting next to me. And you’re going to behave like a charming, competent executive assistant while I fantasize about fucking you under the white linen tablecloth.”

“Wow,” she mutters. “Is that in the job description?”

“Right between ‘calendar management’ and ‘oral performance reviews.’”

She rolls her eyes so hard I think she might pull a muscle. “You are impossible .”

“And yet,” I say, leaning in just enough to make her breath catch, “you’re still here.”

Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t back down. “You just want to keep me close.”

I flash a slow, smug smile. “Exactly. Because you think if I fuck you enough, I’ll get bored.”

She stiffens slightly. Not visibly—but I know her now. I read her now.

“You’re wrong,” I say, voice dropping to a quiet promise. “So wrong, sweetheart. I’m not the kind of man who gets bored. I’m the kind who gets addicted.”

She doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t have to.

I watch the flush creep up her throat, the way her fingers tighten around the edge of the desk before she steps away.

“You’re paying for my drinks tonight,” she throws over her shoulder on her way to the door.

“Baby, I’ll buy the whole bar if you promise not to wear panties.”

She flips me off.

I grin like I’ve already won.

Because I have.