Page 26 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Shit. I slipped up.

The moment the word "catalog" left my mouth, I knew I'd made a mistake. Graham's entire demeanor shifts—not angry, exactly, but alert in the way a predator becomes when it spots movement in the underbrush.

I force myself to maintain eye contact, to keep my expression casual despite the way my pulse has started hammering against my throat. "Oh, you know how these things go. Word gets around through the grapevine. Rich women love to gossip about the mysterious goings-on of their husbands' clubs."

Graham's smile tells me he knows I'm bluffing, but he seems content to let me spin my lie for now. "Of course. The grapevine. How delightfully... vague."

"So what is it, exactly? This catalog you're so secretive about?"

He leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass with deliberate casualness.

"Think of it as a curated collection. Profiles of women who've caught the attention of Club members.

Background information, preferences, detailed specifications for those discerning enough to appreciate such things. "

"Specifications?" I raise an eyebrow, letting disdain color my voice. "That sounds a little archaic. Like you're shopping for livestock at some twisted auction."

"I agree completely," he says, and there's something in his voice that surprises me. "Which is why I've never submitted anyone to it."

"Never? What about all those society women who must throw themselves at your feet?"

"They bore me." His eyes never leave my face. "Well, until you came along."

Whatever game I thought we were playing just shifted into something infinitely more dangerous, and I'm not sure I understand the new rules.

"You put me in the catalog?" I ask, though we both know it's not really a question.

"I did."

"Without asking my permission?"

"Did you want me to ask permission?" His voice takes on that predatory edge. "Because you seemed quite eager to get into the Hunt when you first mentioned it."

"That's not the same thing as?—"

“You asked me to get you into the Hunt," he continues, cutting me off smoothly. "And you can't be in the Hunt without being in the catalog first.”

I mouth the word “oh,” because clearly, while I know some things, I’m a little out of my wheelhouse here.

“Now we get to find out what happens when fifty of the world's most powerful men compete for the right to claim you." His smile turns dark. “But they’re all going to be very disappointed. Because I’ll be the one to claim you.”

"That's very presumptuous of you," I murmur, though heat pools low in my belly at his words. "What makes you think I'd want to be claimed by anyone?"

"Because you asked about the Hunt in the first place.

Because you're here with me instead of running back to whatever safe little life you left behind.

" He leans forward, his voice dropping lower.

"Because every time I get close to you, your pupils dilate and your breathing changes and you look at me like you want me to devour you whole. "

"Maybe I just like dangerous men," I counter, taking a sip of wine to buy myself time.

"Baby, I'm not just dangerous. I'm lethal." The promise in his voice sends electricity shooting down my spine. "And you're not just attracted to danger—you're addicted to it."

"Is that supposed to scare me?"

"It's supposed to excite you." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against mine with deliberate intent. "And judging by the way you're looking at me right now, it's working perfectly."

I don't pull away from his touch, even though every survival instinct I have is screaming at me to run. "You're very confident for someone who hasn't actually caught anything yet."

"Haven't I?" His thumb traces across my knuckles. "You're here, aren't you? Sitting across from me, letting me touch you, hanging on every word I say."

"This is dinner, not capture."

"Isn't it? You came when I called. You dressed to please me. You're wearing that perfume I complimented." His eyes glitter with satisfaction. "Tell me, Sophia—when you were getting ready tonight, were you thinking about impressing me?"

Damn him for being so observant. "I was thinking about looking professional."

"In a dress that hugs every curve? With lipstick that matches the wine you're drinking?" He laughs softly. "You were thinking about what I'd want to peel off you later."

Heat floods my cheeks. "You're insufferably arrogant."

"I'm accurate. I know what you want, Sophia. I know what makes you tick, what makes you wet, what makes you forget every careful plan you've ever made."

"Do you?" The challenge slips out before I can stop it.

"I know you want to be caught. Deep down, underneath all that careful control, you want someone strong enough to pin you down and claim you properly. Someone who sees through all your masks to the woman underneath."

His thumb continues tracing patterns across my knuckles, such a small touch but it makes my entire body feel hypersensitive. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"That's a dangerous assumption to make," I breathe.

"Everything about this is dangerous. That's what makes it fun." He pauses, studying my face. "That's what makes you keep coming back for more."

The waiter appears to refill our wine glasses, but Graham waves him away with barely a glance. His attention is focused entirely on me, and the intensity of his gaze makes me feel like I'm standing too close to a fire.

"So what happens during this Hunt?" I ask, though I'm not sure I really want to know the answer.

"You run. We chase. Whoever catches you first gets to keep you."

"Keep me how, exactly?"

His smile is pure predator. "However they want. For as long as they want."

"And if I don't want to be kept?"

"Then you better make sure you don't get caught." He leans closer. "But here's the thing, beautiful—most women who enter the Hunt want to be caught. They're just particular about who does the catching."

The threat hangs between us, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Part of me knows I should be planning my escape, figuring out how to extract myself from whatever web I've gotten tangled in. But another part—a deeper, more primal part—is thrilled by the danger.

"What if I told you," I say, leaning closer until our faces are inches apart, "that I have no intention of letting anyone catch me?"

"Then I'd tell you that makes the game infinitely more interesting."

"Even if that someone includes you?"

His laugh is low and rich and makes something clench deep in my belly. "Especially me. I don't want easy prey, Sophia. I want the hunt to mean something."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of what I want." His hand slides up my arm, fingers trailing fire across my skin. "And I want you. All of you. Your body, your mind, your complete and total surrender."

"My surrender?" I laugh, though it comes out breathier than I intended. "That's ambitious even for you."

"I'm an ambitious man with expensive tastes."

"And I'm not the surrendering type."

"We'll see about that." He stands suddenly, moving around the table until he's standing behind my chair. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs brushing against the sensitive spot where my neck meets my collarbone. "You know what I'm thinking about right now?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"I'm thinking about bending you over this table. Right here on this rooftop, with all of Manhattan spread out below us." His voice drops to a whisper that makes my skin burn. "I'm thinking about lifting that pretty dress and showing you exactly what happens to women who tease me."

"Graham—"

"I'm thinking about making you scream my name so loud that every person in every penthouse for blocks will know exactly who owns you."

The words send molten heat straight between my legs, but I force myself to laugh. "We're in public."

“So? Look around, beautiful. It's just you and me up here."

"Still," I manage, "I'd never let you do that."

"No?" He's moved closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

I stand and turn to face him, lifting my chin defiantly. "You'd have to catch me first before I give you that honor."

His grin is sharp enough to cut glass. "Bet."

Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding and tasting like wine and danger. For a moment, I let myself get lost in it—in the way his hands fist in my hair, the way his body presses against mine like he's trying to claim every inch of me.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth with devastating skill, and I can't stop the small moan that escapes. He responds by backing me against the railing, his hands spanning my waist, fingers digging in just hard enough to leave marks.

"That's it," he murmurs against my lips. "Stop thinking. Stop planning. Just feel."

His mouth trails down my throat, finding that spot that makes my knees go weak. When he scrapes his teeth across my pulse point, I arch against him helplessly.

"See how easy it is?" he breathes against my skin. "All that control, all those walls you've built up, and one kiss has you melting in my arms."

"I'm not—" The protest dies when his hand slides up my thigh, fingers tracing the edge of my dress.

"Not what? Not desperate for me to touch you? Not soaking wet from just a kiss?" His thumb brushes against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. "Should I check?"

The suggestion makes me gasp, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to kiss me deeper. His hands roam freely now, mapping the curves of my body through the silk of my dress, and I'm quickly losing the ability to think clearly.

When he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes are dark with want and something more possessive. "Say yes."

"To what?"

"To letting me have you. Here. Now. The way I've been wanting to since the moment I saw you across the room at that auction.”

For a heartbeat, I almost do it. Almost give in to the heat and the want and the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.

Then I remember who I am, what I'm supposed to be doing, and I force myself to pull back with a breathless laugh.

"Not yet," I whisper against his lips, my hands pressed against his chest. "You haven't earned that privilege."

"Haven't I?" His voice is rough with desire.

"Not even close."

He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him calculating, planning, deciding how far to push this game we're playing. The predator weighing his options.

"Six days," he says finally, his voice dark with promise. "The Hunt is in six days, beautiful. Think you can stay out of my reach that long?"

"I think you'll be disappointed by how easy it is."

"And I think you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing across my swollen lips. "I think you're going to spend the next six days thinking about this moment. About how good it felt to have my hands on you."

"Awfully confident."

"I think you're going to touch your soaking pussy and imagine it's me. My fingers. My mouth.” The words make heat spike through me. "And when the Hunt begins, you're going to remember exactly why you want to be caught."

As he leads me back toward the elevator, his hand possessive on the small of my back, I can't help but wonder if he's right. Because somewhere between the wine and the threats and the way he looks at me like I'm something worth devouring, I've lost track of who's hunting whom.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.