Page 27 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)
Graham
Three days. Three fucking days until the Hunt, and I can barely think about anything else.
I know without a doubt that I'm going to claim her.
I'm going to have her, completely and utterly, and whatever little game she thinks she's playing is going to end the moment I shove my cock into her and she becomes mine.
The thought alone is enough to make me hard during board meetings, which is problematic for a variety of professional reasons.
Not that work matters much these days. The company runs itself at this point—I've built enough competent systems and hired enough capable people that I could disappear for months and everything would continue humming along without me.
Which is fortunate, because my attention is entirely consumed by the beautiful criminal pretending to organize my files.
She's been testing me all week, pushing boundaries with the kind of purposeful provocation that would make a lesser man lose his mind.
Yesterday she wore a skirt so short I could see the lace edge of her stockings when she bent over to retrieve dropped papers—papers she definitely dropped on purpose, judging by the way she glanced back to make sure I was watching.
This morning she leaned across my desk to point out something on a contract, her blouse gaping just enough to give me a perfect view of black silk and pale skin. When I looked up to find her watching my reaction, she had the audacity to smile like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
She's clearly trying to tempt me into turning this into some kind of free-use office fantasy, but I'm not going to give in to her game. Because that's exactly what this is—a game, carefully orchestrated to make me lose control and give her whatever advantage she thinks she needs.
Two can play, beautiful. And I've been playing games longer than she has.
Besides, I have other things to keep me busy.
Like the fact that someone has been testing my company's cyber defenses for the past week.
Subtle probes into our financial systems, attempts to access encrypted files, the kind of sophisticated hacking that suggests professional-grade equipment and serious technical skills.
It's actually quite impressive. If it were anyone else, they might have succeeded in draining a few accounts by now. My security team has been tracking the intrusion attempts with growing alarm, but I find them charming in their ambition.
Just for fun, I've authorized a few small transfers—nothing significant, just enough to make them think they're winning.
A few thousand here and there, loose change in the grand scheme of my net worth.
It keeps things interesting, and I'm curious to see how far they'll push before they realize they're being watched.
Tomorrow is the preliminary meeting, and what most of the invitees don't realize is that it's as much about the hunters as the prey.
The Club uses these gatherings to let the men posture and position themselves ahead of the Hunt, to establish hierarchies and settle old grudges before the real competition begins.
I know I've made my fair share of enemies over the years—it's one of the reasons I've never submitted anyone to the catalog before. Success breeds resentment, and putting a target in play draws attention from men who would love nothing more than to claim something I want just to prove they can.
It won't work this time, though. I've been preparing for this Hunt longer than anyone realizes, and I have no intention of letting some trust fund baby with daddy issues steal what's mine.
Through my office windows, I catch sight of Delilah walking down the hallway toward the archives—a section of the building that's technically off-limits to anyone without executive clearance. Interesting.
I get up from my desk and follow her quietly, curious to see what she thinks she's going to find in the restricted files. The hallway is empty at this time of day, most of the staff having gone home or moved to other parts of the building for afternoon meetings.
She's standing in front of the secured door, studying the keypad lock with the kind of focused attention that suggests she's memorizing the wear patterns on the most frequently used numbers.
"Looking for something specific?" I ask, my voice cutting through the silence.
She spins around, hand pressed to her chest in an exaggerated display of surprise. "Mr. Ellsworth! You scared me."
"Did I? Sorry." I move closer, close enough to see the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her pupils dilate when I enter her personal space. "What brings you to this part of the building?"
"I was looking for the Morrison files you mentioned earlier. I thought they might be in the archives."
"The Morrison files are in my office safe. Where they've been all week."
"Oh." She bites her lower lip, and the gesture is so perfectly calculated to appear innocent that I almost applaud her performance. "I must have misunderstood."
"Must have." I lean against the wall, effectively blocking her exit route. "You know, this section requires special clearance. Technically, you shouldn't be here at all."
"I didn't realize. I was just following the filing system maps."
"Of course you were."
We stand there for a moment, the air thick with unspoken challenges. She's trying to figure out how much I know, how much trouble she's in, whether this is the moment her carefully constructed cover gets blown wide open.
I'm just enjoying the show.
"Tell me something, Sophia," I say, using her fake name like a caress. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?"
"The preliminary meeting. For the Hunt." I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "Your first real introduction to the other players in this game."
Something flickers across her face—excitement, maybe, or anticipation. "Should I be nervous?"
"That depends on what you're hoping to accomplish."
"I thought the goal was pretty straightforward. Don't get caught."
"For some people, maybe. But I don't think you're like some people."
"What do you think I'm like?"
I reach up to trace the line of her jaw, enjoying the way her breathing changes at my touch. "I think you're exactly like me. I think you want to win, not just survive."
"And what would winning look like?"
"That depends on what game you think you're playing."
Her smile is sharp enough to draw blood. "I'm playing the same game you are, Graham. The question is whether you're good enough to win it."
"Oh, beautiful," I murmur, leaning down until my lips are almost touching hers. "I don't just intend to win. I intend to make you beg for the privilege of losing to me."
For a moment, I think she might close the distance between us, might give in to whatever's been building between us all week. Instead, she takes a half-step back, though the wall prevents her from going far.
The tension between us is electric, dangerous, and I can see in her eyes that she's just as affected as I am. But neither of us is quite ready to break first.
Not yet.
But soon.