Page 28 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Graham has been frustratingly professional all week, despite my increasingly obvious attempts to break through that controlled facade.

Every carefully orchestrated wardrobe malfunction, every deliberately provocative lean across his desk, every lingering touch when handing him files—all met with polite smiles and impeccable restraint.

It's maddening.

The preliminary meeting for the Hunt is tomorrow and yes, I'm nervous as hell, but I'd rather die than let anyone see it.

Iris has given me all the intelligence she can gather—floor plans of the venue, guest lists, security protocols, even dietary restrictions of the other participants.

We've planned for every contingency we can think of.

Well, every contingency except for how completely Graham Ellsworth has gotten under my skin.

Four days since our dinner on that rooftop.

Four days of working inches away from him while this tension builds between us like a storm system.

Every casual brush of his fingers when he hands me documents, every time he leans over my shoulder to review something on my computer screen, every damn time he says my fake name in that low voice that makes my knees weak.

I'd needed air. Space. I'd needed to think about literally anything other than the way his mouth felt against mine. Or how it felt between my legs…

So I'd gotten up from my desk, mumbling something about needing to stretch my legs, and headed for what I thought was an empty hallway near the archives. But Graham had followed me, cornered me, caught me studying that keypad lock like the criminal I am.

Now we're standing here in this charged silence.

The professional facade we've both been maintaining finally cracking beyond repair.

He's close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Every nerve in my body screams for him to close that last inch of distance between us.

"I intend to make you beg for the privilege of losing to me," he said, his voice dark with promise, his lips almost touching mine.

The predatory patience in his eyes makes me step back instead of closing the distance myself. Or try to—the wall prevents me from going far. The small retreat only seems to amuse him.

"Confidence," I manage, though my voice sounds breathier than intended. "I like that in a man who's about to be disappointed."

His smile turns pure wolf. "We'll see about that. But first—" He reaches into his jacket pocket. "I have something for you."

The velvet box is small, expensive-looking. The kind that usually holds jewelry. My pulse quickens as he opens it, revealing a choker—black silk ribbon with an intricate silver insignia that looks both beautiful and somehow possessive.

"Oh." The word escapes before I can stop it. "It's lovely."

Though I'm not sure if I mean the jewelry or the way his eyes darken when I look at it.

"I'd like you to wear this tomorrow." His free hand comes up to trace along my collarbone. The touch is featherlight but sets my entire nervous system on fire. "Consider it a token of sponsorship."

"Sponsorship?" My voice catches on the word.

"Every participant in the Hunt has a sponsor. Someone who's invested in their success." His voice drops even lower, becoming something dark and promising. "I'm very invested in yours."

The implications make my mouth go dry. This isn't just about the Hunt anymore—it's about possession, ownership, the kind of claim that goes far deeper than any game.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, fingers hovering over the silk. "But what if it doesn't fit properly?"

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Worried about sizing?"

"I'm very particular about fit." I let my eyes meet his directly. "Maybe I should try it on first. Make sure it sits right on my skin."

"That would be... practical of you."

"I am very practical." I take the choker from its velvet nest, letting the silk slide between my fingers. "Though for a proper fit test, I'd probably need to remove other jewelry. Maybe my blouse too, just to see how it looks against bare skin."

Graham's pupils dilate. His hand at my collarbone trembles slightly before he steadies it.

"Thorough," he says, voice rougher now.

"I believe in being thorough. Especially with expensive gifts." I trace the silver insignia with one finger. "I might even need a second opinion. Someone with an eye for these things."

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting I might stop by your hotel tonight. For a professional consultation on proper choker placement." The words come out more brazen than I intended. "Unless you think that would be inappropriate."

His laugh is low and dangerous. "Sweetheart, inappropriate stopped being relevant the moment you walked into my office."

"So you wouldn't mind? If I showed up wearing nothing but this and asked for your expert opinion?"

The question hangs between us like a loaded gun. Graham's control slips visibly—his breathing deepens, his grip on the velvet box tightens.

"If you show up at my hotel wearing nothing but that choker," he says slowly, "I might not be able to maintain my professional restraint."

"Who says I want you to maintain it?"

For a heartbeat I think he might finally break. Might pin me against this wall and show me exactly what his professional restraint has been holding back. Instead he steps back, putting space between us that feels like a physical loss.

"You're dangerous," he murmurs, studying my face like he's memorizing it.

"You have no idea."

"Don't I?" His smile turns knowing. "I think I'm starting to get the picture."

"And what picture is that?"

"A woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to take it." He straightens his tie, already returning to that maddening professional demeanor. "The question is whether you want it badly enough to actually show up tonight."

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe isn't good enough. Either you want me or you don't, Sophia. Either you're brave enough to knock on my door or you'll spend tonight wondering what might have happened."

The challenge in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. "You're very sure I'll come."

"I'm not sure of anything. That's what makes it interesting." He leans down, lips just barely brushing against my ear. "But if you do decide to conduct that fit test tonight, wear your hair up. I want to see every inch of your neck when I fasten that choker myself."

The words send electricity straight through me.

"What makes you think I'd let you fasten it?"

"Because you want my hands on you." His breath is warm against my ear. "You've wanted it since that first night. The only question is when you'll stop pretending otherwise."

"I'm not pretending anything."

"No? Then why is your pulse racing?" His thumb brushes against the pulse point at my throat. "Why are you breathing like you've been running?"

"Maybe I find arrogant men amusing."

"Or maybe you find this particular arrogant man irresistible." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Guess we'll find out tonight."

Then he's gone, striding back toward the elevators like he didn't just turn my entire nervous system into a live wire. He leaves me alone in the hallway with nothing but silk ribbon and the lingering scent of his cologne.

I lean against the wall, choker clutched in my trembling hands, and try to remember how to breathe normally.

Maybe Iris is right. Maybe I am in way too deep.

But as I imagine myself in Graham's hotel room wearing nothing but silk ribbon and silver, even though we both know I won’t show up, and I find I don't particularly care about drowning anymore.

The only question is whether I'll surface on the other side or if Graham Ellsworth is going to pull me under completely.

And increasingly, I'm not sure which outcome I'm hoping for.