Page 41 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

"Closet first."

She angles a look up at me like she's weighing the structural integrity of my skull. "I'm leaving in what I wore yesterday."

"You're leaving in what I choose for you."

"That won't work for me."

"It will today." I don't raise my voice because I don't have to.

We stare each other down long enough for the espresso machine to finish hissing. She exhales sharp and annoyed. "What's the magic word?"

"Color."

"Green," she snaps, chin high. "Neon fucking green."

"Good girl." I turn and lead her to the dressing room off my bedroom. Rails of silk and lace line the walls—tailored pieces I buy for contingencies like this. I take my time because she needs to feel the decision land. "The skirt stays. You're changing everything else."

"You can't just dictate my wardrobe?—"

"Arms up."

She hesitates then lifts them with bratty compliance.

I slide yesterday's blouse off her shoulders, fold it carefully and set it aside.

The choker goes on properly this time—two fingers' space, buckle flat under my thumb, her pulse steady against it.

She swallows and the sound echoes in the quiet room.

"Stockings. Garter belt. This bra." I select black lace that's indecent under anything. Meeting her eyes, I add, "No panties."

She hates that her thighs press together at the idea. She hates it even more that I notice.

She dresses like she's daring me to blink—rolling stockings up her legs, clipping the garter with neat little snaps, settling the lace against her skin. I watch with arms crossed because the stare is part of the lesson. Next I hand her my white shirt with French cuffs.

"Nothing under it except the bra. Top two buttons open. Tuck it into the skirt."

"Your possessive streak is showing," she mutters, but she does it anyway. The shirt tucks into her pencil skirt while she slides on her heels and fastens the cuffs. The collar frames the choker exactly like I planned.

When she reaches for lipstick, I catch her wrist midair and tilt her face up with a finger under her chin. Testing the buckle once more with my thumb, I say, "Right where it belongs."

"Your control issues are showing."

"So are your legs." I step back to admire the view—blazer for the elevator, my shirt soft against her skin, the choker clean at her throat, the slightest whisper of garter flashing when she moves just wrong.

No lines under the skirt. No safety net.

Exactly how I want her, and invisible to everyone else.

She rolls her eyes like she didn't just give me every win I asked for. "Are we done or do you plan to dictate my nail color too?"

"Don't tempt me." I nod toward the elevator. "Let's go."

She stalks past me with her dignity gathered up like a weapon. I press the elevator key and feel the morning settle exactly where I want it—on my terms.

The ride to the office passes in charged silence.

Delilah stares at the elevator numbers like they personally offended her while I admire the way my shirt fits her shoulders.

By the time we arrive at my building, the predatory tension from last night has settled into something more manageable but still simmering beneath the surface.

She steps off the elevator ahead of me, heels clicking against marble like threats.

The lobby is bustling with morning energy—employees grabbing coffee, security guards nodding respectfully as we pass.

Several people glance our way, and I wonder if they can sense the electricity crackling between us.

"Your schedule is relatively light this morning," she says as we enter my office suite, her voice professionally neutral despite the fire still burning in her eyes. "Conference call with the Singapore team at ten, lunch with the Morrison Group at noon."

"Cancel the lunch," I tell her, settling into my office chair. "I have other plans."

She raises an eyebrow but makes a note. "Should I reschedule or?—"

"Leave it open for now."

For the next hour, we maintain a veneer of professional normalcy. She answers emails and organizes files while I review quarterly reports. But there's an undercurrent of tension that makes every interaction feel loaded with unfinished business.

"You seem tense this morning," I observe during a brief lull. "Everything alright?"

"Just peachy." She doesn't look up from her computer screen. "Though I have to say, I'm surprised you expect me to work today like nothing happened."

"Why wouldn't I? You have a job to do."

"After last night, I thought perhaps you'd prefer I stay locked away in your penthouse like some modern-day Rapunzel."

"Rapunzel had much longer hair," I point out. "Yours is more shoulder-length with those waves."

She finally looks at me, and the fire in her eyes makes something warm and satisfied settle in my chest. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely. You're particularly beautiful when you're plotting my demise."

"I'm not plotting anything."

"No? Because you have that look—the same one you had right before you drugged my champagne."

"Maybe I'm just thinking about how unsatisfying last night turned out to be."

The words are clearly meant to wound, but they have the opposite effect. I can see right through her strategy—she's trying to use our unfinished encounter as a weapon.

"Unsatisfying?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's interesting because I distinctly remember you coming twice. Quite enthusiastically, if memory serves."

Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't back down. "Physical response doesn't equal satisfaction."

"Doesn't it? Because your physical responses were very... thorough."

"A job half-done is still a job half-done."

I laugh, delighted by her audacity. "Is that what you think happened? That I did half a job?"

"Well, you certainly didn't finish what you started."

"Oh, beautiful, I haven't even started yet."

The promise in my voice makes her breath catch. I crook a finger at her. "In here."

She holds my stare a beat too long, chin tipped defiantly. "I'm busy."

"Now," I say, and the way her mouth tightens tells me she heard everything I didn't say.

She comes anyway. All heels and attitude and that choker sitting clean at her throat exactly where it belongs. I let the door click shut behind her.

"Edge of the desk," I tell her. "Sit."

She settles on the lip with palms braced behind her like she's planning an escape she won't take. I fit my hands to her hips and draw her closer until her knees nudge my sides.

"Color."

"Green," she fires back. "Neon."

“Good.” I guide her open with my thumbs, slow enough to be cruel. “Eyes on me.”

She keeps them, bright with pride and heat. The choker rises and falls with each breath.

“Legs up.” I anchor her calves, shoulders, everything that matters—then bow my head and take my time.

The skirt rides high. Nothing underneath. Heat blooms up my spine.

“Office policy prohibits this,” she says, breath already thinning.

“We don’t have HR.” I kick my chair back. “We have me.”

My hands go rough. I drag the skirt to her waist. The garter straps bite into her thighs—clean arrows pointing where I’m headed. She’s ready; the air between us tastes like it.

I stroke once, just enough to make her gasp, then taste—one long stripe that has her hands slapping the desk. Her sound drops low and involuntary. She tries to chase pressure; I shift so she doesn’t get to pick how.

I lift her calves to my shoulders, hands sliding to lock around the backs of her thighs. The skirt bunches at her waist; the garter tugs; the choker rises and falls with each sharp breath.

“Mr. Ellsworth,” she whispers, mocking and breathless at once. “This is wildly unprofessional.”

I press the button for all the curtains in my office to shut. “File a complaint.” I press her open and feast.

No tease. I devour. Deep, slow strokes that melt her spine, then tight, precise attention that pulls broken syllables from her mouth. My hands anchor; my mouth works with shameless focus. I give her rhythm and ruin in equal measure.

“Graham,” she warns, already climbing. “Don’t?—”

“Don’t what?” I breathe against her, letting the words vibrate through her. “Don’t make you come in my office? Don’t make this desk remember your name?”

“You—” Her fingers hover at the back of my head, the collar at her throat reminding her who tied what.

I grip harder and eat like a starving man who finally found the only meal that matters. Pushing two fingers inside her, I taste her wildfire. Her sounds are the reason I lock every door in my life—so I can open this one and nobody gets a vote.

“Eyes,” I say, because I want the fight and the surrender at once. “On me.”

She forces herself to look down—collar snug, mouth open, pupils blown—and there it is, finally, the please she hates giving.

“That’s it.” I double down, relentless, until the muscles low in her belly flutter and her thighs begin to shake against my jaw.

“Come for me, beautiful.”

She comes with a bitten-off cry that would have HR drafting memos if we employed cowards. The desk rattles beneath her trembling limbs. I ride her down, soften, give her slow aftercare until she pushes at my head—not to stop, but from delicious overload.

I lick my fingers clean with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on hers, then lower her heels to the floor. She sways slightly and I catch her waist, turning her to smooth the skirt down over her hips like I'm holstering a weapon.

My lips find the notch beneath the choker—a small, possessive kiss. "Now," I say, softer than I mean to, "sit down and schedule my day."

She drags in what passes for dignity disguised as breath. "You're a complete prick.”

"Absolutely correct." My thumb grazes the buckle at her throat. "And you're mine."

She glares at me but still walks back to her chair. Her thighs press together and her steps are careful, a faint tremor in her hand when she reaches for the keyboard. The garter clip flashes when she crosses her legs. No panties underneath that skirt. My patience starts fraying at the edges.

"Sophia," I call out.

"What," she manages without looking up.

"If you threaten me with HR again, I'm putting you over this desk and we're both missing the nine a.m."

Her mouth twitches in what might be amusement. "Noted for future reference."

I settle back into my chair like a man who didn't just lose a battle on purpose to win the war. The room carries the scent of her perfume mixed with bad intentions. Her lipstick is smudged and the choker sits exactly where it should have been all along.

My phone rings, shattering the moment. One glance at the caller ID makes my good mood evaporate completely.

Preston Wolfe.

"Graham." Preston's voice cuts through the line with crisp efficiency, completely devoid of the warmth that usually colors our conversations. "We need to talk."

"Good morning to you too, Preston."

"This isn't a social call. The disciplinary hearing has been scheduled for this afternoon. Two o'clock at the Club. Don't be late."

My stomach drops though I keep my voice level. "This afternoon? That seems rather sudden."

"The governing board felt it was important to address the situation quickly. Before word spreads beyond our immediate circle."

"Of course they did."

"Graham, I'm going to be very clear with you. This won't be a friendly conversation. Several board members view your actions as a direct challenge to Club authority. They're looking for blood."

"Let them look."

"This isn't a joke." Preston's tone sharpens. "Come prepared to be contrite, apologetic and very convincing about why you deserve a second chance."

"And if I'm not feeling particularly contrite?"

Preston's sigh carries clearly through the speaker. "Then prepare to lose everything you've built. Because they will destroy you, Graham. Personally, professionally, completely."

The line goes dead. I stare at my phone while the first real stirrings of genuine concern take root in my chest. Preston doesn't use words like "destroy" lightly. If he's this worried, the situation is worse than I thought.

Opening the door between our offices, I find Delilah watching me with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Who was that?" she asks immediately. "And don't tell me it was nothing because you look like someone just walked over your grave."

"Business call. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Graham." Her voice turns gentler now, concerned. "What's going on?"

"Nothing I can't handle." I move back to my desk while mentally preparing for the afternoon's confrontation. "I need to step out for a few hours. My driver will take you back to the penthouse."

"Step out where?"

"Business meeting."

"What kind of business meeting?"

"The kind that doesn't concern you."

She stands and moves to the doorway between our offices. "It's about last night, isn't it? About what happened during the Hunt."

“Sophia—”

"They're going to punish you for protecting me."

The guilt in her voice makes something twist painfully in my chest but I can't afford to let her blame herself for this. Not when there are so many other factors at play.

"No one is punishing me for anything. This is just Club politics, nothing more."

"You're lying."

"I'm protecting you from information you don't need to have."

"By treating me like a child?"

"By treating you like someone I care about keeping safe." The admission slips out before I can stop it and I see her eyes widen slightly. "Go back to the penthouse. Order whatever you want for dinner, watch terrible movies, take a long bath."

"How long is this meeting supposed to take?"

"As long as it takes."

She studies my face, clearly trying to read between the lines of what I'm not telling her. "Graham, if this is serious?—"

"It's not."

"If you're in real trouble because of me?—"

"I'm not." I move to her, cupping her face in my hands and forcing her to meet my eyes. "I'm going to handle this and everything will be fine. But I need you to trust me and do as I ask."

"Which is?"

"Go home. Stay safe. And for the love of God, behave yourself while I'm gone."

She leans into my touch despite herself and for a moment I think she might argue further. Instead she nods reluctantly.

"Fine. But Graham?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever this is about, whatever you're walking into—be careful."

The concern in her voice makes my chest tight with an emotion I'm not ready to name. "I always am."

As I watch her gather her things and prepare to leave, I can only hope that's going to be enough.