Page 21 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty

BECKETT

Once she's out of sight and her footsteps fade behind the corner, I reach for my phone. With a few quick taps, the line connects within two rings.

"Morning, Mr. Sinclair," my assistant chirps, her voice carrying that professional brightness that borders on irritating this early.

"Clothes delivery is still on schedule?" I keep my tone neutral, already moving to my desk.

"Yes, sir. Ten minutes out. Designer pieces. Full sizing range. Shoes, underthings, makeup, skincare. Everything's been vetted as requested."

I glance toward the doorway where Luna disappeared. "Add paint supplies. Full professional kit. Easel, oils, canvas, brushes. Top shelf only. I want it here by noon."

There's a slight hesitation on the other end. "Yes, sir. Priority courier. Should I?—"

"Handle it," I cut her off, ending the call with a decisive click.

I toss the phone onto the desk and lean back into the chair, letting the familiar rhythm of screens and silence settle around me. It should feel like a return to normal, a reclaiming of control.

It doesn't.

My fingers hover over the keyboard while my eyes scan the code scrolling in front of me, but nothing holds my attention. Not like her. The image of Luna on her knees, lips parted, gagging and moaning while taking me like she was made for it, plays on repeat behind my eyes.

I exhale sharply and roll my neck, trying to shake the image loose. It doesn't work.

God, her mouth. The way she looked up at me like she hated every second of it—while choking it down like she was starving. It should've been a release. Instead, it rewired my fucking brain.

A minute later, movement catches at the edge of my vision. She walks past the office door, still barefoot, still wearing my shirt, still unmistakably mine. Every line of code I've written suddenly looks like nonsense.

I try to focus, forcing my attention back to the screen where bright lines of code stack with precision, the architecture clean and correct—except it isn't. My fingers hover above the keys, but nothing lands where it's supposed to.

I blink, sit back, and exhale through my nose before pushing my glasses higher.

I need to concentrate. This code matters.

This project matters. I don't take on clients lightly, and this one is high-tier.

Private. Confidential. Risk mitigation built into every line.

If I fuck it up, it won't just cost me—it'll make noise .

And I don't like noise.

The cursor blinks expectantly. My fingers type out a single command, then stop as her image overrides everything else. Her mouth. Her moan. The way she tried not to want it—and failed.

I clench my jaw and shift in the chair, still hard, still fucking aching. It's not just the sex. It's her.

The fight in her. The fire.

I was mesmerized by the way she pushed back at every turn—just as much as it fucking irritated the shit out of me.

The way she dropped to her knees like it killed her pride, the way her lips parted like they were built for silence and surrender, the way her eyes glared up at me even as she choked on my cock and moaned around it.

She's not broken. She's becoming.

And if I'm not careful, I'll catch myself wanting more of it. Wanting her. Not just under me. But everywhere. Every second. An unwarranted distraction in the middle of my perfectly curated life.

I push my glasses up again and sit forward, cracking my neck once before attempting to refocus. Three lines in, I delete them all and curse under my breath.

She's pacing somewhere down the hall. I can hear her footfall—light, bare, cautious. I told her to eat, but I doubt she's touched anything. I told her to help herself, but girls like her never do, not without a push.

Which means I'll probably find her in the kitchen later—starving, stubborn, pretending she's fine while her stomach gnaws at her pride. The thought makes me inexplicably irritated.

I stare at the screen for another full minute before closing the terminal. This can wait. She can't .

When I enter the kitchen, she's standing near the island with her hand wrapped around a mug, looking like she's trying to pretend this is normal.

The coffee's half gone. The food I left out is barely touched.

I pause on the other side of the island, letting the silence stretch between us. She doesn't look up right away, but her body tenses. She feels my presence. I know she does.

"You should eat," I say finally, breaking the quiet.

Her eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to the mug. "I'm not hungry."

I raise a brow, studying the tension in her shoulders. "You will be. I don't plan on being gentle when I claim my cunt tonight."

Her hand tightens around the mug, knuckles whitening.

I watch her for another moment—the way tension pulls tight across her shoulders, the way she shifts her weight like the tile's too cold for her feet but she's too proud to move. The silence between us is almost tangible, charged with everything we're not saying.

Then the buzzer cuts through the air—sharp, direct, echoing through the space. She flinches visibly.

I don't.

"That's for you," I say calmly, already turning toward the entry.

She stays frozen in place, watching me warily as I walk to the door.

When I open it, the hallway is filled with boxes, each bearing designer labels, matte black packaging, silver-foil logos stamped across the tops.

Someone took care with the presentation.

I didn't ask them to. They just know who they're delivering to .

I nod once to the courier and wave them off. No signature needed. No words necessary.

When I turn, she's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes narrowed at the stack like it might bite her.

"You ordered me clothes," she says, the statement somewhere between accusation and question.

"Obviously."

"Makeup."

"Yes."

"Shoes."

I lean against the wall, watching her reaction. "Vetted by a stylist who actually knows what you need."

She crosses her arms over her chest, her stance defensive. "This isn't generosity."

I smirk, appreciating her perception. "No. It's control."

"This is excessive," she says, glaring at the packages.

"You say that like it's a problem." I study the way her fingers dig into her arms, the subtle tells of conflict playing across her face.

She steps forward slowly, one hip cocked as she tilts her head. "You think buying me things is going to make this easier?"

"I don't care if it's easier," I reply honestly. "I care if it's done."

"So this is just about dressing your new toy?" There's a bite to her words, a challenge.

I take a step closer—just one, but enough to make her lift her chin and hold her ground. "I don't play with toys, little thief. I own things. And I don't like them looking like they crawled out of someone else's life."

Her breath catches slightly, a barely perceptible hitch. "You think clothes are going to change me? "

"No." My eyes trace her face, taking in every subtle reaction.

She huffs a laugh—dry, sharp, shaking slightly around the edges. "I'm not your doll."

"You keep saying that." I hold her gaze steadily as understanding passes between us.

She stares down at the boxes like they personally offend her, like they're proof of something she didn't want to admit. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and I can see she's itching to either open one and rip it apart—or maybe rip into me instead.

She doesn't realize it yet, but I'm already addicted to these moments. To her fury. Her pride. That fire in her eyes that makes me want to ruin her and worship her in the same breath.

It hasn't even been a full day, and she's already under my skin.

I say nothing. I just wait, watching the internal battle playing across her features.

"You expect me to just—what—pick one and pretend like this is normal?" she finally asks, voice low and clipped.

"No," I say firmly. "I expect you to finally understand what is happening and stop fighting."

She looks up sharply, green-gold eyes flashing. "You really think I'm just going to fall in line because you bought me shoes? Do you even know where I came from?"

I tilt my head, completely unbothered by her defiance, but intrigued by her statement. "I think you're going to fall in line because you already did. The moment you got on your knees."

Color rises in her cheeks, spreading across the bridge of her nose. Her lips part—defiant, ready to fire something back—but nothing comes. The reminder of her earlier surrender hits its mark.

"You want to play stubborn," I murmur, stepping closer until the heat between our bodies mingles, "but we both know how this ends."

She straightens her spine, shoulders squaring. "Not with me putting on a pretty dress and playing house."

I nod toward the nearest box, a hint of challenge in my voice. "Then pick something else."

"I'm not putting on clothes you chose." Her jaw sets, chin lifting.

"Then I'll do it for you." The words come out soft but unmistakably firm.

Her eyes widen slightly, just a momentary flicker of uncertainty. "You wouldn't."

I take another step, closing the distance between us. "You want to find out?"

We're close now, too close for comfort. I can see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat, the way her pupils dilate slightly. She can feel the weight of my voice in the space between us—steady, commanding, low enough to crawl under her skin and settle there.

"I can put you on the bed," I continue, watching her reaction closely, "tie your hands behind your back, and dress you piece by piece while you pretend you don't enjoy my hands on you."

Her breath stutters. She hides it well, but not well enough. I see the way her lips part, how her chest rises a fraction faster.

"Or," I say, softening my tone slightly, more coaxing than cruel, "you can open the boxes. Pick something for yourself. Pretend this was still your decision."

She doesn't move at first, weighing her options, calculating the cost of defiance against the price of surrender. Then, slowly, her hands reach for the lid of the top box.

She lifts it open, tissue paper rustling beneath her fingers. Her expression shifts as she brushes the fabric inside—silk, deep wine red, delicate straps that would look perfect against her skin.

I watch her closely—the way her throat moves when she swallows, the way her breath slows, the way her pride curls up at the edges even as her body betrays her with a whispered yes.

"It's not my color," she says, but there's no conviction behind the words.

"Try it anyway."

Our eyes meet, a silent battle of wills. Then she drops her gaze, fingers still tracing the silk.

"Fine. But not because you told me to. Because I'm tired of wearing your shirts."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting.

She doesn't look at me when she turns. She walks toward the hallway without another word, box in hand like a shield she's claiming for herself.

When she disappears into the bedroom, I let the smile pull at the corner of my mouth—sharp, quiet, satisfied. She thinks she won a battle.

But she's wrong.