Page 22 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Twenty-One

LUNA

The dress slides over my skin like water, clinging to the curve of my hips and hugging my waist with practiced elegance.

The silk whispers against bruises I haven't dared to look at, its touch both comfort and reminder.

Deep wine red, and I know without asking that its color wasn't chosen by accident.

Everything about it speaks of intention. Soft. Expensive. Dangerous.

Like the man who gave it to me.

I tug the thin strap over my shoulder and stare at myself in the mirror, surprised by the woman looking back. My eyes look clearer this morning. Not calm—just sharpened. Focused. Like my brain has finally caught up to the rest of me and remembered why I came here in the first place.

This was never about sex. Never about being claimed.

It was supposed to be about freedom. About escape.

About survival. And somehow, I've ended up in the last place I ever wanted to be—owned by a man.

Except this one is different. This one doesn't need to raise his voice or lose his temper to make me drop to my knees. He just has to give me a single look.

But that's fine. Let him think he's won. Let him look at me in this dress he chose, this dress that feels like a second skin, and think he's wearing down the last parts of me that still know how to fight.

Because I'm going to smile. I'm going to obey. And when the moment comes?

I'm going to steal enough money from him and then I'm going to run.

I adjust the neckline one last time, smoothing the fabric down over my stomach before drawing in a deep, steadying breath. But I lift my chin. Roll my shoulders back. And walk out of the room like I haven't already decided to burn it all down.

He's sitting at the kitchen island when I walk in—not at the table or on the couch, but perched on a tall, black stool with leather stitched into the seat and steel beneath the frame.

The piece is minimal, cold, and somehow perfect for him.

He's leaned back against the counter, legs spread, forearms resting on his thighs, sculpted abs still on full display, blue eyes down like he's still focused on whatever task had his attention before I stepped in.

So annoyingly and devastatingly handsome.

I feel the exact moment he senses me. His head lifts slowly, and when his gaze finally lands on me, it doesn't drift or wander—it devours. His eyes drag over the dress like he's watching it bleed onto my skin, like he already knows precisely how he's going to take it off.

I don't look away. I meet him head-on—controlled, careful, unwilling to show even a hint of weakness.

Every step I take across the marble floor is measured, my heels clicking softly with each move, the hem of the dress swaying just above my knees like it doesn't know it was chosen for someone else's pleasure.

When I stop a few feet from him, I fold my arms across my chest in silent challenge.

He doesn't speak at first. Just sits there and watches me like he's waiting for something to give, for the first crack to appear in my carefully constructed facade.

Then, finally, he nods to the floor. "Turn around."

I arch a brow, refusing to immediately comply. "Excuse me?"

"Let me see what I bought." His voice carries no apology, no hesitation.

My jaw tightens at his presumption.

This whole situation would be so much easier if he could just stop being an ass for 0.5 seconds.

"You didn't buy me."

He smirks—slow and sharp, a predator enjoying the game. "Didn't I?"

"You can dress me. You can claim me. But you don't own the rest of me."

"That's adorable," he says softly, voice velvet over steel, "considering how wet you were when I made you beg for my cock last night."

My cheeks flush with the memory of his fingers inside me, of the sounds I couldn't hold back. I hate that he sees it, hate that even now, my body betrays me.

"I'm a person. Not an object," I snap, trying to regain ground .

"Hmm," he says, pushing himself upright, his full height unfolding like a promise and a threat all at once. "You're the prize I hunted. The reward I claimed. The Possession I own. A piece in my collection." His eyes never leave mine. "You think the dress changes that?"

I glare up at him, refusing to be intimidated. "I think it proves you like your toys soft and quiet."

He steps closer, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're neither."

My breath catches in my throat.

His palm lifts—slow, deliberate—and brushes one finger down the strap of my dress where it rests against my shoulder. The touch is barely there, yet I feel it everywhere.

"But I'll make you both," he says, voice lowering to something that slides under my skin and settles in my bones.

"You can try," I challenge, though the waver in my voice betrays me.

His lips curve into a half-smile. "I don't try, Luna. I succeed."

He steps in behind me, one hand sliding around my waist with possessive ease. The heat of him presses against my back—solid, certain—and his fingers find the curve of my hip through the silk like he's traced this path a hundred times before.

I go still, fighting the instinct to lean into him.

But he doesn't pause. He leans in, lips just behind my ear, his voice low enough to hum beneath my skin. "Sit."

I hesitate—just for a beat. But his hand doesn't tighten. He doesn't force me. He simply waits, confident in my eventual compliance.

So I do. I turn slowly, and he's already sitting again, legs spread wide on the stool like it's a throne he's made specifically for me to climb onto.

His eyes never leave mine as I straddle him, the dress rising up my thighs with every inch I sink down. The fabric catches against my skin until I'm perched above his cock, with only his thin pajama pants and my tattered pride as barriers between us.

And Jesus, how is he so hard already?

His hands settle on my hips—not tight, not rough, just there. Anchoring. Claiming.

"You look so fucking good in this dress," he murmurs, eyes darkening as they trace my curves. "But I like it better bunched around your waist."

I don't respond. I won't give him that satisfaction, won't let him know how his words affect me.

But my breath stutters when he shifts his hips, just enough to drag me across the thick length of him. The friction steals every coherent thought from my head, leaving only sensation.

He groans softly, the sound hot against my neck. "You feel that?" he whispers, lips brushing my skin. "How hard you make me without even trying?"

I swallow, unable to form words as heat pools between my legs. And once again I find myself filling with desire so thick and heavy, all my plans for escape just evaporate.

His hands guide me again—slowly this time, with a gentleness that feels more dangerous than force. A careful rock of my hips forward, then back, pressing my core against the bulge beneath me. The pressure is perfect. Constant. Just enough to make me crave more without giving me release.

And he knows it. He watches my face, not like he's trying to break me, but like he's savoring every micro-expression, every small surrender.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough with restraint. "The way you grind on me... you don't even know what you're doing to me, do you? "

My fingers curl against his shoulders, searching for balance, for control that keeps slipping further away. There's none to be found here—just him, just heat, just this unbearable rhythm that makes my legs tremble and my body lean into an ache I'm trying desperately not to chase.

His hand slides up my spine, gradual and steady, until it cradles the back of my neck in a grip that's both possessive and tender.

"You were made to move like this," he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. "Slow. Needy. Desperate without saying it."

I grit my teeth against the truth of his words, but I don't stop. I can't. I'm no longer in the right mind to.

But neither does he.

He guides me harder now—pulling me down with each roll of my hips, letting my clit drag over the ridge of his cock through the fabric. The silk of my dress bunches higher with every breath, exposing more skin to his hungry gaze.

"You're soaked already," he growls, voice deepening with arousal. "I can feel it through my fucking pants."

My breath hitches as embarrassment and desire war inside me.

"You're making a mess." He presses a kiss to my jaw—hot, slow, open-mouthed—and I feel my resolve crumbling. "You gonna come just from this, little thief?" he whispers against my skin.

I glare at him, unwilling to admit how close I already am.

His smile curves dark against my skin, knowing and triumphant. "Thought so."

Just as his hands tighten, pulling me down harder against him, the phone rings. It's loud, sharp, intrusive—slicing through the haze between us.

I stay perfectly still. So does he .

The phone rings again, more insistent this time.

Beckett's jaw ticks, and for a moment, I think he might ignore it—might shove it off the counter, fuck me right here and dare the rest of the world to come knocking.

But he doesn't. His grip loosens, and he exhales through his nose, slow and tight. He leans just enough to glance at the screen, and I catch the name flashing there. Sebastian.

Something shifts between us. Subtle, but immediate. The atmosphere changes like a door slamming shut.

His hands leave my hips. One presses to my lower back, guiding me off his lap—not harshly or coldly, just... deliberately. Like the moment's over. Like something heavier has landed in the room.

"Go wait in the bedroom," he says, voice quieter now, all business. "And close the door."

I blink at the sudden shift. "Is everything?—"

"Now, Luna." The use of my name stops me, carries weight I can't ignore.

I stand, adjusting the hem of my dress with trembling fingers, and walk without arguing. Not because I'm afraid, but because I can feel the change in the air—the sudden tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his eyes have gone distant and cold.

I leave him there, pacing toward the hallway without looking back. Behind me, he answers the call with a curt, "Yeah."

Through the walls, I catch fragments of the conversation—his tone shifting deeper, edged with something darker than I've heard before.

"When?" A pause. "They're sure?" Another pause. "...wasn't on the list." His voice drops even lower. "...fuck. "

The bedroom door closes behind me, and I exhale slowly, leaning against it as my heart rate normalizes.

I don't know what just happened. But I know one thing for certain—Beckett Sinclair doesn't scare easily.

That silence? That stillness? That's not peace. That's the moment right before the storm hits. And I have a feeling I might be at the center of it.