Page 61 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

I let her lead, my hands settling lightly at her waist, holding but not constraining. Her arms wind around my neck, drawing me closer as the kiss deepens, becomes more heated. When she pulls back slightly, her eyes are dark with a desire that mirrors my own.

"Take me to bed, Beckett," she whispers against my lips. "As your equal."

I lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest as I carry her through the penthouse to the bedroom. This time, there's no power play, no demonstration of dominance. Just care. Just connection. Just us.

I set her down gently beside the bed, giving her space to decide what happens next.

She reaches for me, and I let her undress me, each button undone with infuriating slowness, like she knows exactly what it's doing to me.

Like she's teasing the control out of my hands on purpose.

And fuck, I let her—because right now, I want to be unraveled.

When my shirt falls open, her hands slide inside, tracing the contours of my chest, the tattoos inked into my skin. Her touch is exploratory, appreciative, lingering on the places where she once painted me with gold.

"Your turn," I murmur, reaching for the zipper of her dress. She turns, presenting her back to me in a gesture of trust that means more than she could possibly know.

I draw the zipper down with careful precision, exposing the elegant line of her spine inch by inch. When the dress pools at her feet, I press a kiss to the nape of her neck, to the skin that once bore my collar. A different kind of claiming—one freely given and received.

She turns in my arms, clad in nothing but sheer black lace that barely hides the soft swells of her ass and the curve of her pussy beneath. My cock twitches hard at the sight, straining against my pants as I take in every inch of her—every perfect, fucking devastating inch.

The bruises from that night are long healed, leaving no visible marks on her body. But I know the invisible ones remain, just as mine do—scars that shaped us, changed us, brought us here to this moment.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, the words simple but sincere.

Her smile is soft, genuine. "So are you."

She reaches for me again, and this time when our bodies meet, there's no barrier between us. Just skin against skin, heat against heat, desire meeting desire in perfect equilibrium.

I lift her onto the bed, following her down, careful to keep my weight from crushing her.

We move together with a synchronicity that feels both familiar and entirely new—hands exploring, lips tasting, bodies remembering what feels good while discovering new territories neither of us has mapped before.

When I settle between her thighs, it's not with dominance but with reverence. I look up at her, needing to be sure. "Is this okay?"

Her hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking along my jawline with tender appreciation. "Yes," she breathes. "Everything is okay."

I bury my face between her thighs like it's the only place I want to die—licking, sucking, tasting her like a man starved.

Her moans start soft, but I don't stop until they're breaking.

Until her thighs are shaking and she's grinding against my mouth, chasing the edge like she needs me to get her there.

She tastes like trust, like something I don't deserve but would bleed for. This isn't about power. It's about reverence. About worship. About pleasure freely given and freely taken, no demands—just devotion.

When she comes apart beneath my mouth, it's with my name on her lips—raw and breathless—not a surrender but a celebration. Of survival. Of choice. Of us.

After, she pulls me up to her, eyes dark with a need that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with claiming.

"I want you," she says softly, but there's nothing timid in it. "All of you."

"You already have me," I murmur, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Every fucking part."

I position myself above her, my cock already hard and aching, but I don't rush. Can't. Her body's too precious. Her trust too rare.

I slide my hand along her inner thigh, parting her slowly, letting my cock drag through her dripping pussy before I push in—inch by inch—until I'm seated so deep it feels like I've buried myself in her soul. She gasps. Clenches. Writhes. And I swear I almost come from the feel of it.

"Fuck, Luna," I groan. "You're perfect. So fucking tight. So fucking mine."

It doesn't feel like sex. It feels like coming home. Like being let in after a lifetime of being locked out.

We move together slowly at first, like we're learning each other all over again.

Her hands glide across my back, her fingers in my hair, every touch a tether pulling me deeper.

Her cunt pulses around my cock, holding me there like she never wants me to leave.

Like she's trying to memorize the shape of me from the inside out.

My mouth finds the soft skin of her throat, her collarbone, the spot behind her ear that always makes her gasp. She shudders beneath me, thighs tightening around my waist in a silent, desperate plea.

More.

Harder.

Don't stop.

"You feel that?" I whisper against her neck. "That's how you know it's real. That you're safe. That you're mine."

Every kiss. Every thrust. Every inch of her dragging against every inch of me builds something fierce between us—raw and consuming and sacred as sin.

"Look at me," I whisper, voice barely steady as I edge closer to falling apart. "I want to see you when you fall."

Her eyes lock with mine, wide and vulnerable and burning with something that splits me in two. Trust. Devotion. A surrender I didn't ask for—but she's giving me anyway.

We don't break eye contact. Not when I start fucking her harder. Not when her nails bite into my shoulders. Not when our bodies start chasing something ancient, inevitable, and holy.

"You're everything," I breathe, barely holding on. "You're everything, Luna."

When she falls apart, it's with a cry that sounds like a vow—her entire body trembling, her cunt clenching around my cock like she's claiming me from the inside out.

I slam into her once, twice—then spill deep inside her with a groan that's all hunger and heartbreak. My body jerks with it, each pulse of cum claiming her from the inside out. And she fucking takes it—arching for more, gasping like my name is her gospel.

Her voice is soft, nearly broken as she murmurs,

"I don't want to let go."

Like the moment my arms leave her, everything might fall apart.

I don't say anything. I just hold her closer and let my silence make the promise for me, her head resting on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.

My fingers trace lazy shapes along her back, grounding both of us.

Our bodies still tangled, still joined—like if I let go now, it might all unravel.

"I've got you," I whisper into her hair. "No one's ever touching you again. Not without going through me."

And I won't risk losing this. Not now. Not ever.

"So," she says after a while, her voice soft with contentment. "Partners."

I press a kiss to the top of her head, smiling against her hair. "Partners."

"I like that better," she murmurs, fingers drawing abstract patterns on my chest.

"So do I," I admit, surprising myself with how true it feels.

She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face in the dim light. "You know, for someone who built his entire persona around control, you're adapting remarkably well to equality."

I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe I was always waiting for someone worth adapting for."

Her smile is soft, genuine, reaching her eyes in a way that makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to perfect happiness. "Or maybe," she suggests, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to my lips, "you were always more than the control you clung to. Just waiting for someone to see it."

As she settles against me, warm and trusting, I finally understand.

What started as possession turned into permission.

She chose me.

And in her choice, I found something I'd spent a lifetime pretending I didn't need.

Her. Us.

Love.