Page 125 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

A spread of seafood awaits—lobster tails drizzled with lemon butter, oysters nestled on beds of crushed ice, and delicate crab cakes paired with vibrant mango salsa.

The view is breathtaking. The Gulf stretches on forever, a shimmering expanse broken only by the occasional leap of a dolphin in the distance. For a moment, I can pretend we’re all alone in the world.

But it’s the heat in Dorian’s gaze and the quiet intensity in Brennan’s that holds me captive. Their eyes promise things that make my pulse race.

“Shall we?” Dorian pulls back a chair for me, and his knuckles brush the side of my breast as I sit. There’s no doubt it was a calculated graze.

Instantly my nipples harden, and my breath catches.

I look up at him, and he grins, all predator, no pretense. My husband is a menace. He did that intentionally, wanting me on edge.

Beneath the table, Brennan moves a hand to the inside of my thigh. His fingers are warm and deliberate, stroking just above my knee.

My lack of panties has left me vulnerable, hyperaware of every touch, every breeze that teases my bare skin.

The crew moves discreetly around us, their eyes averted but present, and the thrill of their nearness only heightens the tension coiling through me.

While I was distracted, Dorian filled my plate, and I take a bite of a crab cake. The sweet, tender meat bursts on my tongue. It’s the best I’ve ever had. “How long are we here for?”

Dorian quirks a brow, his lips twitching. “Overnight.”

Before I can protest, Brennan’s hand slides higher, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, dangerously close to where I’m already aching.

“We have a sitter for Calypso.” His voice is low andsteady, as if he’s not unraveling me with every inch he claims. “I went over all the instructions with her twice. There’s even a phone number if you want to talk to her yourself. She’ll be staying overnight in our cottage.”

I tip my head to study him, my heart softening even as my body burns. “Are you kidding me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to relax unless you were sure she was taken care of.”

Once more, my heart melts, a warmth that clashes with the heat pooling between my legs. “Thank you.”

He exchanges a glance with Dorian and grins, a rare flash of mischief. “Self-serving.”

I look at Dorian, whose eyes are dark, smoldering, a promise of decadence. No doubt he’s planned a sexfest for us. And with the way Brennan’s fingers now creep higher, brushing the edge of my folds, there’s nothing I want more.

I shift in my seat, trying to maintain composure as a crew member refills our drinks, his movements precise, oblivious to the torment unfolding beneath the tablecloth.

Dorian leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re so wet already, aren’t you, little one?” His voice is a low purr, and before I can answer, his hand joins Brennan’s under the table.

The man I married boldly slides his fingers between my thighs. He parts my folds, teasing my entrance, while Brennan’s thumb finds my clit, circling with maddening precision. I bite my lip, stifling a gasp, my fork trembling in my hand as I fight to focus on my plate.

The moment our steward arrives with dessert, I’m teetering on the edge, my body a live wire.

“Coconut panna cotta with pineapple carpaccio and lime zest.” He sets down shallow white bowls, the creamy dessert jiggling faintly.

Dorian is relentless, slipping his fingers inside me, curling,seeking my G-spot with ruthless accuracy, while Brennan’s thumb presses harder, a slow, torturous rhythm that makes my thighs quiver. I grip the table’s edge, my knuckles white, as the steward retreats, none the wiser.

Aware of Brennan watching my mouth, I take a bite of the panna cotta. Cool, creamy coconut melts on my tongue, the pineapple tangy and sweet, a little wild. “Oh my God. This is amazing.” My voice is breathy, betraying me.

“Is it?” Dorian tests his, nodding, satisfied, his fingers thrusting deeper, slow and deliberate, each stroke dragging me closer to ruin.

Brennan shifts, his hand retreating only to be replaced by Dorian’s thumb on my clit, while Brennan’s fingers now plunge into me, finding that same sensitive spot with devastating skill. They’ve switched, seamless, merciless, and I’m drowning, my body screaming for release I know they won’t grant.

“If you’re not going to eat that, I want to save it for later,” I manage, desperate to sound normal, even as my hips shift involuntarily, chasing their touch.

Brennan grins, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “You’re a fan.” His fingers curl inside me, stroking my G-spot with expert precision, and I clench around him, a whimper caught in my throat.

“I’ll have our chef make it weekly,” Dorian says, his tone casual, as if he’s not orchestrating this sensual onslaught.