Page 195 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

Dorian’s mouth is on mine before the last syllable leaves my lips. Not tentative—hungry. The kind of kiss that takes without apology but somehow still gives back more than it steals. His fingers are warm at my jaw, angling me exactly how he wants me, and I melt into it because I’ve wanted this—him—for far too long to pretend otherwise.

Then Brennan is there, behind me, sliding his palm over my hip, up my side, until his body is at my back, solid and certain. He tips his head down, his breath brushing my ear before his mouth finds the curve of my neck. The heat of his kiss sinks deep, anchoring me between them until I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.

The opal catches a shard of light as Dorian deepens thekiss, his tongue brushing mine, and Brennan’s hands roam with that steady confidence that makes my pulse trip.

I’m dizzy from the weight of them, from the certainty in every touch that I amtheirs. And that I’m loved.

Dorian pulls back just far enough to breathe against my lips.

In that fractional space, Brennan is in front of me, his mouth claiming mine—slower, heavier, like he wants to memorize the taste of this moment. My knees go weak, but Dorian’s hand at my waist and Brennan’s arm around me keep me from falling.

By the time Brennan eases back, my breathing is wrecked. Dorian’s eyes are locked on mine, dark and sharp with intent. He dips his head, capturing the hem of my shirt between his fingers, the fabric curling in his grip like he’s already claimed the right to take it off.

And he’s right.

His voice is low, deliberate, and utterly certain. “Shall we seal our vow…? Make it official?”

My pulse turns thready. “What do you have in mind?”

With the way his eyes darken, I know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Let us show you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Isla

Dorian’s sensual suggestion lands low in my sex, his teasing words a promise and a provocation, and the heat in his gaze makes my pulse trip.

This is not their penthouse. Here there is no sweep of city lights or the echo of marble floors. We don’t have champagne or silk sheets.

My place is tiny. Books are scattered everywhere, along with syllabi. On the counter is an abandoned coffee cup, still half full. And Calypso’s toys are strewn about in a lazy scatter by the wall, on the couch, under the television stand. This isnottheir world.

But they’re still here.

Not just here but choosing to stay. Lovingme.Choosing us.

My chest aches with it. The proof. That this isn’t convenient. That it isn’t an image carefully curated for the press. That it’s real.

The air between us turns molten as Dorian leans in a littlemore. Brennan’s presence shifts too, with the subtle sound of his boots on the floor as he comes in behind me. Their heat surrounds me, a human cage I don’t want to escape.

Dorian lifts the hem of my shirt just a little.

His eyes hold mine, unblinking, as if he’s giving me the chance to stop this, to stophim.

I don’t.

Brennan places his palm flat against the small of my back, the pressure just enough to tell me he’s here, he’s in this, and he’s not going to let me drift anywhere but toward them. His breath stirs my hair as he leans in from behind, his chest firm against my spine.

With a fierce growl, Dorian lowers his head. Locked on to me, he claims my mouth in a way that is devouring.

He shows no hesitation. There’s no easing in—just the kind of hungry, soul-deep claiming that makes me go wobbly. I sink into it, into him, my fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt like I need something solid to hold on to.

When I respond, my husband slows his kiss, drawing me deeper into that dangerous place where the world narrows to just sensation.

His fingers hook more firmly into the hem of my shirt, lifting it an inch, then another, his knuckles brushing my bare skin.

Brennan’s hands tighten on my hips. Once more, his lips find the hollow beneath my ear and sealing over it with a kiss that’s more like a brand.