Page 29 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

I have no business having a reaction to anyone other than the man whose ring is settled on my finger.

We make our way through the swaying couples. I’m glad someone is having fun, talking, drinking the expensive alcohol.

At the edge of the dance floor, Dorian is waiting, his posture casual. Deceptively so? With a nod, Brennan releases me to Dorian. It’s a silent handover, and I’m back in Dorian’s orbit, and the magnetic pull of him is inescapable.

“Enjoy yourself?” Not waiting for an answer, Dorian slides an arm around my waist and pulls me close, reclaiming me.

The next hour passes in a blur of music and motion. Jaxon keeps the energy high, spinning tracks that range from sultry R and B to pop anthems, to country line dances. Thanks to him, the atmosphere is a living, breathing thing.

I sip champagne, nod at small talk, and let Dorian guide me through the obligatory mingling. Through it all, Brennan is nearby, joining the conversations, and he’s a presence I now—ridiculously—find reassuring.

A few minutes later, by prior arrangement, double doors at the far end of the ballroom swing open and the cake is wheeled in.

My breath catches at its sheer magnificence. It’s a towering masterpiece, five tiers of midnight black fondant glistening under the chandeliers, each layer adorned with cascading sugar flowers in deep crimson and gold—roses, orchids, and lilies, all so lifelike that I wonder if they’re real.

Delicate filigree swirls climb the sides, shimmering with edible gold dust, and at the top sits a sleek crown—of course there’s a crown—crafted from smooth black fondant, its simple arches studded with tiny, flawless diamonds made from sugar.

It’s not a wedding cake either Margaux or I would have chosen. This is a monument to excess, a billionaire’s fantasy brought to life.

We make our way to the elaborate display, and a server offers us a silver knife.

Because my hand is trembling, I simply place mine on top of his. With surgical precision, he cuts into the masterpiece.

After plating a small slice, he breaks off a sliver and turns to me. “Open up.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No one does that anymore,” I protest, glancing at the onlookers snapping photos. “It’s—it’s ridiculous.”

His eyes darken, and a wicked glint sparks in them. “Humor me, little one.” Before I can argue further, he presses the cake to my lips, and I part them reluctantly. The heavenly chocolate melts on my tongue.

The crowd cheers, but it’s background noise as he leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “I can’t wait to do this with my cock.” His whispered words are a filthy promise. “And you’ll take it all like a good girl. Won’t you?”

My knees threaten to fold, and my mind reels. Warmth floods me in a mix of shock, outrage, and forbidden temptation.

With his lips, he brushes my earlobe, a fleeting tease, and then he pulls back, leaving me trembling, pinned by his stare, the taste of cake and sin lingering on my tongue.

“Perfect,” Marcella calls, rapidly clicking the shutter. “Just perfect.”

This time, I was so wrapped up in Dorian that I never even noticed her.

As the cake is served to our guests, he claims me for another slow dance.

When it’s over, I ask to be excused. Everything has beentoo much. My feet hurt, and the gown has become itchy. “I’ll just be on the balcony.”

He lifts an eyebrow. Like Brennan had earlier, Dorian searches my features.

“I won’t go anywhere else.” When he doesn’t respond, I go on. “You can trust me.”

Can I, little one?Even though the words are unspoken, I know his expression proves he’s thinking them.

“Ten minutes. No longer.”

I’m somewhat surprised when Brennan doesn’t follow me, like he had when I’d gone to the restroom earlier.

I hardly slow down to snag a much-needed glass of champagne from the end of one of the bars and continue outside. Instantly I’m wrapped in warmth and humidity, with the barest hint of a breeze.

I continue to the far end, away from others who also need a respite from the party.

Leaning forward, I drink in the peace.