Page 102 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

The voice is male. British. Impossibly polished.

I look at Lucian. Then Caleb. “Who said that?”

“I did, ma’am. Basil,” the voice supplies. “Your virtual suite assistant.”

I look toward the ceiling. “The room has a British butler?”

“An understandable oversimplification, ma’am. Mr. Bonds prefers the term advanced hospitality assistant. I prefer Basil.”

Lucian closes his eyes briefly. “Basil is a Julien Bonds creation.”

Frowning, perplexed, I look at Lucian. “Is this thing for real?”

“Ex-cuse me. I am not a thing, Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce.” He sounds utterly offended.

Oh my God. Did I just offend a machine? “I…uhm…apologize.” This can’t be happening.

Basil harrumphs.

What is even happening here?

“Your luggage has been placed in the dressing room. And the spa is ready for Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce’s arrival.”

“Spa?”

“You’ll find a robe on the end of the bed, ma’am.”

How can Basil know that?

“Go put it on, Sophie,” Lucian tells me. “As you heard, you have an appointment to keep.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Lucian

Las Vegas, Nevada

I thought marrying Sophie would quiet my obsession.

I was wrong.

Yesterday we put our rings on her finger. Last night she opened her body to us because she chose to, not because of a bargain her father made or vows I’d forced her to speak. This morning she came apart beneath our hands before she was fully awake, soft and sore and furious with us for making her want more.

It should have been enough to blunt the edge of eight years of wanting.

Instead, the wanting has changed shape.

It is no longer anticipation.

Now I know exactly how she sounds when pleasure overwhelms her. I know the tiny catch in her breath before she gives in, the way her fingers tighten when she needs reassurance, the look in her eyes when indignation loses its battle with desire.

Knowing has made everything infinitely worse.

She’s my curse.

The more I get, the more I need.

The bedroom door opens.