Page 40 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

The question loops through me like a client’s compulsive spending cycle.

My stomach knots as Derek pulls to a stop in front of the towering glass building that houses Hawthorne & Pierce’s offices.

The sunlight has transformed the surface into a living mirror that reflects the neighboring skyscraper in perfect, shimmering detail.

Drawing a breath, I enter the revolving doors.

In the lobby, two men in dark suits nod as I pass, as if they already know exactly who I am and why I am here.

I push the elevator call button, and the doors part instantly, whisking me up so smoothly I barely register the motion.

Despite my bravado, I’m getting more and more frantic.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to get off this horrible roller coaster.

I spent another sleepless night, haunted by the memory of Lucian’s fingers curling deep inside me while Caleb’s hands tormented my breasts behind that velvet curtain.

Finally the compartment opens on the executive floor.

Massive double doors gleam ahead, solid wood reinforced with brass accents that speak of both elegance and deliberate, unyielding security. The company name is etched in clean, modern lettering across the brass plate.

I’m ready to turn and run when Caleb appears.

“We’ve been expecting you.”

Blushing, I look away. I’ll never see him the same way again after the way he had his hands inside my bra.

“Shall we?”

He opens the door, and Lucian is perched on the edge of the wide reception desk.

His midnight-blue gaze sweeps over me slowly, approvingly, lingering on the way my modest work dress skims my hips, the slight flush I can already feel rising along my cheekbones.

Heat slams into me without warning, vivid and unwelcome.

I hate how easily my body remembers, how the memory alone sends a fresh pulse low between my legs.

He stands, crossing to me with that measured stride that makes the air feel thinner, and he brushes a kiss against my cheek.

The contact is restrained for him—lips warm, breath brushing my ear in a way that feels far too intimate for an office—but still deliberate, possessive. Not that the man who has already decided he will be my husband cares about boundaries or appropriateness.

“We’ll show you around,” Lucian says, voice low and smooth, already turning toward the interior hallway as if my agreement is a given.

“No need.” The words leave me sharper than I intend, my fingers curling at my sides. “I won’t be spending a lot of time here.”

He does not take offense. If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts in that maddening half smile that makes my stomach flip.

Caleb falls in beside us without comment, and they lead me deeper into their domain.

His office comes first—strong, masculine lines everywhere, dark leather furniture built for power rather than comfort, a wall of monitors flickering with live feeds and market data that hums with quiet intensity. A single heavy glass sculpture sits on the credenza, its edges sharp enough to look like it could double as a weapon if needed.

It fits him perfectly, rigid control wrapped in quiet luxury.

When his phone rings, he excuses himself with a brief nod.

Lucian’s office is next. The space feels like an extension of the man himself—polished walnut desk positioned to command the room, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Houston skyline in breathtaking detail, and on the far wall, a striking abstract painting.

Bold strokes of deep indigo bleed into gold, the composition both chaotic and precisely controlled, as if the artist captured the exact tension I feel every time Lucian looks at me.