Page 5 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

She’ll wear a gorgeous gown, there will be witnesses, and we’ll require her father to give her to us while Caleb and I watch his powerlessness with bone-deep satisfaction.

And then…

I can’t help but clench my jaw.

We’ll claim her. Hours of raw, boundary-shattering possession that will leave her broken and sated.

The monitors flicker again, capturing my attention.

A new scene unfolds—two men claiming a woman between them on a wide leather bench, one buried deep in her pussy while the other stretches her ass, their rhythm synchronized and relentless. Her head falls back, mouth open on a continuous moan, her hands clutching at their shoulders as they drive her higher.

My own body responds viscerally, cock throbbing in time with their thrusts, balls tightening with the need to feel Sophie exactly like that—filled, claimed, owned by both of us until she cannot tell where she ends and we begin.

I imagine the tight, wet heat of her clenching around me while Caleb presses in from behind, the way her breath will hitch and break, the microthoughts flashing across her face as pleasure wars with the fury she still carries. We will hold her through every wave, coaxing her surrender until trust begins to bloom in the aftermath, soft and tentative, the first fragile thread of the emotional bond we will weave more tightly with every future claiming.

Altair’s voice cuts through the low thrum of moans and bass, smooth and knowing. “The dungeon is open to you both tonight. Plenty of willing participants eager to celebrate your victory.”

I turn my head slowly, meeting his golden gaze.

“Thank you. No.” My refusal forms without hesitation, rising from the deepest part of me. There is only one woman we want.

Next to us, Caleb nods.

Now we just have to figure out when to put our ring on her finger.

Chapter Three

Sophie

One week later

My assistant, Elena, left an hour ago, and I planned to follow her out the door.

But instead of heading to my dad’s award ceremony, I answered an emergency call from one of my clients.

As we wrap up, a third alarm sounds on my phone. It’s six forty-five, and the gala begins at eight.

Exhaling to steady my racing pulse, I dump my phone into my bag, grab my keys, and lock the office door as I hustle to my car.

Houston traffic will be its usual nightmare, but I refuse to let panic take root. My apartment is only ten minutes away if I drive fast enough, and I picked out my dress this morning.

I can still be on time.

Theoretically.

At my small, downtown apartment, I strip out of my work clothes, take a quick shower, then wrap a towel around me.

I’ve worked twelve days straight, and I’d happily stay home, but tonight matters to my dad. And so does my presence, since my mother is still undergoing experimental treatments in Riyadh.

Once my skin is only a little damp, I pull on my simple emerald-green dress.

I swipe on the barest trace of mascara and a neutral lipstick in front of the bathroom mirror.

I twist my hair back into a quick chignon, securing it with pins that will no doubt work their way out before the night ends. Then again, being perfectly made up has never been a priority for me.

I call for a car while I slip on low heels.

Thankfully the driver pulls up just as I step outside. The warm, humid Houston evening wraps around me, all but plastering the dress to my thighs.