Page 99 of Claimed By the Boss
“One day a week,” I say. “No council, no business, no exceptions, not even emergencies unless someone is actually dying. Just us. You, me, Elena. A day that belongs to nothing except the three of us, protected the way you protect everything else you actually care about.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I watch him take this in fully, not as a negotiation to manage but as a promise he’s about to make and intends to keep.
“Sundays,” he says.
“Sundays.”
“Done.”
I look at him for a long moment, the document signed between us, every condition named and accepted without argument, and something settles in my chest that has been unsettled since the day I found page fourteen.
“That’s it,” I say. “That’s everything.”
“That’s everything,” he agrees.
He stands, comes around the table, and I rise to meet him, the contract finished, the pen set down, nothing left between us now except exactly what we are.
“You read every page this time,” he says quietly.
“I did.”
“What was different?”
I think about the question for a moment, genuinely considering it, because the answer matters and I want to give him the true one.
“The first time, I was reading to survive something,” I say. “This time, I was reading because I trust the person who wrote it. That’s the whole difference.”
His hand finds my jaw, the same way it has a hundred times before, except nothing about this moment carries the urgency of fear or argument or proximity. This is slower. Deliberate. Two people who have finally arrived somewhere they both chose, with full knowledge of everything that came before.
“Celine.”
“Don’t talk me out of it,” I tell him, echoing words from months ago, except this time there’s nothing to talk me out of. There’s only this. Only us. Everything we’ve built stands exactly where we want it to stand.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He closes the distance between us in one step. His hand slides into my hair as his mouth claims mine.
The kiss starts deep and claiming, his lips firm and sure against mine, but hunger takes over fast. His tongue strokes into mymouth with intent, tasting like dark coffee and the faint bite of whiskey from whatever he drank earlier.
I meet him with the same fire, kissing him back hard, my fingers already working at the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. The fabric feels warm from his body, still perfectly pressed from the long day.
He backs me toward the desk with purposeful steps. My hips bump the edge first. He lifts me easily onto the polished wood surface, shoving the few remaining papers aside with one impatient sweep of his arm.
The cool surface presses against the backs of my bare thighs where my navy pencil skirt has already ridden up. I part my knees instinctively to make room for him as he steps between them, his charcoal trousers brushing against my skin.
I tug harder at his shirt until several buttons pop free and scatter across the floor. My palms spread over the warm, hard planes of his chest, nails dragging lightly down the ridges of muscle.
He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating into my mouth, and pushes my skirt higher up my waist with rough hands. The movement exposes the black lace panties underneath and the tops of my stockings.
His mouth breaks from mine only to trail hot and open along my jaw and down my neck. He sucks at the sensitive skin just below my ear, hard enough that I know it will leave a mark.
One of his hands wraps firmly around my throat, holding me exactly where he wants me, thumb pressing lightly under my jaw in that possessive way that makes heat flood between my legs. His other hand slides up my inner thigh, teasing the edge of my soaked panties before pushing the lace aside.
“Zane,” I gasp as two thick fingers drag through my wetness and push inside me without warning. He curls them deep, stroking that spot that makes my back arch off the desk. My head falls back into his grip, and a needy moan slips out of me. I grip his silver hair with one hand, pulling him closer while my other hand clutches at his open shirt.
He pumps his fingers harder, steady and relentless, his breath hot against my neck as he keeps sucking and biting at my skin. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside me fill the quiet office along with our ragged breathing.
His scent surrounds me completely, warm skin and cologne and pure masculine hunger, and I feel myself growing wetter around his fingers with every stroke.
