Page 72 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Your mother had only ever been with Ben, according to the journals,” I explain. “David has them locked in a safe, but I can get them for you.”

“No,” says Ophelia, bursting through the elevator door as soon as it slides open. “I don’t want them.”

“According to David, there’s nothing unpleasant in the journals. Your mother wrote poems about your father, reflecting on their love.”

“Reading them will only rub salt in the wound.”

“Fair enough,” I say, unlocking the door to my apartment, guiding her inside. “Let me show you to the bedroom. It’s late.”

I walk upstairs with her bag, showing her into the master bedroom.

“Impressive,” she mutters, appearing in the doorway behind me. “Add one more cushion onto the bed and you’ve got yourself a pillow fort.”

“I like the cushions,” I say, strolling into the bedroom. “And this side of the bed. I always sleep nearest to the door.”

I feel Ophelia stiffen behind me. The lack of words coming out of her mouth tells me she is uncertain about something.

“Is there a problem?” I say, turning around to meet her gaze.

She steps back through the doorway, out of the room. “I’m not sharing a bed with my boss.”

“Technically, it’s after hours, so I’m not your boss.”

“I’m under a contract.”

“And under orders… from your boss.” I wink at her.

She doesn’t find that very funny.

“The bed is a king-size. Plenty of room to stretch out.” I narrow my eyes down on her. “But if you feel more comfortable, I can sleep on the couch.”

Ophelia bites her lip, looking between me and the bed. After a beat of silence, she responds: “Yeah… I appreciate that. Thanks.”

“Great,” I say, opening the cabinet to grab a spare set of bedding.

In closing the cabinet door, walking out of the room, I collide with Ophelia as she walks in.

“Apologies,” I say, reshuffling the linens under my arm. “I should pay more attention to where I’m going.”

“Totally…” says Ophelia, her gaze lingering for a dangerous amount of time.

Her soft lips part, her expressive blue eyes looking up at me in question, like I have all the answers. I don’t have anything. All I have is a dangerous amount of love for her.

And when you love someone, you should love them from afar. Distance is cleaner, and it causes fewer casualties.

But my natural instinct is to step closer, abandon the linens and kiss her on the mouth. Ophelia’s touch melts away the fundraiser, the attack; every single worry I have dissolves the second we collide. All I can think about is her lips, how soft they feel against mine, how naturally our bodies come together.

I scoop my hands under her ass, lifting her up, encouraging her to wrap her legs around my back.

She crosses her ankles around me, pressing her body flush against mine.

I breathe deeply through the kiss, inhaling her.

I splay my hands over her body, peeling away the black sequin dress. I need her naked. I need to sink my cock into her. Show her how much I care, and that I will never stop fucking caring.

I sit her on the edge of the bed, lowering the dress straps. The garment gapes around her chest, one breast falling out.

I concentrate on her shoulder, planting a tender kiss to each before lowering my mouth to her perfect breasts, taking them into my mouth and sucking.