Staking His Claim

Chapter 1

1

Fletcher

T oday was the day.

I stared across the conference table at the woman I’d shared a hellish three years with.

She stared back with cold, dead eyes.

I could see the sneer forming long before it made the faintest appearance on her botoxed lips. “I suppose you think you’ve won,” my soon-to-be ex-wife acidly.

I took my time to relax into my seat then shrugged, knowing it would infuriate her. Little did she know that I was far from cool.

The ice she’d accused me of having in my veins was nowhere near temperate. More like boiling point. For the fact that I had to wait this long to be rid of her.

I didn't care about the money she was greedily demanding. Or even the condo I had to give up. The condo I was living in long before I met her.

All I cared about was how quickly I could get through the next two hours. I ignored her and shifted my gaze to her lawyer.

“Are we done here?”

The small, mean bastard grinned as if he had won the battle of the century, not knowing that I was savoring the greater prize.

Hell, I would’ve happily paid twice as much if he could’ve guaranteed me an hour or even half an hour less than I had to wait.

I kept my gaze on him as he slid the documents across the desk, not daring to look to my left.

Where she sat. My prize.

Attentive as ever, her fingers flew across the tablet, recording everything as I had told her to. Not that I needed her here either.

But then my obsession with Emily Hartley had long ago transcended reason and sanity.

Was it only six months ago she walked into my law firm?

It felt like years. Excruciatingly mind-fucking years when I redoubled my efforts to remove my nearly-ex from my life.

Leaning forward, I snatched the papers and barely glanced at them before I flipped to the last page and hastily scrawled my name on the dotted line.

Shoving it back at the lawyer—and regrettably displaying my first sign of agitation—I looked to my right at Gary Larson, my own lawyer. “Are we done here?” I repeated tersely.

Gary nodded. “Done and dusted. I'll head to the courthouse now to get it filed.”

It was then I heard it.

The soft sigh. The relieved sigh. The sigh that told me that I wasn't the only tension-filled one this side of the table.

I couldn't risk looking at her to check that Emily was just as relieved that this was finally over.

God, I’d stopped myself from crossing the line for so fucking long, I was fed up to the back of my teeth. But hell if I was going to fumble the last stretch.

Surging to my feet, I shook my lawyer's hand. Then without acknowledging anyone else, I strode out of the conference room.

I entered my office and crossed to the liquor cabinet.

Who cared that it was the middle of the afternoon?

I was a managing partner of Knight, Randall and Associates, the most prestigious firm in Chicago. My name was the first on the side of the building and that gave me a hell of a lot of perks.

One of which was that no one would dare to question my actions, especially on the day I finally got rid of my bitch wife.

Gulping down the smooth, expensive bourbon, I shook my head in bewilderment. Regret had come and gone a long time ago.

If anyone had told me that at thirty-five, I would be an inconsequential married and divorced statistic, I would’ve laughed my head off. I wasn't one of those men who abhorred marriage and relationships because of some traumatic past.

My childhood was fantastic, with two sisters I loved dearly.

My parents were still happily married after forty years. And while I was more ambitious than most men and worked way more than I played, I’d still in some abstract way considered the marriage and kids thing at some point.

I hated failure, and a marriage that barely lasted months which then stretched into an acrimonious uncoupling was definitely not a win.

But nothing would’ve kept me locked in a situation where I could count on the fingers of one hand the many times I was happy with Violet.

I grimaced.

Maybe my first inkling should’ve been that we got hitched in Martha's Vineyard after attending an acquaintance’s “alternative“ wedding with way too much booze and hedonistic entertainment thrown into the mix.

An above-average fuck in the well-stocked cellar after night three’s bender had convinced me I was in love.

The rest as they say had been bad, bad history.

I knew within a month I'd made a mistake. But hell if I would’ve imagined it would take almost three years to extricate myself from my poor judgment.

I shuddered, shook off the somber feelings.

With any luck, I would be a free man by sunset.

Or earlier, please fuck.

I knocked back the rest of the drink and set the glass on the tray just as a soft knock came on the door and it opened.

I didn't need to glance over to know who’d entered.

My every nerve and instinct strained towards her every time she was within touching distance. And over the past six months I’d tortured myself with making sure that distance was close and frequent.

Not least because I didn't want any other fucker touching what was mine.

And Emily Hartley was mine.

At times I was convinced she knew it. Accepted it. Because that relieved sigh in the conference room just now had to mean something, right?

I flattened my hand on the liquor cabinet and leaned over, my gaze intent on the bottles until my vision blurred.

She was coming close. Closer . Within touching distance. Again .

I exhaled slowly, anticipating the time when I had to inhale again, breathe in her exquisite scent.

Peaches and cream and a dash of lilacs.

Ask me how I knew.

Ask me if another aspect of my obsession had led me into looking in her purse once when she wasn't around. Seen the tiny vial of perfume and memorized it, then ordered the largest bottle of it I could find.

In my very weak moments—of which there were more than I cared to admit even to myself—I’d sprayed some into my silk handkerchief and stroked my cock with it.

My blood heated up now in recollection of how hard I came the first time I did it. How hard I’ve come every time I succumbed to that temptation.

“Mr. Knight?”

Her voice. Jesus.

I was convinced the husky resonance of it was created purely to punch me in the gut then fill me with insane need every single time.

“Yes, Emily?”

“The meeting notes are ready for you,” she said.

I forced a brisk nod, still unable to look at her. She was wearing my favorite outfit today. Navy blue pencil skirt, blush pink blouse with a neatly tied bow at her neck, and the matching navy jacket buttoned up to emphasize the tiny waist that flared into surprisingly wide and supple hips.

I liked it when she concealed herself, because it gave me ample fantasies of unwrapping her like my very own, sexy present.

And it also stopped the fuckers who worked under me from ogling her every chance they got. Not that it stopped them. I’d seen far too many sets of male eyes follow her around the office and repeatedly had to bite back my possessive growl. But not for too much longer.

Was my obsession going to get me into serious fucking trouble?

No doubt.

Did I care?

Hell no.

I was a cutthroat lawyer on top of my game. A maverick who made grown men quake in their boots when I walked into a courtroom.

I knew I wasn't infallible, and I knew I would be toeing some serious lines when I implemented my plan, but nothing was going to stop me from making Emily completely mine.

Straightening up, finally, I faced her. Then nearly staggered.

Every single time I made the mistake of believing she wasn't as breathtaking and alluring as my imagination conjured her up, I was hit with the unshakable truth.

Emily Jane Hartley was a fucking knockout, the combination of milky skin, cerulean blue eyes and dark chocolate silky hair was mindblowing in every way. I was blessed with good looks and knew how the opposite sex reacted to the combination of features that made up my own face.

But the Almighty had taken his time crafting Emily Hartley.

My eyes drifted down her face, past her pert little nose to my most obsession-filled feature of hers.

Her mouth.

Forget Cupid’s bow. Her lower lip was so full it looked like she was permanently pouting even when she wasn't, and the thin upper lip, often pinched slightly when she was concentrating, had that delightful little divot that made the tip of my tongue itch to flick over it, taste her skin right there .

She didn't wear lipstick like most of the other women in the firm, just a light gloss that, absurdly, pulled more attention to that part of her face.

Predictably, my dick, always at half-mast around her, stretched to full, furious life. I’d learned to dress my junk now in a way that hid my reactions to her, at least to a point.

Anyone paying closer attention wouldn't miss the fact that I was hard as fucking steel, but they would need to be brazenly curious to verify that fact.

I felt my thick crown press hard against my belt, any minute now at least two of my nine inches would be saying hello to my navel.

So I moved, granting myself one last look at her exquisite face before I rounded my desk. What had she said? Something about the notes?

I wasn't going to look at them. I’d only wanted her there with me because letting her out of my sight for more than a few minutes these days created havoc with my concentration and temperament.

It was why I’d had to resort to special resources to accommodate the period between when the workday was over and I had to let her go home and the desperate hours before I saw her again.

It was why I let my obsession throttle my guilt when I asked her to stay longer than everyone else and work on some weekends.

“Thank you,” I said, ignoring my gruff voice. “And the other thing? Is that taken care of too?”

She nodded. “The gift basket is waiting for Judge Montgomery as soon as he's done with his hearing this morning.”

She glanced at her watch, a neat little Cartier number that had made me see red the first time I saw it because my imagination had immediately conjured up a boyfriend or lover gifting it to her in a prelude to getting her naked.

It had triggered a frantic call to my firm’s private investigator who, to his credit, hadn't questioned me when I asked for a full personal background search on one Emily Hartley.

I’d paced my office like a caged wild animal until he'd come through with the preliminary report and confirmation that no, Miss Hartley was not seeing anyone. Hadn't seen anyone since she broke up with her boyfriend at her twenty-first birthday party four years ago.

She’d been on a few inconsequential dates, and those I was willing to let go. The revelation the next day that the watch was a gift from her parents for that same milestone age four years ago had been a much welcome relief.

Any meaningful present and attention Emily Hartley received going forward would be from me and no one else.

I watched her until she started to look up from her watch, then dropped my gaze to my open laptop. “That should be in about forty-five minutes,” she added.

I nodded again then glanced over to the sectional sofa at the far right of my office. “You can get on with the case notes you were reviewing earlier, then.”

“Yes, Mr. Knight.”

I bit my tongue to stop me asking her to call me Fletcher.

That would come soon enough.

My hands shook as wild anticipation unraveled through me, my imagination sparking off on when exactly she would do that, preferably on her knees, those blue eyes wide and locked onto mine as her small hands reached for me.

“May I suck you off, Fletcher?” she would whisper.

I stifled a full groan as she turned and walked to the sofa, my eyes lingering unashamedly on her ass and those beautifully shapely legs I wanted wrapped around my hips more than I wanted my next breath.

Forty-five minutes.

Montgomery liked to prattle on a little in his courtroom, so I would conservatively make that an hour and a half, especially if he was going to be a stickler and insist on reading through the finalized papers before he signed off on my divorce and made me a free man. Hopefully the little sweetener of his favorite wines under the guise of a birthday present I sent would help things along.

Every minute I had to wait would feel like a year, but there was no help for it. Clearing my throat, I dragged my gaze from her delicious behind and attempted to do some work of my own.