Chapter 7 #2
"I'm not hungry."
"Liar," she says quietly, and something in her tone makes everyone else go silent. The air suddenly feels charged, electric with unspoken tension. "Can we talk? Privately?"
I should refuse. Should maintain distance, keep the walls up that protect me from feeling too much. Instead, I find myself agreeing. "My office."
I stand and move down the hall and she follows me, and I'm hyperaware of her presence behind me—the soft sound of her footsteps, the whisper of fabric as she moves, that damned lavender scent that's probably permanently embedded in my olfactory memory.
I close the door behind us, and she immediately digs into me.
"You're being an ass," she says before I can say a word, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Excuse me?"
"To your friends. To me. You're acting like a child who doesn't want to play with a toy but doesn't want anyone else to have it either."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" She moves closer. "You dismissed me at your party. Reduced me to nothing in front of your colleagues. Made me sound like some quack Jonathan picked up at a wellness fair. You made it clear I'm not worth your time, that I'm beneath the great Dr. Miller. So why do you care if Jonathan—"
"Because you're mine."
The words explode from me without permission, hanging between us like a live wire sparking with dangerous electricity.
Claire's eyes widen, green fire flashing in their depths. "I'm not anyone's property—"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" She's even closer now, close enough that I can see a faint mark on her neck that Jonathan probably left. My vision narrows to that spot, evidence of another man's claim on what I consider mine.
"Explain it to me, Stuart. Because I'm tired of trying to interpret your mixed signals.
One minute you're fucking me like your life depends on it, the next you're leaving me with nothing but a business card.
You ignore me for days, then look at me like you want to devour me. What is it you actually fucking want?"
"I can't... I don't know how to want you this much." The admission tears from my throat, raw and honest. "That night at the hotel—I've never lost control like that. Never wanted someone so desperately that it overrode everything else. It terrified me."
"So you ran."
"So I ran." I reach out, unable to stop myself, my thumb tracing the mark on her neck. She shivers at the contact but doesn't pull away. "And now Jonathan's touched you. Tasted you. Dane's kissed you. And I'm losing my mind."
"You pushed me away, or have you forgotten that?"
"I know."
"You hurt me."
"I know." My hand cups her face, and she leans into it slightly.
"I'm not good at this. At feelings. At vulnerability.
My ex-wife left because I couldn't give her the emotional connection she needed.
We were married for seven years, and she said she felt more alone with me than actually being alone. "
"I'm not your ex-wife, Stuart."
"No," I agree, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. "You're so much more."
She searches my face, looking for something—honesty, maybe, or hope. "What do you want, Stuart? Really want, not what you think you should want."
"You. I want you so badly it's eating me alive." I press closer, backing her against my desk, my body caging hers. "I want to be the only one who touches you."
"But you can't be," she says softly, not unkindly. "Not anymore. I care about Jonathan. And Dane—"
"I know." The admission feels like ground glass in my throat. "But that doesn't change what I want."
"So, what do we do?"
Instead of answering, I kiss her. It's not gentle—it's claiming, demanding, pouring all my frustration and need into the contact. She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt as she pulls me closer, a small moan escaping that goes straight to my cock.
"This doesn't solve anything," she gasps when we break for air, her lips slick, pupils dilated.
"I don't care." I lift her onto my desk, stepping between her legs. Papers scatter to the floor—patient files, surgical notes, everything that usually matters more than anything else. "I need you. Now."
"Stuart, we should talk—"
"No more talking." I kiss her neck, directly over Jonathan's mark, sucking hard enough to cover it with my own. She gasps, her legs wrapping around my waist. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this," she breathes, her hands already working on my belt. "I want you. But—"
I silence her with another kiss, my hands working on her clothes. She's wearing yoga pants—easy to peel down her legs—and a sports bra that I practically tear to get it off her body.
"Someone's eager," she teases, but her voice is breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"You have no idea." I palm her breast, feeling the weight of it, thumb circling her nipple until it peaks into a hard point. "Do you know what it did to me, seeing Jonathan leave your house this morning? Knowing he'd touched you, tasted you, made you come?"
She moans as I pinch her nipple, not gently, her hips rocking against me seeking friction. "Stuart—"
"Did you think about me?" I demand, my other hand sliding into her panties to find her already wet, ready for me. "When he was inside you, did you think about our night together?"
"Yes," she admits, and the confession nearly undoes me, my cock straining painfully against my pants.
"Tell me." I slide two fingers inside her without warning, and she cries out, her inner walls clenching around them.
"I compared... everything." She gasps as I curl my fingers, finding that spot that makes her whole body jerk. "The way you touch me compared to how he does. You're more intense, more demanding."
"More what?" I add a third finger, stretching her, preparing her for what's to come.
"More consuming. Like you want to own me, brand me as yours."
"I do." I thrust my fingers deeper, harder, my thumb finding her clit. "You're mine, Claire. Even if I have to share you, you're still mine."
She comes suddenly, violently, clenching around my fingers, moaning my name. I work her through it, then immediately start building her toward another, not giving her time to recover.
"Too much," she protests weakly, her hands clutching at my shoulders.
"No, not nearly enough." I drop to my knees, pulling her to the edge of the desk. "I'm going to make you come until you forget anyone else's name but mine."
My mouth finds her center, and I devour her like a man starved. She tastes perfect—sweet and tangy and uniquely Claire. Her hands tangle in my hair, alternately pulling me closer and trying to push me away as the sensations become too intense.
"Stuart, please—"
"Please what?" I ask against her, the vibration making her whole body shudder.
"I need you inside me. Now."
"Not yet." I redouble my efforts, adding fingers while my tongue circles her clit. "Come for me first. Show me how good I make you feel."
She shatters again, her whole body bowing off the desk, a moan muffled by her own hand. I stand, quickly shedding my clothes, barely giving her time to recover before I'm positioned at her entrance.
"Look at me," I command. When her glazed eyes meet mine, I thrust deep in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt.
We both groan at the sensation. She's perfect—tight and wet and hot—and I have to pause to maintain control, my jaw clenched with the effort not to come immediately.
"Move," she demands, wrapping her legs around me, heels digging into my ass.
I set a punishing pace, each thrust designed to claim her. The desk creaks beneath us, papers falling to the floor. But I don't care about anything except the woman in my arms.
"You think you can fuck my friends and I won't care?" I growl, biting her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. "You're mine, even if I have to share you. Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, her nails raking down my back hard enough to draw blood. "I'm yours."
“No one else will ever make you feel like this."
To prove my point, I change angles, hitting that spot inside her while my fingers find her clit. Her nails dig deeper into my back in response.
"That's it," I encourage, feeling her starting to tighten around me. "Mark me. Show them I affect you just as much as you affect me."
"Stuart—"
"Come for me. Now."
She does, spectacularly, her whole body convulsing as the orgasm crashes through her. The feeling of her clenching around me, the sight of her coming apart, triggers my own release. I bury myself deep, marking her internally as thoroughly as I've marked her externally.
I stay inside of her, both of us panting, as reality slowly returns. I can feel her trembling, see the marks I've left on her skin—bite marks on her shoulder and neck, bruises from my fingers on her hips, beard burn on her thighs.
"Jesus," she breathes, her voice hoarse. "That was..."
"Necessary." I pull out carefully, then immediately feel the loss of connection. I grab tissues from my desk drawer, gently cleaning her, then myself. "Claire—"
"I know." She touches my face gently, her fingers tracing my jaw. "You don't know how to share but can't let me go."
"How did you—"
"Because I'm starting to understand you." She starts dressing, wincing slightly at the soreness I've caused. "You need control because you're terrified of being vulnerable."
"My ex said I was emotionally unavailable. That I cared more about surgery than our marriage." I hand her the torn sports bra apologetically. "She wasn't wrong. I scheduled surgeries on her birthday. Twice."
"Or maybe she just wasn't right for you."
"And you are?"
"I don't know." She finishes dressing, looking thoroughly debauched—hair mussed, lips swollen, clothes slightly askew. "But I know I want to find out. Even if it means navigating this complicated situation with you, Jonathan, and Dane."
"I don't know if I can share you." The words are painful to admit, but honest.
"You're already sharing me. The question is whether you can accept it." She moves toward the door, then pauses. "Jonathan told me he and Dane have shared before."
"They have. Monaco, a couple years ago."
"But never you?"
"Never me." I catch her hand before she can leave, pulling her back for one more kiss, this one softer, almost tender. "But for you... maybe I could try."
She kisses me back, then pulls away. "That's all I can ask."
After she leaves, I survey my destroyed office—papers scattered everywhere, the distinct smell of sex in the air. My back stings where she scratched me, and I know there will be marks. Jonathan and Dane will know exactly what happened.
Good. Let them know that whatever else happens, Claire is mine too. Even if I have to learn to share, even if it goes against every possessive instinct I have, I'm not letting her go.
Not again.
The thought of sharing her makes something primal in me rebel, but the thought of losing her entirely is worse. Maybe Jonathan's right. Maybe she needs different things from each of us. Maybe we can give her something together that none of us could provide alone.
Or maybe this will destroy everything—our friendship, our living situation, her.
But as I stand in my wrecked office, I realize I don't care about the risks anymore. Claire's worth it. She's worth giving this a shot.