Chapter 13 Stuart
Stuart
The Grand Ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton gleams with the kind of ostentatious wealth that makes medical conferences feel more like theatrical productions than educational events.
I adjust my cufflinks—platinum, a gift from Trisha during better times—and scan the room for Claire.
She's by the registration table, checking us in and the sight of her makes me half hard.
The burgundy dress I bought her for this occasion fits perfectly, professional enough for a medical conference yet elegant enough to turn heads.
And heads are turning. Dr. Webb from Johns Hopkins hasn't taken his eyes off her since she walked in.
"Your assistant is quite striking," Dr. Harrison comments beside me, following my gaze. "New addition to your practice?"
"Something like that," I reply curtly, not bothering to correct his assumption.
Claire is here as my guest, though I've registered her as my assistant to avoid questions about our relationship.
The truth—that she's simultaneously involved with me and my two best friends—would destroy my professional reputation faster than a malpractice suit.
Webb approaches her, offering his hand and giving her a sleazy smile.
Two months ago, that would have brought on a possessive fury.
Now, I've learned to channel it differently.
Every man who looks at her tonight will serve as fuel for what comes later, in our hotel room, where I'll remind her exactly who she belongs to.
"Dr. Miller," Claire's voice pulls me from my thoughts. She's beside me now, tablet in hand, playing her role perfectly. "Your presentation materials are loaded. You're in the main auditorium at three."
"Thank you." My hand finds the small of her back, a touch that appears professional but burns with possession. The slight shiver that runs through her tells me she feels it too.
The morning sessions drag on endlessly and when it’s my turn, I present on new techniques in minimally invasive spine surgery, fielding questions from colleagues while being very aware of Claire in the front row, taking notes like the dedicated assistant she's pretending to be.
She's completely absorbing the information—I can see it in how she leans forward during in-depth explanations.
During the lunch break, I watch from across the room as she networks with other attendees.
She's confidently discussing the intersection of traditional and alternative medicine with a group of younger doctors who hang on her every word.
Dr. Webb is among them, standing too close, laughing too loudly at her observations.
Claire walks toward me, Webb trailing behind like a puppy. Her eyes meet mine, and I see amusement there—she knows exactly what she's doing.
"Dr. Miller," Webb extends his hand, which I shake with perhaps more force than necessary. "Your assistant was just telling me about her background in sports medicine."
"Dr. Pierce is quite knowledgeable," I agree, using her professional name deliberately, watching Webb's face shift as he realizes she's a doctor too, not just an assistant.
"I didn't realize—" Webb starts.
"Most people don't," Claire interjects smoothly. "It's easy to make assumptions. If you'll excuse us, Dr. Miller and I have a meeting to prepare for."
She guides me away with a hand on my arm, and I let her, though every instinct screams to throw her over my shoulder and carry her to our room like a caveman.
"You're enjoying this," I mutter as we enter the elevator.
"Watching you try not to mark your territory like a wolf? Immensely."
"You have no idea what you're playing with."
"Don't I?" She presses the button for our floor, then turns to face me fully. "I know exactly what you're planning. You've been broadcasting it all day—every glare at men who approach me, every possessive touch, every time your jaw clenches when someone compliments me."
"And?"
"And I've been thinking about it since breakfast. Knowing you're watching, knowing what's coming, knowing that under this professional exterior you're planning exactly how you're going to remind me who I belong to."
The elevator doors open before I can respond, which is probably for the best since my response would have involved backing her against the mirrored wall and taking her right there.
The walk to our room feels eternal. My keycard shakes slightly as I swipe it, betraying the bit of control I’m still holding onto. The moment the door closes behind us, that control evaporates.
"Strip," I command, my voice rough with hours of suppressed need.
Claire's eyes darken, but she doesn't move immediately. "What if I don't?"
"Then I'll do it for you, and the dress won't survive."
She must hear the truth in my voice because her hands move to the zipper, slowly lowering it while maintaining eye contact. The dress pools at her feet, revealing black lace lingerie that almost makes me drool.
"You wore this for me?"
"I wore this knowing what you'd do when you saw it."
I circle her slowly, drinking in every inch of exposed skin, every curve and valley that I've memorized but never tire of exploring. "Do you know how many of those men want you? How many of them imagined doing exactly what I'm about to do?"
"A few, maybe," she says demurely.
"Seventeen. I counted." I stop behind her, close enough that she can feel my breath on her neck. "Seventeen men who looked at you with hunger, who made excuses to talk to you, touch your arm."
"Were you jealous?"
"Furious." My hands skim up her arms, barely touching. "Every single one of them thinking they had a chance, not knowing you're already claimed. Already owned. Already mine."
"Stuart—"
"On the bed. Now."
She moves without hesitation, arranging herself on the bed, knowing that my eyes are on her the whole time. I retrieve the items I packed specifically for this—silk rope, a blindfold, other tools of torment.
"Safe word?" I ask, because consent matters above all.
"Symphony."
"Good." I secure her wrists to the headboard like I’ve done many times before, the silk tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt.
"Every time another man looks at you, I'll remind you who owns this body.
Every time someone thinks they can have what's mine, I'll make sure you remember exactly who you belong to. "
What follows pushes boundaries we've only skirted before.
I take my time, using sensation and denial to build her desperation to unbearable heights.
The blindfold heightens every touch, every kiss, every bite.
She writhes against the restraints, begging in ways that would embarrass her in daylight but flow freely in the darkness of our private world.
"Please," she gasps after I've brought her to the edge and pulled back for the fourth time. "Stuart, please."
"Please what? Be specific."
"I need you. Inside me. Now."
"You need me? Or you want me?"
"Both. Need you, want you, belong to you. Please."
I finally give her what she's begging for, entering her in one smooth thrust that makes us both groan.
"This is what you needed, isn't it?" I growl, setting a punishing pace. "All those men thinking they could have you, not knowing you're here, tied to my bed, begging for my cock."
"Yes," she gasps. "Only yours."
"Even when you're with them? Jonathan and Dane?"
"Even then. This part of me, it's only yours."
The admission breaks something in me, and my thrusts become more desperate, more claiming. "Say it again."
"I'm yours, Stuart. This body, the way I respond to you, the way only you can make me feel—it's yours."
Her words trigger something primal in me and I thrust harder into her. She cries out, the sound a mixture of pain and pleasure that goes straight to my core.
"I love you," she gasps suddenly, the words falling out as her orgasm crashes over her.
Everything stops. My body, my breath, my heart. She loves me. Not just wants me, not just needs me in this twisted arrangement we've created. Loves me.
I can't say it back. The words stick in my throat, trapped behind years of walls and the memory of Trisha saying she loved me while fucking her yoga instructor.
But my body responds where words fail, moving again with a desperation that speaks volumes.
When I finally let go, burying myself deep as I come, I hold her tightly, trying to communicate through touch what I can't say aloud.
After, I untie her carefully, massaging her wrists where the rope left marks. She curls into me, not mentioning her declaration, not pushing for reciprocation. The understanding in her silence breaks my heart and repairs it simultaneously.
"Stuart?" she says softly after long minutes of quiet.
"Yes?"
"I know you can't say it back. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I needed you to know."
I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Claire—"
"Don't. You don't need to explain or apologize. I knew who you were when this started."
We lie in silence until she eventually drifts off to sleep. I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, processing what just happened.
Morning comes too soon. I wake before her, as always, and watch her sleep in the early light filtering through the hotel curtains. Her hair is a mess, her makeup smeared, but she's never been more beautiful.
She stirs, stretching like a cat, then winces slightly—she'll be sore from last night's intensity.
"Morning," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning. How do you feel?"
"Amazing," she says with a small smile. "You made your point."
"Did I?"
"Every man in that conference could proposition me and I'd still come back to this room, to you, to this." She traces a finger over my chest. "You know that, right?"
"I'm beginning to."
She props herself up on an elbow, studying me. "What's going through that complicated brain of yours?"
"I'm thinking about our arrangement."
Her face falls slightly. "Are you ending it?"
"No. I'm thinking it needs to be more... formal."
"Formal how? We've gone over every ground rule that we can."
"Move in with us. Officially. Not just staying over some nights, but actually living there."
She sits up fully, sheet pooling around her waist. "Stuart, we've only been doing this for a few months."
"You’re already there five nights a week."
"But making it official... that's a big step. What about Jonathan and Dane?"
"They'll agree. I’m certain of it."
"You've discussed this with them?"
"Yes, several times. They're waiting for me to be ready."
"And are you? Ready?"
I consider lying, maintaining the facade of control. But after last night, after her confession, she deserves the truth. "I don't know. But I know I want to try. I want to wake up knowing you're somewhere in the house. I want... more."
"More what?"
"More commitment. More... permanence. As permanent as this can be."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing. "What about when I'm with them? Could you handle knowing I'm down the hall with Jonathan or Dane while you're in your room alone?"
"I'm handling it now."
"Barely. You nearly started a fight with Webb just for talking to me."
"That's different. Webb isn't family."
The word surprises both of us. Family. Is that what we're becoming?
"Ask me," she says suddenly.
"What?"
"Ask me properly. If you want me to move in, ask me."
I sit up, facing her fully. "Claire Pierce, will you move into our disaster of a house and try to make something impossible work with three emotionally stunted men who can barely share but can't seem to let you go?"
She laughs, the sound bright. "When you put it like that, how could I possibly resist?"
"Is that a yes?"
"It's an 'I'll think about it.'"
"Claire—"
She silences me with a kiss, soft and sweet, so different from last night's intensity. "I'll give you an answer after the conference. After I've had time to think without you scrambling my brain with your Stuart-ness."
I chuckle. "Fair enough."
We shower together and she lets me wash her hair, an intimacy that somehow feels more significant than sex.
As she dresses for the day's sessions, I watch her transform back into Dr. Pierce, professional and composed. But I know she’ll be thinking all day about my lips on her neck and my cock buried deep inside her.
"Ready?" she asks, tablet in hand, every inch the dedicated assistant again.
"For the conference? Yes. For what comes after? I'm not sure."
"That's okay," she says, straightening my tie with steady hands. "None of us are sure. We're all just pretending we know what we're doing."
"Some of us are better at pretending than others."
"True. But the beautiful thing about us? We don't have to pretend with each other."
The morning sessions pass in a blur.
Webb attempts another approach during coffee break, but she handles him with a professional distance that makes my chest warm with pride. During lunch, she mingles with other alternative medicine practitioners who've attended, building connections that could benefit her practice.
I watch from across the room as she exchanges cards with them. She's in her element, confident and brilliant, and I realize with stunning clarity that I don't just want her—I'm proud of her.
Claire comes over beside me and her phone dings in her hand. It’s a text from Jonathan and we both read it:
How's the conference? Has Stuart killed anyone for looking at you yet?
Claire glances at her phone, smiling slightly, and types back:
No casualties yet, but the day is young.
Dane adds to the group chat:
I’m sure he’s thinking about it.
I unlock my own phone and type back:
I’m being completely professional, you two assholes.
Jonathan’s the first one to text back:
Riiiight.
I pocket my phone, refusing to engage further, but Claire's amused expression tells me she's still reading their commentary.
The afternoon drags on with panels and workshops I barely focus on. My mind keeps circling back to her declaration last night, to the possibility of her moving in, to a future I'm apparently planning despite every logical reason not to.
As the conference winds down, Claire appears at my side. "Ready to head back to the room before dinner?"
"Already? We have two hours."
"I know," she says, her tone innocent but her eyes promising. "I thought we could... review your presentation. Make sure you're prepared for tonight's keynote."
"My presentation is perfect."
"Then I suppose we'll have to find something else to do."
The elevator ride is torturous, her standing close enough that I can smell her perfume. An elderly couple joins us on the third floor, making conversation impossible, but Claire's hand brushes mine—deliberately, teasingly.
I can’t imagine my life without this woman.