Claimed By Desire

Stop Pretending.

Amara

The dress lay across my bed like a dare.

Black silk. Thin straps. It glimmered faintly under the low light, delicate and dangerous at once—something meant for a woman who didn’t flinch when she was seen.

Lucien had sent it earlier, neatly folded inside a black box. There was no note, just a small white card in his precise, deliberate handwriting: Tonight, you’ll learn the first rule. Be ready by eight.

I’d read it more times than I wanted to admit. Each time, my heart thudded a little harder. What rules was he talking about, and why was I curious to learn about them?

I told myself it was for research. For understanding who my boss really was. For control.

But deep down, I knew…

I just wanted to see him again.

And maybe, I wanted him to see me.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, I ran my hands down the fabric. It clung like a secret, soft and cool against my skin, sliding into every hollow and curve as if it already knew where to fit. The slit up my thigh made it hard to breathe. I wasn’t sure if I looked powerful or exposed—maybe both.

When the deep growl of his car echoed through the street, my stomach tightened. I didn’t have to look to know it was him.

A single knock on the door and before I could even respond. He walked in like the world was his, shoulders filling the doorway, eyes finding me instantly.

Many questions filled my head, like how he got my address and why he was already admitting that he owned me, but every question had its own answer before I could say it.

He was my boss after all.

For a long, quiet second, neither of us said a word. His gaze moved slowly over me—neck, collarbone, the line of the dress, the curve of my hips—until I felt it like a touch.

“You wore it,” he said finally. His voice was smooth, low, too calm for the way it made my pulse skip.

“I didn’t have a choice.” I tried for lightness, but the words came out softer, smaller than I intended.

Lucien’s mouth curved in that faint, unreadable way. He stepped closer, his presence filling the space until I could feel his body heat through the air itself. Without breaking eye contact, he took off his jacket and placed it around my shoulders.

“Now you do.”

The scent of him wrapped around me, heady and intimate. The jacket was heavy, too big, but it made me feel…owned. I wasn’t sure whether I liked that or hated that I did.

“Where are we going?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes glinted. “You’ll see.”

He led me out, one hand at the small of my back—steady, sure, not pushing but not asking either. His touch was a reminder that I was being guided, not invited.

The drive was quiet except for the hum of the engine. The city slid past in streaks of gold and shadow. Lucien didn’t speak, and I didn’t dare break the silence. His fingers rested on the gearshift, close enough that every shift brushed against the edge of my thigh. He never apologized. He didn’t have to.

When we stopped, I realized the air itself felt different. Warmer. Thicker.

The building looked like something out of a forbidden novel—carved black marble, no signs, only a symbol etched into the double doors: a serpent curled around a rose.

Two men in dark suits stood at the entrance. They didn’t ask questions—just nodded when they saw him.

The moment we stepped inside, the world changed.

Inside was velvet and shadows.

Dim red light. Low, slow music. The kind of rhythm that lingered beneath your skin.

Everything dripped luxury… and sin.

Women in corsets lounged on silk couches. Men in suits whispered over champagne. There were couples, threesomes, people bound in gold rope and lying still as artwork.

People in elegant black, their movements unhurried, sensual, deliberate. Every glance, every touch had meaning.

It wasn’t wild—it was controlled. Every breath seemed to belong to someone else.

Lucien’s hand stayed on my back as he guided me through the crowd. His touch was firm, protective, but there was ownership in it too. The kind that made people move aside without a word.

Heads turned when he passed. Women smiled. Some reached out, fingers grazing his arm. One whispered something against his shoulder and laughed softly.

He didn’t stop her.

A slow, hot twist settled in my chest. Jealousy—ugly and raw. I told myself I had no right to feel it, but that didn’t stop it from burning anyway.

He led me up the stairs to a different floor and I noticed the lounge was quieter. Private. Expensive. There was classical music playing softly, and warm lighting that felt more intimate than welcoming.

Before I could guess what was happening next, a door opened across the lounge.

A man was leading a woman on a silver leash.

She was completely naked, yet there was nothing shameful about her. She held herself like a queen. Or a beast.

Lucien didn’t even glance at them.

Instead, he reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. A woman came to whisper something his ears and he nodded before returning his attention to me. “Give me a minute,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I said, though the lie caught in my throat.

He moved toward the bar to speak with someone, and for a moment I stood alone, surrounded by perfume, laughter, and the low pulse of the music. The silk dress felt thinner than ever. The air pressed in too close.

I slipped away.

The bathroom was dark marble and gold, cooler, quieter. I gripped the edge of the sink, watching my reflection. The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me—she looked like someone standing on the edge of surrender, not sure if she wanted to fall or fight.

The door opened behind me.

Even before I turned, I felt him. The energy in the room shifted. It always did when he entered.

He came up behind me slowly, his reflection appearing over my shoulder—tall, precise, eyes like a storm waiting to break.

“You ran,” he said, voice low enough that it vibrated through my spine.

“I needed air.”

His gaze dropped to my hands clutching his jacket tighter around me. “You didn’t like the attention.”

“I didn’t like the way they looked at you.”

The truth slipped out before I could catch it.

For a heartbeat, he just stared."You are jealous," Then his lips curved, slow and dangerous. “Good,” he murmured. “It means you’re paying attention.”

I turned to face him. The air between us was thick, charged. My back brushed the counter; there was nowhere to go.

“What is this place?” I asked, voice unsteady.

“This,” he said, stepping closer until I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, “is where people stop lying about what they want.”

“And you?”

He leaned in, his mouth close enough that I felt the whisper of his words against my ear. “I own it.”

My pulse jumped. The words felt like both a confession and a claim.

He reached past me and closed the door. The soft click echoed like a lock snapping shut.

Then his eyes found mine—dark, certain, patient.

“You walk around preaching resistance,” he said, almost amused. “But your eyes betray you. You’re curious. Drawn. Frightened of what you want.”

I clenched my fists.

“And what is it you think I want, Lucien?”

His smile darkened.

“Me.”

I wished I could argue with that, but he was damn right. How could I not want him when he is always in my face, even when he is not there?

“Now,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “tell me, Amara. Are you ready to stop pretending you don’t want to be owned?”

His words slid over me, slow and sure, more touch than sound. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

But he saw it—the tremor in my breath, the way my fingers curled against the counter, the surrender that was already happening beneath my skin.

And he smiled, the kind of smile that promised he would make me say yes without ever asking.