Claimed By Desire

Sinful Voice.

Amara

"I’ll stay."

The words are out before I can stop them, and his eyes flicker — not surprise, but amusement. A predator’s twitch.

Fuck.

I hate how desperate I sound. How helpless I feel around him.

Lucien steps closer, slow and deliberate, until the heat of his body brushes mine. My instincts scream at me to step back, to breathe, to put space between us. But there’s another part of me — louder, shameless — that wants to see what happens if I don’t.

My breath catches when his fingers graze my collarbone, deliberate and slow, like he’s testing boundaries he already knows he’ll cross. His gaze locks with mine, pinning me, unraveling me.

“Good choice,” he murmurs, voice low, rough… sinful.

He brushes his knuckles along my cheek, featherlight, like he’s memorizing me. When his eyes drop to my lips, I stop breathing.

“You’re beautiful,” he says softly, his mint-scented breath fanning my face.

My entire body shivers, and I hate that he can see how much he affects me.

With his fingers on my jaw, he leans in, and for a wild, reckless moment, I think — This is it. He’s going to kiss me.

I should move. I should speak.

Anything.

But I just stand there, frozen, while his touch trails lazily down my collarbone, as if he knows exactly what it’s doing to me.

“You’re such a good girl,” Lucien murmurs, so low I almost don’t hear it.

My stomach flips violently. “I’m not—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off, velvet and unyielding. “You are.”

I swallow hard, heat rushing up my neck. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

He brushes a stray curl from my face — soft, but his gaze is anything but gentle. It’s dark. Demanding. Hungry.

“You came in here thinking you could play by your own rules,” he says, leaning close enough that his breath ghosts over my lips. “But deep down, you want someone to break them for you.”

I hate the way my pulse stutters.

I hate that he’s right.

I force a laugh, brittle. “You’re… unbelievably arrogant.”

Lucien smirks, slow and devastating — like a predator humoring prey. “And yet,” he murmurs, thumb grazing my jaw, “you haven’t walked away.”

I should.

I really should.

But when his hand slides lower, fingertips brushing the bare skin above my neckline, my body betrays me. A sharp breath escapes me before I can stop it.

“Careful,” I whisper — though it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “No,” he says softly. “You don’t want to be careful, Amara. You want control… surrendered.”

My knees nearly give out. “That’s not—”

He closes the distance, stopping just shy of my lips. “Say the word,” he murmurs, low and dangerous. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because I don’t want him to stop.

Then, suddenly —

“That will be all for today, Miss Williams,” he says flatly, pulling away.

His hands drop. The heat vanishes. The air between us chills instantly.

I blink, caught off guard, cheeks burning as the weight of my own assumption crashes down on me. God, I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought—

“What?” The word slips out, small, unsteady.

His eyebrow arches, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“I said you can go, Miss Williams. It’s late. You should go home and rest.”

Humiliation prickles under my skin. “I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—”

“What were you expecting?” he asks, tilting his head like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“Nothing,” I blurt out too quickly. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“I thought so,” he says evenly, though his tone suggests he knows exactly what I wanted. He looks back at his desk, dismissing me. “Be early tomorrow.”

I nod stiffly, pride warring with confusion and a frustration so sharp it hurts. “Right. Of course. Good night, Mr. Thorne.”

“Good night, Amara.”

The way he says my name… God, I never realized how intoxicating it sounds until now.

I gather what’s left of my pride and leave his office, my hands trembling as I pack up my bag. Through the glass wall, I see him already buried in his computer, completely unaffected. Like nothing happened.

The subway ride home blurs past. My mind won’t stop replaying everything — the way he touched my face, the way his gaze lingered on my lips… and then the cold dismissal.

What did I think was going to happen? That he’d finally kiss me? That he’d push me back against his desk and make good on the tension we’ve been circling since I first walked into his office? That he’d take what we both crave?

God. I hate myself for wanting it.

By the time I reach my apartment, he’s still in my head. I drop my bag, pour myself a large glass of wine, and try to breathe.

This is ridiculous. I’m a feminist. A strong, independent woman who’s built her entire platform on female empowerment.

I don’t fantasize about men like him.

Men who play games.

Men who like to be in control.

Except… apparently, I do.

I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Lucien Thorne. It’s not just attraction — it’s a constant, gnawing ache, like my body’s craving something it knows it shouldn’t have. Even here, alone in my kitchen, my skin still tingles where he touched me.

It has to be s****l frustration, I tell myself. It’s been eight months since my last relationship ended. Eight months of pouring myself into work. Of course, my body is responding to the first man who even *looks* at me.

That has to be it. It has to.

I promise myself I’ll go clubbing Friday night, find the most attractive stranger I can, have one wild, reckless night, and get Lucien the hell out of my system.

Feeling lighter with the plan, I shower, slip into my softest pajamas, and curl into bed with a book.

But I can’t focus. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Feel his hands. Hear his voice saying my name like it’s his favorite sin.

Eventually, exhaustion drags me under.

And when I open my eyes again… I’m back in his office.

It’s darker this time.

I try to stand but realize I can’t move — my wrists and ankles bound with soft silk. And somehow, I’m wearing a black lace nightie I’d forgotten I even owned.

Goosebumps rise as the cool air brushes my bare skin.

I hear him before I see him — the soft tread of bare feet on polished wood, each step deliberate, controlled.

“You’re awake.”

His voice comes from behind me, low, rough, dangerous.

I turn my head as far as I can, catching only a shadow in the dark.

“Lucien?” My voice sounds small, unsure.

“Shh.” He steps into view, circling the chair like a predator closing in. “You said you’d stay. And now… you’re mine.”

He’s wearing nothing but black briefs, his body carved from shadow and light, every movement calculated — and aware that I’m watching.

My breath catches when his gaze locks with mine, hunger burning there, raw and unhidden.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says, his hand brushing the arm of the chair, inches from my bound wrist. “Haven’t you, Amara?”

I can’t deny it. “Yes.”

“Say it,” he murmurs. “I want to hear you beg.”

“I—” My voice falters, shame and desire warring inside me.

He trails his fingers along my collarbone, retracing the same path as earlier — but this time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint. His touch is possessive.

“Tell me,” he repeats, thumb brushing the hollow of my throat.

“You,” I whisper, breathless. “I want you.”

He smiles, tilting his mouth to my ear. “Good girl,” he murmurs, warm breath teasing my skin.

God, I hate how my body reacts to him.

His hand slips lower, tracing the neckline of my camisole, and I arch helplessly into his touch.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers. “Completely at my mercy. No more fighting. No more pretending.”

His fingers slide beneath the thin fabric, and I gasp, every nerve ending sparking, my body caught between restraint and surrender.

“Please,” I breathe, not even sure what I’m begging for.

“Please what?”

“Touch me. Kiss me. Anything.”

His lips hover just above mine, so close I can feel his breath. “Anything?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for what that means, Amara?”

Before I can answer, before I can close the last inch between us—

I wake up.

My bed. My room. Morning light filtering through the curtains.

I sit up gasping, my body still thrumming, aching for touches that never happened. My heart pounds like I’ve run a marathon.

Fuck. It was a dream.

A dream so vivid it feels like a memory.

Even asleep, I can’t escape him.

And what terrifies me most… is how much I don’t want to.