Claimed By Desire

Apology Lunch.

Amara.

I was still literally shaking by the time I returned to my desk.

The stupid folder I’d dragged into his office as some kind of ‘professional prop’ was now abandoned on my desk. Meanwhile, I was busy… staring at my computer screen like it had answers.

My reflection in the black monitor was anything but what a strong independent woman should look like.

I hated how my body betrayed me around him. Hated it so much. And still, I couldn’t stop craving more

I could still literally feel my cheeks burning, and not from embarrassment—well, maybe a little.

Though my heartbeat has slowed down, I couldn't get his words out of my head.

You want to be ruined.

What made it worse was the fact that he might be right.

Before I knew it, my fingers gently brushed my lips like an i***t, as if I could erase the memory of his thumb, spoiler alert, I couldn't.

Jesus Christ, what was happening to me?

I’d walked into his office to set boundaries. To reclaim control. Not to walk out feeling… owned and helpless.

My phone buzzed, dragging me out of my thoughts.

I reached for it with the tiny hope that whatever it was would distract me from thinking about my sexy demon of a boss

Join me for Lunch. 12:30. Eleven Madison Park. Don’t be late. —L

A command. Not a request. He didn’t even ask if I was free—because, well, he probably thinks he owns my time. So, no courtesy whatsoever was needed.

I looked up instinctively, like I might catch him watching me, but through the glass wall, he was calmly flipping through folders like he hadn’t just asked me to join him for lunch.

Seriously, how could one person be this infuriating?

My hands hovered over the keypads as I instinctively wanted to tell him no. A million reasons why I shouldn't be alone with him again popped up in my head. But, instead of telling him no, I found myself googling the name of the restaurant and its location.

I wasn't entirely surprised, I discovered that the restaurant had three Michelin stars.

It was one of those types of places that makes you feel poor the moment you walk in, even though you are wearing a dress you took out a loan to buy.

Usually, places like that would take months to get a table. But of course, that level of formality didn't belong to my boss.

If he wanted a table, the universe somehow rearranged itself to meet his need.

I mean, who wouldn't want to be ruined by Lucien, well, basically every woman I know aside from me, of course.

---

At 12:25, I stood outside the restaurant, waiting for my boss, who I was sure was deliberately running late to prove a point.

Thank God I was in official clothes, so I easily blended with the people going in and out of the restaurant.

Though I got a few stares from some ladies, it was totally fine; perhaps they were admiring my confidence because I f*****g wore it like a damn armor.

“Miss Williams.”

I turned.

Lucien stepped out of a black car so polished it probably had its own security clearance. The kind of car you read about in financial magazines.

And him. God. He looked devastating, like sin wrapped in a three-piece suit.

“Mr. Thorne,” I managed, proud that my voice was steady. “This is… unexpected.”

His mouth curved, softer than usual. “I thought you might be hungry after our… discussion this morning.”

Discussion. Right. That’s what we were calling it now.

Inside, the maître d’ greeted him like he owned the place, which, knowing him, he probably did. We were led to a secluded table tucked against a wall of glass overlooking the park. Private. Isolated. Too intimate.

The fact that I liked it made me furious.

“You look surprised,” he said, after we both sat down and he was now staring at me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve.

“I am,” I admitted, straightening my spine. “After this morning, I didn’t expect… this.”

“An apology lunch?” he asked smoothly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that what this is?”

He leaned back, deceptively casual. “I may have been… overly direct in my office. You came to me with valid concerns, and I responded like—”

“Like a predator cornering its prey,” I said before I could stop myself.

His lips curved, sharp. “I was going to say ‘like a man unused to being challenged.’ But your version’s more honest.”

Our drinks arrived, giving me a few seconds to breathe. But the quiet only made the question clawing at me louder.

“I don’t understand you,” I said finally.

His head tilted slightly. “What’s there to understand?”

“This.” I gestured to the linen tablecloth, the crystal glasses, the silent, hovering service. “A few days ago, you were playing games with intimate recordings.

This morning you practically dismissed me like I was in the wrong classroom. Now you’re… apologizing? Buying me lunch?”

Lucien waited until the sommelier poured his wine and left us alone again. Then he looked at me.

“Have you ever been a submissive, Amara?”

I almost choked on the wine glass that was still pressed against my lips. “I’m sorry—what?”

He didn’t flinch. “In a relationship,” he said, like he was asking about the last-minute report of a board meeting. “Have you ever… willingly submitted to a dominant partner?”

My throat went dry. “That’s—Jesus, Lucien—that’s wildly inappropriate.” I retorted.

“It’s just a question,” he said, casual, like we were talking about coffee preferences instead of—whatever this was.

I stared at him for a beat too long, waiting for him to laugh and take it back. He didn’t.

“No,” I replied. “I haven’t.”

Lucien tilted his glass, unbothered, watching the wine catch the light. “Then how do you know you hate it?”

I blinked at him. “I… what? I don’t have to jump off a building to know it’ll kill me.”

His mouth curved, sharp. “So you’re comparing submission to death now?”

“Yes,” I shot back. “Or something close enough.”

And God help me, the way he laughed at that—low and warm and real—did something to my chest I didn’t want to name.

“Did you just compare giving up control to dying?” he asked, still smiling.

“I compared surrendering power to something fundamentally destructive.” I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

Lucien leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his voice lowering to something softer, heavier. “What if you’re wrong?”

My breath caught. “About what?”

“What if submission isn’t about losing power,” he said slowly, “but about placing it—voluntarily—into the hands of someone who knows how to hold it?”

I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. “Every controlling man in history has said something like that.”

“True.” He lifted his glass lazily. “Doesn’t make the idea wrong.”

I put my glass down carefully, like that might keep me steady. “Do you make all your assistants… submit to you, Mr. Thorne?”

That earned a slow, sharp smile. “Not all of them.”

My pulse skipped. “Then which ones?”

He paused and looked at me, his eyes sinfully dangerous. “The ones I find worthy.”

My stomach dropped. “Worthy of what?”

He didn’t blink. “My full attention.”

I forgot how to breathe for a second. The weight of his gaze was… unbearable. Too seductive. Too disarming.

I swallowed hard, breaking my eyes from his as I took a sip from my wine.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

Lucien didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, fingers resting lightly on his glass, and studied me like I’d just asked the wrong question entirely.

“If I told you,” he said finally, voice low and even, “would you accept it?”

I stared at the linen tablecloth, heat crawling up my neck. “No promises.”

That earned another calm, calculated smile from him. “Are you always this stubborn?”

"Are you always this seductive?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Oh, you think I am seducing you?" he asked.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” I countered.

“I’m not,” he said simply. “If we’re being honest, Amara… you already know the answer.”

And I did. God, I hated it. But I did.

“I can’t be submissive to any man,” I said, quiet but certain.

Lucien’s expression shifted—barely—but there was something unreadable in his eyes when he asked, softly, “What about a non-human?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He took a sip of wine, casual again. “Just hypothetically.”

I laughed. “What, like an alien?” I asked, wanting him to laugh it off. But he didn't.

“Something like that.” he simply said.

“Well.” I said, smirking despite finding it a little odd that we would be talking about aliens, “Hypothetically, maybe if we’re talking werewolves or vampires—they might’ve evolved past toxic masculinity.” I said.

His gaze didn’t waver. “You might be surprised,” he said, sipping casually from his wine.

Something in the way he said it landed heavy in my chest. Too calm. Too intentional.

I opened my mouth to ask what the hell that meant, but the waiter returned with our entrées, and Lucien shifted the conversation to something else entirely.

Still, his words clung to me long after the plates were cleared. Even hours later, his voice still haunted me.