Claimed By Desire

Fogged.

Amara

I'd arrived at the office determined to be the picture of professionalism. Conservative black dress, hair in a tight bun, minimal makeup. I'd even brought noise-canceling headphones to help me focus on work instead of watching Lucien through that damned glass wall.

But at 10:47 AM, my work phone buzzed with what appeared to be a voice message.

I glanced through the glass at Lucien, who was typing on his laptop, looking completely absorbed in whatever he was working on. Probably safe to listen to a work message.

I put in my earbuds and hit play.

"God, you taste incredible..."

The voice was unmistakably his, low and rough with desire. My finger flew to the pause button, but not before I heard the next part.

"Don't stop. I want to hear you say my name when you—"

I yanked out the earbuds so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, my face burning with embarrassment and something much more dangerous.

Through the glass, Lucien looked up from his laptop, catching my wide-eyed stare. He tilted his head slightly, the picture of innocent concern.

My phone buzzed with a text.

"Technical difficulties again? I should really speak to IT about these server issues. - L"

I stared at the message, then at him. He was back to typing, but I caught the slight curve of his lips. This wasn't an accident. This was psychological warfare.

And it was working.

By lunch, there had been three more "glitches." Each one more explicit than the last. Each one perfectly timed for when I was starting to focus on actual work. It was like he had a sixth sense for when my defenses were down.

The worst part? My body was responding exactly the way he wanted it to. I was flushed, distracted, crossing and uncrossing my legs every few minutes. I'd caught myself staring at his hands more times than I could count, remembering the way they'd felt covering mine yesterday.

When he knocked on my office door at 2 PM, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Come in."

He entered with that predatory grace, closing the door behind him. "I need you to take some notes during my call with the Beijing investors. Your shorthand is better than Ms. Chen's."

It was a reasonable request. Professional. Except for the way his eyes lingered on the hollow of my throat, where I could feel my pulse hammering against my skin.

"Of course, Mr. Thorne."

I followed him into his office, notepad in hand, trying to ignore how the space seemed to shrink around us. He gestured to the chair beside his desk—not across from it like yesterday, but right next to him.

The call was in Mandarin, which I didn't speak, but I dutifully wrote down names and numbers as he translated key points for me. The problem was his proximity. Every time he leaned over to point at something on my notepad, I caught that intoxicating scent that made my thoughts scatter. Pine and thunder and something wild that I couldn't identify.

Halfway through the call, he placed his hand on the back of my chair, his fingers brushing against my shoulder blade. The touch was light, professional, probably accidental.

But it burned through the fabric of my dress like a brand.

I tried to concentrate on the notes, but his thumb was tracing small circles against my shoulder blade, so subtle I wasn't sure if he was even aware he was doing it. My handwriting became shaky, my breathing shallow.

When the call ended, he didn't move his hand immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, ostensibly to review my notes.

"Excellent work, Ms. Williams." His breath was warm against my ear. "You have very... attentive hands."

The double meaning wasn't lost on me. Heat pooled in my stomach, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would have been entirely inappropriate for an office setting.

"Thank you, Mr. Thorne."

I started to stand, but his hand moved to my wrist, stopping me. Not roughly—he wasn't holding me captive. But the touch was firm, possessive in a way that made my pulse skip.

"You seem to be in a hurry to leave," he said softly.

"I just... I have work to finish." The words came out breathier than I intended.

"Of course." He released my hand slowly, his fingers trailing across my palm. "You may go."

I bolted from his office as fast as dignity would allow, and once I reached my desk, I tried to keep myself busy by pointedly not looking his way.

But when I finally gave in and glanced toward him, I could see he was on the phone again.

And then—he turned.

Our eyes met.

My breath hitched.

It was a single glance. A flick of his eyes. But it felt like someone had gripped my throat, pressed a palm to my stomach, and whispered, Mine.

I turned away too quickly, pretending to read the manual on my desk.

Focus, Amara. This is a job. You need the money, not the man.

But my skin betrayed me—warm, tingling where his gaze had touched it.

I spent the next hour trying to shake it off. Emails. Calendar updates. Schedules. Calls I didn't make but pretended to.

Then, around 4 PM, I heard the soft click of his office door. I looked up instinctively, expecting to see him leaving for a meeting.

Instead, I saw her.

A tall, curvy blonde in a dress that clung like liquid silver. Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached Lucien's desk with the confidence of someone who'd made this journey many times before.

I should have looked away. Should have minded my own business.

But I couldn't.

She reached his desk and, without hesitation, dropped to her knees.

Effortlessly. Gracefully. Like she'd done it a thousand times.

And Lucien?

He didn't blink. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, fingers steepled under his chin as he looked down at her like she was some exquisite object he already owned.

My stomach flipped.

I forced myself to look away. Then looked back.

She crawled forward slowly until she reached his leg. Her hands came up, fingers tracing along his knee with practiced familiarity.

He reached down and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, touching her face like she was something both fragile and completely his.

My heart thundered in my chest. I swallowed hard.

This is none of my business.

I turned back to my screen, forcing my fingers to type meaningless words.

But the silence pulled me back.

I glanced up again.

Lucien was now standing. She was still kneeling. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck—not harshly, but with an intimate possession that made my thighs clench involuntarily.

And then—he looked up.

Directly at me.

I froze, caught in the act of watching. But this time, I didn't look away. I held his stare, even though it felt like being pinned against glass.

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? Heat?

His lips curved in the faintest smile, and then—

The glass fogged.

No warning. One second I could see them clearly. The next, the entire wall between us clouded into opaque mist, like a veil had dropped. I couldn't see anything. Just faint silhouettes. A flash of movement.

And then—

A moan.

Soft. Feminine. Breathless.

Followed by another. And another.

My face burned with heat and something I didn't want to name. I was supposed to be working. Organizing meetings. Scheduling events.

Instead, I was sitting in my chair with my legs pressed together, my fingers trembling, and the undeniable sounds of pleasure bleeding through the wall like a haunting melody.

I shut my laptop. Stood. Paced to the window.

What kind of CEO does something like this during office hours? And who the hell had a fog button on their office window?

I didn't know whether to be disgusted or...

Or something else entirely.

Another moan, deeper this time, accompanied by a low rumble I recognized as his voice.

I grabbed my water bottle and drained it, trying to drown the heat building in my belly.

It's just s*x, Amara. It's not like you care.

But that was a lie.

Because for reasons I couldn't explain, it wasn't just the sounds that shook me—it was the fact that it was him.

Lucien Thorne.

The man who'd been systematically dismantling my professional composure all day.

And I hated how desperately I wanted to know what he looked like when he lost control too.

The sounds continued for what felt like an eternity, each one chipping away at my resolve, until finally—silence.

I remained frozen by the window, staring at the foggy glass, wondering what happened next. Wondering who she was. Wondering why the thought of her touching him made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams.

Most of all, wondering what kind of game Lucien Thorne was really playing—and whether I was strong enough not to lose.