Claimed By Contract

Have you ever been so desperate that you’d sell your soul to the devil — just to save the ones you love? No? Well, Emma Carter did. She didn’t plan to, of course. No little girl dreams of strutting into a billionaire’s office, dressed in a bargain-bin pencil skirt that's one tight breath away from splitting, ready to beg for mercy But life doesn’t care about dreams. And neither did Damien Cross. The elevator dinged, and Emma stepped out onto the top floor of Cross Enterprises, the sound of her heels sharp and lonely on the marble floor. Her palms were slick against her worn leather purse, and her heart thudded an unsteady rhythm against her ribs. She could already feel the judgment from the sleek receptionist at the front desk — a willowy blonde who looked like she could model for a Rolex ad without even trying. Emma’s curves didn’t belong in a place like this. She knew it the second the blonde’s lips twisted into a tight little smirk. “Ms. Carter?” The receptionist’s voice was syrupy sweet and fake as hell. “Mr. Cross will see you now.” Emma sucked in a breath, straightened her too-snug blouse — it didn’t help much; her breasts still threatened to bust free — and followed the blonde’s sharp click of heels toward a pair of black double doors. The office was dark, moody, and big enough to house a small army. And behind the sleek, black desk sat the man himself. Damien Cross. He didn’t look up right away, flipping through papers like he hadn’t just summoned someone into his lair. Emma stood there, awkward, heat crawling up her neck, feeling like she’d stepped into a predator’s den wearing a "bite me" sign. When he finally lifted his head, the air in the room changed. His eyes — pale gray, cold as ice — locked onto her, and Emma felt her skin prickle under his gaze. God, he was beautiful in a cruel way. Dark hair, chiseled jaw, a mouth that looked like it was made for sin but rarely used for anything but insults. His gaze dragged over her — slow, deliberate — taking in every inch of her curvy body. The way her skirt clung to her thick thighs. The way her blouse strained at her full breasts. The way her lips parted slightly under the weight of his stare. A lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're not what I expected," Damien said, his voice a rich, sinful drawl that slid over her skin like silk. Emma stiffened, her fingers curling tighter around her purse. "And what did you expect?" she asked, forcing her chin up. His smirk widened. "Something less tempting." Her face flamed, but she refused to look away. She needed this. She couldn’t let a cocky billionaire and his wicked mouth intimidate her. "My family is in trouble," she said, voice tight. "I was told you could help." Damien leaned back in his chair, studying her with a look that made her feel like a puzzle he was deciding whether or not to bother solving. "And what exactly are you offering in return?" he asked, voice low, dangerous. Emma’s stomach twisted. "I can work for you," she said. "I'm a hard worker. I’ll do anything you need." "Anything?" he echoed, his voice dripping with meaning. She cursed herself silently. She had walked right into that one. "I mean professionally," she snapped. Damien chuckled — a low, wicked sound that made her thighs clench without permission. He stood, moving around the desk with the kind of predatory grace that made her take an involuntary step back. Big mistake. He cornered her without even trying, standing so close she had to tilt her head to look at him. Up close, he smelled expensive — like leather, dark whiskey, and a hint of something sinful. "You say you're desperate," he said, reaching out with two fingers to toy with a loose strand of her hair. His touch was barely there — just enough to make her shiver. "But desperation makes people foolish. Emma swallowed hard, refusing to be the first to flinch. "How much do you need?" Damien asked, voice low, dangerous. "One million," she whispered. He whistled low under his breath. "That's quite a price tag, sweetheart." "Please," she said, hating the way her voice cracked. "I’ll do anything." There was a long beat of silence. Damien’s eyes darkened, something shifting in his gaze — something almost hungry. "Anything," he repeated, tasting the word like it was a promise. Emma’s heart hammered. She knew she was standing on a knife’s edge, and one wrong step could cut her wide open. Damien smiled, slow and predatory. "Alright, Emma Carter," he said. "I have a counteroffer." She blinked, heart thudding painfully. "You'll marry me," he said casually, like he was offering her a cup of coffee instead of a deal with the devil. Emma staggered back a step, eyes wide. "What?" "You heard me," Damien said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Marry me. Play the dutiful wife in public. And in exchange, I'll wipe your family's debt clean." Emma stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "Why?" she demanded. "Why would you want that?" His smile turned sharp. "Because I need a wife. And you," he said, his eyes raking down her body once again, "are... adequately tempting." Anger flared in her chest. "You think you can just buy me?" she snapped. Damien stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I'm not buying you, sweetheart. I'm renting your loyalty." Emma’s cheeks burned, a cocktail of rage and humiliation bubbling under her skin. "You’re an asshole," she hissed. His smirk deepened. "And yet you're still standing here." She wanted to slap him. God, she wanted to wipe that smug look off his stupidly handsome face. But she also knew she didn’t have a choice. Her family was drowning. Her little brother needed surgery. Her mother was working two jobs just to keep the electricity on. Emma swallowed her pride and looked him dead in the eyes. "What’s the catch?" she asked. Damien’s smile was pure sin. "You'll move in with me. Attend functions. Play the doting wife. And," he said, his voice thick with meaning, "you'll share my bed when I want you." Emma’s breath caught. "You can't be serious," she whispered. Damien reached out, brushing the back of his fingers lightly down her bare arm. "I never joke about business," he murmured. The touch burned. Not because it was rough, but because it was too gentle. Too knowing. Like he already owned her. "You'll be mine, Emma," Damien said, his voice almost tender. "At least until the contract ends." Emma’s pulse thundered in her ears. She hated him. She wanted him. She needed him. And that made her hate herself even more. "Think about it," Damien said, stepping back, giving her room to breathe again — but his scent lingered in the air, thick and intoxicating. "You have until tomorrow to decide." Emma turned on shaky legs, heading for the door before she did something truly stupid. But just before she crossed the threshold, Damien called after her. "Oh, and Emma?" She turned, heart pounding. His smirk was pure, unfiltered sin. "Don't bother wearing anything under that skirt next time. It'll save me the trouble." Her mouth dropped open, but he was already back at his desk, flipping through papers like she was nothing but a transaction. Emma fled, cheeks burning, thighs pressed tightly together. She hated him. She hated how much she wanted to say yes.