Chapter 3: The Claim

The elevator to Damien's penthouse climbed silently through the belly of the steel and glass tower, each floor that passed marking Elara's ascent into a world she'd only glimpsed from the outside. The city lights blurred past the glass walls, creating streaks of gold and white against the darkness. She stood pressed against Damien's side, his arm around her waist like a brand of ownership, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her hip through the fabric of her hastily donned dress.

The restaurant felt like a fever dream now—the taste of chocolate and salt still lingering on her tongue, the memory of his control shattering under her touch making her skin flush with renewed heat. But if she thought that explosive encounter had satisfied the hunger between them, the way his thumb was now stroking along her pulse point told her otherwise.

"Nervous?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

"Should I be?"

His laugh was dark silk. "Probably."

The elevator opened directly into his penthouse, and Elara's breath caught. The space was a study in minimalist power—all clean lines, stark whites, and charcoal grays. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living area, offering a panoramic view of the city sprawling endlessly below. It was beautiful in its severity, like standing inside a fortress carved from shadow and light.

"It's..." she began, then stopped, not sure how to finish. Intimidating? Gorgeous? Cold?

"Not what you expected?" Damien stepped behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. Through the glass, she could see their reflection—him tall and dark behind her, still impeccably dressed despite their earlier activities, while she looked thoroughly debauched in her rumpled dress and tangled hair.

"I don't know what I expected," she admitted. The space felt like him—controlled, powerful, revealing nothing unnecessary. But there was something else too, a kind of isolation that made her chest tighten.

His hands slid down her arms, and she could feel the heat of him through her dress. "Do you want to see the view?"

Without waiting for an answer, he guided her toward the windows. The city stretched out beneath them like a living organism, pulsing with light and movement. From this height, the people below looked like ants, insignificant and small.

"You live above it all," she murmured.

"I prefer it that way." His breath was warm against her neck, sending shivers racing down her spine. "From up here, everything looks manageable. Controllable."

She turned in his arms, studying his face in the ambient light from the city. "Is that what you want? To control everything?"

His smile was predatory. "Not everything. Just what matters."

Before she could ask what that meant, his mouth was on hers again. But this kiss was different from the one at the restaurant—hungrier, more desperate, as if something about being in his space had stripped away another layer of his careful control.

Elara responded with equal fervor, her hands fisting in his jacket as she pressed herself against him. She could feel his arousal through the expensive fabric of his trousers, hard and insistent against her hip.

"I can't get enough of you," he growled against her lips, his voice rough with need. "The way you taste, the sounds you make..."

His hands found the zipper of her dress again, and this time there was nothing slow or careful about the way he stripped it from her body. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in just her heels and the scraps of lace that had somehow survived their earlier encounter.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes raking over her exposed skin with an intensity that made her feel claimed even before he touched her. "So fucking beautiful."

She reached for his jacket, desperate to feel skin against skin, but he caught her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one large hand. The position arched her spine, pressing her breasts forward, and his free hand traced the curve of her throat with reverent fingers.

"Not yet," he said, his voice holding that note of command that made something deep in her belly clench with need. "I want to look at you. Really look at you."

He walked her backward until her shoulders hit the cool glass of the windows. The city lights painted patterns across her skin, and she was suddenly, acutely aware that anyone with a telescope or binoculars could see them. The thought should have embarrassed her, should have made her demand privacy, but instead it sent a thrill of exhibitionist excitement through her veins.

"The whole city can see us," she whispered.

His smile was wicked. "Let them watch. Let them see what's mine."

The possessive words should have raised red flags, should have made her protest the assumption of ownership. Instead, they made her moan, her head falling back against the glass as heat pooled between her thighs.

"Say it," he commanded, his free hand skimming down her body with maddening lightness. "Say you're mine."

"I'm..." The words stuck in her throat, some part of her still clinging to independence, to the idea that she belonged to herself and no one else.

His fingers found her center, stroking through the damp lace with just enough pressure to make her gasp but not enough to satisfy. "Say it, Elara."

"I'm yours," she breathed, the admission torn from her lips by pure need.

"Good girl."

He released her wrists then, his hands going to his belt with swift efficiency. In moments he was naked, his clothes joining hers in a pile on the polished concrete floor. The sight of his body in the city lights—all lean muscle and controlled power—made her mouth go dry.

When he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, her back pressed against the cool glass. The contrast between the cold window and his burning skin was intoxicating, making every nerve ending sing with awareness.

"Hold on to me," he ordered, and she obeyed, her arms circling his neck as he positioned himself at her entrance.

When he thrust into her, she screamed—from pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of being filled so completely. He was bigger than she'd expected, stretching her in ways that bordered on too much, but her body adjusted, welcoming him deeper.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his forehead pressed against hers as they both adjusted to the sensation. "So tight, so perfect."

He began to move then, each thrust deliberate and powerful, driving her higher with ruthless precision. The windows shook slightly with the force of their coupling, and Elara found herself pressing back against them, using the leverage to meet him stroke for stroke.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice strained with effort. "Take what you need. Take all of me."

The angle was perfect, hitting spots inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. She could feel another climax building, more intense than anything she'd experienced at the restaurant, threatening to shatter her completely.

"Damien, I can't—I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he said fiercely, his pace increasing. "Come for me, Elara. Let me feel you fall apart."

When the orgasm hit, it was with the force of a tsunami. She convulsed in his arms, her cries echoing off the stark walls as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Dimly, she was aware of him following her over the edge, his own release tearing a broken groan from his throat as he buried himself as deep as possible.

They stayed like that for long moments, trembling against the glass as aftershocks rippled through them both. Finally, he carried her away from the windows to the plush leather sofa, settling her in his lap without separating their bodies.

"Mine," he murmured against her throat, and she could feel the word like a brand against her skin. "You're mine now."

Some rational part of her mind protested the claim, insisted that she belonged to herself and always would. But as his arms tightened around her possessively, as his lips pressed soft kisses to her sweat-dampened skin, that protest grew fainter and fainter.

Maybe being owned by a man like Damien Blackwood wouldn't be such a terrible thing after all.

The thought should have terrified her. Instead, as she curled closer to his warmth and let her eyes drift closed, it felt like coming home.