Chapter 35: Claiming What’s Mine
That evening, after the lobster dinner had been cleared away and Adrian had retired to his study for what he called “evening correspondence,” I found myself alone in our bedroom with thoughts that wouldn’t settle.
Sabrina Keats.
The name kept circling in my mind like a vulture, picking at something I couldn’t quite identify. She’d been beautiful, polished, expensive-looking—everything a man like Adrian would naturally be drawn to. And she’d spoken with such intimate knowledge of our house, such familiarity with Adrian himself.
“I know every room, every secret, every lie Adrian Thorne has ever told.”
But Adrian had explained it all so reasonably. A brief acquaintance, nothing serious, a woman who’d built their connection into something more significant in her own mind. It made perfect sense.
So why did I feel so unsettled?
I moved to our private bar cart and poured myself a generous glass of the Bordeaux Adrian had been saving. The wine was rich, complex, warming me from the inside as I settled into the window seat overlooking our gardens.
Trust, I told myself firmly. That’s what marriage is built on.
Adrian had never given me reason to doubt him. He was devoted, attentive, constantly working to make my life more beautiful and peaceful. Whatever history existed between him and that desperate woman, it was exactly that—history.
“No one can take him from me,” I said aloud, surprised by the fierce certainty in my own voice. “He’s mine now.”
Mine. The possessiveness that surged through me was almost intoxicating. Adrian belonged to me just as completely as I belonged to him. We were perfectly matched, perfectly suited, perfectly devoted to each other.
Any woman who thought she could disrupt that was deluding herself.
The wine warmed my blood as I considered how to show Adrian exactly how much I appreciated his handling of this afternoon’s unpleasantness. How much I valued his protection, his devotion, his complete commitment to our marriage.
I moved to my walk-in closet, scanning the collection of lingerie Adrian had selected for me over the months of our marriage. Beautiful pieces in silk and lace, designed to make me feel feminine and desirable.
My fingers settled on a set I’d never worn—midnight blue silk that matched my eyes, cut to emphasize curves while maintaining an air of elegant sophistication. The kind of thing that whispered rather than shouted, seduced through suggestion rather than obvious display.
Perfect for reminding my husband exactly what he had chosen over whatever Sabrina Keats thought she could offer.
I took my time with the preparation—a luxurious bath with oils that left my skin soft and subtly fragrant, careful attention to hair and makeup that enhanced my natural features without looking overdone. By the time I slipped into the silk lingerie, I felt transformed into someone powerful, confident, utterly secure in her own desirability.
The woman who looked back at me from the full-length mirror was exactly what Adrian deserved—elegant, devoted, completely his.
When Adrian finally entered our bedroom an hour later, I was positioned artfully on our bed, the silk nightgown arranged to showcase my figure while maintaining an air of sophisticated allure.
His reaction was immediate and gratifying. Those silver eyes darkened with hunger as they traveled over me, taking in every carefully planned detail.
“My beautiful wife,” he said, his voice dropping to that intimate register that always made my pulse quicken. “To what do I owe this delightful surprise?”
“To have a husband who protects what’s his,” I said, rising from the bed with fluid grace. “Who handles unpleasant situations with such strength and certainty.”
“Ah.” Adrian’s smile was predatory satisfaction as I approached him. “You want to show your appreciation.”
“I want to remind you,” I said, loosening his tie with slow deliberation, my gaze locked on his. “Of the decision you made the day you married me.”
The one that left her behind. I didn’t speak it aloud. I didn’t need to. The unspoken truth swirled in the air like smoke, cloying and inescapable.
“And what exactly did I choose?” Adrian asked, though his hands had already claimed my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“Devotion,” I whispered, lips grazing his ear, my breath warm on his skin. “Total devotion. To your will. To your desires.”
His grip tightened, steel and hunger. “Then show me.”
The command sent heat spiraling through me, my fingers fumbling with his buttons in a rush of urgency. Whatever Sabrina Keats thought she’d had this afternoon, it didn’t matter. This was truth—this fire between us, this man who looked at me like no one else had ever existed.
“You’re mine,” I breathed, clutching his shirt open as his hands slid over the silk clinging to my body.
His mouth claimed the tender spot below my jaw, his voice rough with possession. “Completely. Just as you’re completely mine.
Completely mine. The phrase should have felt romantic, but there was something in his tone—a possessiveness so absolute it bordered on ownership—that made me shiver with more than just desire.
His hands moved with devastating skill, finding every sensitive spot with the kind of intimate precision that could only come from complete devotion. Each touch stripped me of thought, leaving only the fire racing through my veins, only the helpless surrender of my body to his.
Adrian knew exactly how to undo me. His mouth trailed heat down my throat, his tongue teasing until my breath broke into ragged gasps. His fingers worked me with merciless rhythm, plunging deeper, faster, curling inside me with practiced certainty that made my thighs tremble around him.
The pressure built too quickly, a storm gathering inside me, and I couldn’t hold back. My hips rose of their own accord, desperate to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure he drove into me with ruthless precision. The wet slide of his hand, the hard press of his palm, the friction of every movement—it was too much, too perfect.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his voice dark silk against my ear. The praise made me arch, made me crave more. His thumb found the aching knot of nerves, circling with cruel expertise until I cried out his name, my body unraveling under his touch.
“So responsive,” he whispered, his pace relentless. “So eager to please me.
Good girl. The words should have stung, should have felt condescending. Instead they sent a shiver racing down my spine, arching me closer, desperate to earn more of his approval.
He guided me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed, his silver eyes locked on mine as if daring me to look away. His fingers never relented—pressing, circling, plunging—every touch maddeningly calculated to dismantle me piece by piece. My breath came in broken gasps, each kiss along my neck sparking another surge of heat between my thighs, each caress a reminder of how completely he controlled my pleasure.
“Adrian, please,” I sobbed out when he dragged me mercilessly to the brink, my body coiling, ready to snap—only for him to retreat at the last second, leaving me clenching around nothing, trembling from the denial.
His knowing smile was infuriating, devastating. “Please what?” he asked, voice silk wrapped around steel.
“Please don’t stop,” I begged, my voice raw, wrecked, all pretense of pride gone. My hips rolled helplessly against his hand as if I could chase what he kept pulling from me.
“But I haven’t decided if you’ve earned it yet.” His thumb teased lazy circles against my slick folds, never where I needed him most, the torture more exquisite than release. His touch made me whimper, made my thighs quake around his wrist.
“Have you been good today?” he murmured, dipping just enough to make me cry out. His eyes burned into mine, unyielding. “Have you trusted me completely, without question?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Always yes.”
“Even when that unpleasant woman tried to fill your head with lies and confusion?”
Lies and confusion. Had that been what Sabrina was doing? At the time, I’d been too medicated to properly process her words, but now…
“I trusted you,” I said, which was the truth. “I always trust you.”
“That’s my perfect wife,” Adrian murmured approvingly, rewarding me with touches that made stars explode behind my eyelids. “So obedient, so willing to let me guide her.”
Just when I thought I couldn’t bear another moment of the exquisite torture, when my body was trembling on the very precipice of release, Adrian stopped.
“No,” I gasped, reaching for him desperately. “Please, I need—”
“You need to remember who you belong to,” he said, catching my wrists and pinning them above my head with gentle but implacable strength. “You need to remember that your pleasure, your happiness, your entire world depends on pleasing me.”
Depends on pleasing him. The words should have sparked some kind of protest, some assertion of independence. Instead, they made me burn hotter, made my need for his approval even more desperate.
“I remember,” I whispered.
“Good.” He released my wrists, pressing a soft kiss to my lips that was almost tender despite the hunger burning in his eyes. “Continue being such a good girl, continue trusting me so completely, and tomorrow night I’ll give you everything you’re begging for.”
Tomorrow night. The promise was both reward and torment—proof that my pleasure was entirely at his discretion, given and withheld according to his assessment of my behavior.
“Will you?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
“Have I ever broken a promise to you?” Adrian asked, settling beside me and pulling me against his chest with possessive tenderness.
I tried to think, but my mind felt strangely foggy when it came to specific memories. Had he ever broken promises? It was hard to remember making any promises at all, actually, beyond our wedding vows.
“No,” I said finally. “You always take care of me.”
“Always,” he agreed, his hand stroking through my hair with the kind of gentleness that felt like both comfort and claim. “As long as you continue being the perfect wife I married.”
Perfect wife. The phrase wrapped around me like silk and chains combined, beautiful and binding in equal measure.
As I lay there in Adrian’s arms, my body still humming with unfulfilled need, one thought echoed through my mind with crystalline clarity: I would do whatever it took to earn tomorrow’s promised reward.
I would be perfect, obedient, trusting—everything Adrian needed me to be.
Because this feeling—being desired, cherished, completely claimed by a man like Adrian Thorne—was worth any price.
Even if I couldn’t quite remember what that price had been.
Even if sometimes, in the darkness, I felt like I was forgetting something essential about who I used to be.
But that woman—whoever she had been—was gone now.
In her place was Mrs. Adrian Thorne, perfectly devoted wife to the perfect husband.
And tomorrow night, if I continued being good, he would remind me exactly why being perfect was its own reward.