Page 1 of Claimed By Rage

Chapter 1

Celia

There area few key things a working woman needs to keep her going when her employees call out sick for the third time this week: a double shot of espresso, a fine-tipped French manicure, and thigh-quivering orgasms to keep the stress at bay.

But that doesn’t mean she needs themall at once.

Caffeine and adrenaline surge through my veins in a heady cocktail oftoo muchas my very stubborn, very delinquentnot-boyfriendnudges my thighs apart with his shoulders. I knock over a jar of pens as he slides my ass to the edge of my desk. “Rage,” I hiss, digging my nails into his scalp. No matter how many times I pull out his hair, he keeps coming back every other morning, a lazy smirk on his face as he sits me on top of my desk and makes me ride his face.

It’s not my idea,I promise.

He huffs, his breath hot against my panties. “I told you to stop wearing these.”

“And I told you—ohhh.”

His tongue feels just as wide as his shoulders as he swipes it against me, wetting my panties like a fucking animal. My face flames as he groans, no doubt tasting my desire. He may act like an animal, but I’m the bitch in heat wholikesit.

And he fucking knows it.

Rage nips my clit through the fabric, making me buck against his face.Fuck.It hurts, but only in the way that makes everything else dial up a notch. The tension. The thrill. Theneedpulsing between us.

As much as I claim that he’s the one addicted, the counterargument that I’mnotis lost in these moments, the little punches of breath, the shuffle of our clothes, the frantic way we touch each other.

Because that’s how it always is: frantic, needy, insatiable. There’s no love here, but there’ssomething. That something keeps him coming back and me, well,coming.

He presses a rough kiss against my inner thigh and slides my panties down my legs. “Don’t wear these next time, Celia. I mean it.”

I roll my eyes—or I try to. They clench shut the moment he buries his face in my pussy. Pleasure zings up my spine and shoots down to my toes all at once, each insistent swipe of his tongue powerful and purposeful. He’s a man on a mission, and he knows exactly how to claim victory. “R-rage,” I cry, biting my lip. Resistance may be futile, but I have to savesomeof my dignity. “We can’t do this. I’mworking.”

The burly man shoots me a quick look, like he doesn’t believe me, and hooks my calves over his shoulders, the soft fabric of his dress shirt warm and inviting. One thing I’ve always admired about him, not that I’d ever admit it, is his attire. The man doesn’t go cheap, and it shows in both texture and appearance, all of his shirts and slacks tailor-made to fit his muscled frame, stitched together with expertise that makes me jealous.

I’d kill for that kind of skill.

My breath hitches as he licks my slit from stem to stern, hooking the tip of his tongue over my clit at the last second. He chuckles as my legs seize, then pushes the flat of his palm againstmy inner thighs, widening my stance as he dips his tongue inside my heat.

I grab the back of his giant, arrogant head and pull him closer, hoping he suffocates while he’s down there.

Yeah, I guess we’re doing this.Again.

I should have said no the first time he showed up at my door. Hell,beforethen. The very first night we met at that ridiculously-exclusive club, I let him seduce me in the middle of a crowded room.Stupid,I now realize, quivering against his skilled tongue as he works my body into a frenzy. This is the game we play every few days: how quickly can I come on his wicked tongue?

He has to be keeping track with how often he checks the Rolex strapped to his wrist.

With each expert flick of his tongue, shame curls heavy inside my chest, making it harder to breathe. I shouldn’t let him keep touching me like this,here,at my workplace. It’s not right. I’m not some horny teenager working a retail shift—I’m the owner of this boutique. I can’t have men walking in here to tongue-fuck me all hours of the day. People willfind out. People willsee.

It’s only a matter of time before someone walks in?—

The jingle of bells at the front door makes my stomach drop. Rage is usually good with timing, arriving just after the morning rush when the shop is quiet. But today, he arrived late. It’s too close to the next wave of customers. People will stop to browse the entire street of boutiques and cafes, mine included, any second now.

The bells over the door jingle a second time, and someone clears their throat out on the shop floor.

No, not in any second,right now.

Panic beats wildly in my chest. “Rage. Stop. There’s a customer?—”

He presses his tongue flat against my clit, swiping with slow, lazy strokes, unhurried in the slightest. I grab his hair andpull—he grunts, spreading my thighs wider apart to slip two thick fingers inside my molten core.

I gasp in a breath and screw my eyes shut as he works me slow and steady, curling his fingers to tease an orgasm from me one stroke at a time. I come just as slowly as he works my body. A ripple of pleasure pulses from my core to my limbs, leaving me boneless and sex-drunk as he pulls back to stare at me.

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