Page 61 of Captain's Claim

I go still.

Her fingers toy with my jacket collar, her touch featherlight but dangerous. Then her gaze flicks down. Just a quick glance at my mouth, but fuck, it’s enough.

My jaw tightens. My restraint is hanging on by a goddamn thread.

"Sophia." My voice is low. A warning she absolutely ignores.

She presses closer, her breath warm against my skin. “Come on… Stay with me. Please…”

I shake my head. “You’re drunk, sweetheart. And you have to be up early in the morning.”

Apparently you have some kind of interview to conduct.

"I'm turned on,sweetheart," she teases, her voice all silk and whiskey.

I grit my teeth. “I think you need to go to bed.”

Her hands tighten in my jacket. “Comewithme."

I want to. God,I want to.

She smells like that damn cocktail - sweet, bright, intoxicating - and for half a second, I let myself imagine it. Just one damn taste. One press of my lips against hers.

My forehead drops to hers before I can stop it, my grip on her hips threatening to snap as I fight the impossible pull of her.

I want to tilt her chin, claim that smart, teasing mouth, shut her up the only way I know will actually work.

But she’s drunk.

She’s warm and wobbly and barely standing upright, her lashes fluttering like the weight of the night is finally dragging her under.

And then - just as I brace for another torturous round of her endless goddamn taunting - her entire body sags.

“Christ, woman,” I mutter, shifting fast to hook an arm beneath her knees.

She murmurs something completely incoherent against my chest, half-asleep before I even cross the apartment towards what I'm guessing is her bedroom.

Soft, fluffy blankets are tangled on an oversized bed, the kind that makes you want to sink into it and never get up. A half-read book sits on the nightstand, the spine cracked, a coffee mug beside it with the faintest ring of dried caramel at the bottom.

Fairy lights drape along the window, twinkling softly against the snow outside. A fuzzy throw blanket is tossed over the foot of the bed, looking well-loved, and a single heel has been kicked under the edge of the dresser like she came home in a hurry one night and never bothered to move it.

It’s nothing extravagant. Nothing big-city corporate.

It’s warm. Soft.Hers.

I lower her down carefully on the mattress, tucking her under the blankets, my pulse still pounding in my throat.

Sheshouldbe out.Shouldbe snoring.Shouldbe giving me some damn peace.

Instead, she grabs my wrist and tugs.

My body follows before I can stop it, knees hitting the edge of the bed as she cracks one eye open and murmurs, “Talk to me.”

I frown. “About what?”

She sighs, stretching, getting cozy under the blankets. “Anything. I like your voice.”

A huff of amusement escapes me. "Is that so?"

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