Page 67 of Captain's Claim

And it's all because ofher.

"What the hell was that?"

Sophia looks up from her desk, completely unfazed. Doesn’t look startled, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even have the decency to look remotely guilty after what she just pulled.

The bright morning sun streaming through her window catches the gold in her hair, and damn it, she's wearing that cream silk blouse that dips just low enough to—

No.

Focus on being pissed off.

"The board wants a PR boost. They want a star."

Her voice is calm, professional. She looks so damn pleased with herself, like she’s presenting a deck at a marketing meeting, not explaining why I just got ambushed into a heart-to-heart interview about my childhood trauma in front of the entire internet.

"Then why was I in that room?" I plant my hands on her desk, leaning forward, forcing her to see just how fucking furious I am. "Why did I only learn about this damn interview and stumble across it all by accident?"

A smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. "Blake…"

That’s it. Just my name. But the way she says it? Low, teasing, dripping with something that slides under my skin like warm honey and gasoline mixed together?

I grip the edge of the desk harder, knuckles whitening, because if I don’t, I might actually lose my mind.

She stands, smoothing down her pencil skirt, and fuck - I shouldn't be watching her do it, but I do.

The fabric clings, highlighting every damn curve, and I swear to God, she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

"Are you done glaring at me?" she asks, circling her desk, the amusement still flickering in her way-too-pleased expression. "Or are you ready to hear me out?"

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t trust my mouth not to do something stupid.

She obviously found the care package I left this morning.

I wonder if the coffee was still hot when she woke up, if the chocolate croissant helped with the hangover I know she must've had.

Christ… the memory of her sleepy, drunk ramblings last night. The way she looked at me, begged me to stay, to hold her and kiss her.

Fuck. It's threatening to soften my resolve.

"You crossed a line today, Sophia." I force my eyes away from her. I have to. "You had no right to—"

"Are you done glaring at me?" she asks, circling her desk. "Or are you ready to hear me out?"

Sophia moves closer, her fingers toying with the collar of my shirt. The light touch sends electricity down my spine, and I have to fight the urge to grab her hand and pull her even closer.

The familiar scent of her perfume, that hint of something light and expensive that I've come to associate with board meetings and heated arguments… it hits differently now.

"Who's the superstar of the team, Blake?"

Her breath fans against my throat, hot and dangerous as I stand there trying to fight the instinct to grab her, to pin her against the nearest surface.

I shrug, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "You tell me, Sophia."

Her fingers hook my collar, giving it a slow, deliberate tug. Her nails graze my throat, just barely, the scrape of them enough to send a sharp, hot jolt straight down my spine, right to my dick.

"You," she whispers, her lips brushing against my jaw now, her breath scalding against my pulse. "You're the star, Blake. And now, the focus is on you, not on your program. That's what you want, isn't it?"

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