Page 155 of The Owner's Temptation

“You’re the only one I’ve fucked raw,” he says, and everything inside meshatters.“And I fucking love it.”

That one sentence detonates behind my ribs like a bomb.

The only one.

That’s all it takes.

My body arches, legs tensing, every nerve alight as I fall—hard—my orgasm ripping through me with brutal intensity.

Lucian follows seconds later, groaning behind me, thrusting deep one last time before he stills, his body pressed tight to mine as he spills inside me again.

His breath is hot against my shoulder, his arms wrapped around me like chains. And I don’t want to move. Not yet.

Not ever.

Because in this moment… I don’t justbelongto him.

Hebelongsto me too.

The sun breaks over the city like nothing's wrong.

I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, espresso in hand, watching the skyline blush with light. The quiet hum of the building stirs around me—elevators starting, voices rising from the lobby, morning security sweeps being logged.

On the surface, it's just another day.

But the smoke still lingers. The ashes of Lorenzo’s warehouses still cling to the wind.

That was three nights ago. Simultaneous fires. No alarms. No evidence. Just charred wreckage by morning and millions in unsalvageable inventory turned to dust. I wanted to make him feel exposed. Vulnerable. Unprepared.

But last night?

Last night waspersonal.

While he slept in that fortress of a mansion with his guards posted and his family tucked in safely upstairs… I walked right through his front fucking door.

Jaxon took care of the cameras. My men took care of the locks. And I took care of the art.

Every piece.

The DeLuca family’s prized legacy—paintings, portraits, lost artifacts… the gallery of their bloodline—gone. Stolen in silence. Not just the Da Vinci, not just the Monet or the war-era contraband that’s passed hands through black market channels for decades.

No.

It’s the portraits that matter.

The generations of DeLuca’s, hung like royalty along the grand hallway staircase. Lorenzo’s wedding portrait—him in black, her in white. Their son, maybe six years old, caught laughing in an oil painting positioned near the piano room. Dozens of frames on side tables, in alcoves, hanging over the fireplace.

All gone.

All mine.

Arranged in a tidy pile in the center of an abandoned warehouse. A single can of gasoline set right beside them. Just enough fuel to make a very clear point.

I take another sip of espresso. The bitterness is welcome.

Right on time, my phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

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