Page 141 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
Dorian’s grin is wicked. “We can be quick.” He captures my waist and brings me in closer. When he presses his arousal against me, I grab hold of his lapels for support.
Brennan slides his hands higher, teasing, and I tighten my grip as I attempt to fight off my sensual dizziness.
At the commotion, Calypso meows indignantly and leaps to a velvet chair, tail flicking.
Brennan chuckles, easing back his hand, but Dorian is not as easily swayed. Instead, he grazes my neck, nipping me just below the collar.
“Dorian! Behave.” He had better not leave a mark.
“That’ll do.” With a small shrug, he takes a single step back. “For now.”
There’s promise and threat in his voice. And my instant response to his tone makes me want to ignore our responsibilities, along with my hair and makeup, and kneel for them, the way I often do.
With his thumbpad, he traces my lower lip. “I can read your mind.”
I steal a peek at his cock. He wants me as bad as I want him.Yes, Sir.
“Someone has to keep a clear head.” Brennan checks his watch. “We’re out of time.”
With the way Dorian’s eyes have darkened, I can tell he doesn’t care in the least.
My hands shaking, I smooth the front of my dress once more.
“I may not wait until tonight.” His threat hanging in the air, Dorian offers his arm.
Unsure whether to be worried or not, I tuck my arm inside his.
We follow Brennan from the room and head for the private elevator that will whisk us to the gala.
“You’re going to do fine.” Brennan’s voice is reassuring, but I have no idea how my men so easily manage to read my mind.
As we exit onto the rooftop of Vale Tower, the humid night air catches my dress and swishes it against my thighs.
Dorian’s arm is steady, giving reassurance that I need but haven’t voiced.
Brennan is on my other side, his navy tux catching the light, his presence a solid wall of heat and strength.
Even though I want to pretend I’m calm and composed, my heart is racing, and my stomach has twisted into a knot of nerves.
This is my first official gala, and we’ve billed it as a philanthropic event for literacy programs, but we all know it’s a cover for Dorian’s upcoming Senate run. I’m terrified I’ll screw it up.
Irving, the planner Dorian hired, has done an amazing job, and the rooftop has been transformed into a dreamland. Twinkling string lights drape across a pergola while potted ferns and sleek black planters line the glass railing that frames a view of Houston’s skyline. Glittering towers stretch into the night sky, as if they’re daring the stars to compete.
Tables are covered in white linen and are loaded down with Gulf shrimp skewers, mini crab cakes, and smoked brisket sliders with jalapeño aioli. In the center of the room, a dessert table nearby groans under tiers of key lime tarts, chocolate-dipped strawberries, double fudge brownies, pecan pralines, and salted caramel cheesecake bites sprinkled with gold leaf that gleams beneath the chandeliers.
Several open bars have been set up, and there’s a line at each as Houston’s glitterati imbibe.
I’m more interested in the champagne fountain that’s nearby. The arranged crystal flutes sparkle like they’re winking in the moonlight.
In the corner, a jazz band strums a low, sultry tune, and the saxophone’s wail curls through the evening air.
As intended, the atmosphere is electric, all money and power.
We make our way to the champagne fountain, and Dorian snags a drink for me. As I accept the glass, my diamond ring catches the light, and I can’t help but stare at it. The sight gives me courage and strength.
Then, her destination clear, I see Celeste weaving through the crowd. Her long emerald dress is both professional and elegant, and her smile is as sharp as ever.
“Isla, you’re stunning.” She air-kisses my cheek, her perfume sharp and expensive. “This gala’s a triumph already.”
