Page 3 of Staking His Claim
Her voice. Jesus.
I was convinced the husky resonance of it was created purely to punch me in the gut then fill me with insane need every single time.
“Yes, Emily?”
“The meeting notes are ready for you,” she said.
I forced a brisk nod, still unable to look at her. She was wearing my favorite outfit today. Navy blue pencil skirt, blush pink blouse with a neatly tied bow at her neck, and the matching navy jacket buttoned up to emphasize the tiny waist that flared into surprisingly wide and supple hips.
I liked it when she concealed herself, because it gave me ample fantasies of unwrapping her like my very own, sexy present.
And it also stopped the fuckers who worked under me from ogling her every chance they got. Not that it stopped them. I’d seen far too many sets ofmaleeyes follow her around the office and repeatedly had to bite back my possessive growl. But not for too much longer.
Was my obsession going to get me into serious fucking trouble?
No doubt.
Did I care?
Hell no.
I was a cutthroat lawyer on top of my game. A maverick who made grown men quake in their boots when I walked into a courtroom.
I knew I wasn't infallible, and I knew I would be toeing some serious lines when I implemented my plan, but nothing was going to stop me from making Emily completely mine.
Straightening up, finally, I faced her. Then nearly staggered.
Every single time I made the mistake of believing she wasn't as breathtaking and alluring as my imagination conjured her up, I was hit with the unshakable truth.
Emily Jane Hartley was a fucking knockout, the combination of milky skin, cerulean blue eyes and dark chocolate silky hair was mindblowing in every way. I was blessed with good looks and knew how the opposite sex reacted to the combination of features that made up my own face.
But the Almighty had taken his time crafting Emily Hartley.
My eyes drifted down her face, past her pert little nose to my most obsession-filled feature of hers.
Her mouth.
Forget Cupid’s bow. Her lower lip was so full it looked like she was permanently pouting even when she wasn't, and the thin upper lip, often pinched slightly when she was concentrating, had that delightful little divot that made the tip of my tongue itch to flick over it, taste her skin rightthere.
She didn't wear lipstick like most of the other women in the firm, just a light gloss that, absurdly, pulled more attention to that part of her face.
Predictably, my dick, always at half-mast around her, stretched to full, furious life. I’d learned to dress my junk now in a way that hid my reactions to her, at least to a point.
Anyone paying closer attention wouldn't miss the fact that I was hard as fucking steel, but they would need to be brazenly curious to verify that fact.
I felt my thick crown press hard against my belt, any minute now at least two of my nine inches would be saying hello to my navel.
So I moved, granting myself one last look at her exquisite face before I rounded my desk. What had she said? Something about the notes?
I wasn't going to look at them. I’d only wanted her there with me because letting her out of my sight for more than a few minutes these days created havoc with my concentration and temperament.
It was why I’d had to resort to special resources to accommodate the period between when the workday was over and I had to let her go home and the desperate hours before I saw her again.
It was why I let my obsession throttle my guilt when I asked her to stay longer than everyone else and work on some weekends.
“Thank you,” I said, ignoring my gruff voice. “And the other thing? Is that taken care of too?”
She nodded. “The gift basket is waiting for Judge Montgomery as soon as he's done with his hearing this morning.”
