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“Please tell me I can lick you clean,” he whispered. He tried to be good. Tried to stop. But when I sobbed in his arms, soaking wet and desperate, he broke 😮‍💨. His tongue on me was sinful 👅. Addictive. Like he was starving and I was the only meal he’d ever wanted 💦. I didn’t even need him to f*ck me—I came again and again with his mouth between my thighs and his voice telling me I’d never need anyone else 🖤🔥. Chapter 1 [Claire’s POV] Even I would fuck myself. I think. At least, that's the effect I'm going for. Three days until I turn nineteen, and I'm standing in front of my mirror having a full-blown existential crisis over whether this dress makes me look sophisticated or like I'm playing dress-up in my mother's closet. Spoiler alert: it's definitely the latter, but I'm committed now. Worse than that only the fact that my body has apparently decided to stage a full-scale rebellion. I've been burning up for a week, breaking out in random sweats that have nothing to do with the California heat wave. My skin feels too tight, like I'm wearing a bodysuit two sizes too small, and every fabric seems to irritate me. Even my favorite silk sheets feel like sandpaper. But it doesn’t matter now, Hugh's here. Well, he was here earlier, but I was conveniently out preparing to face him. Getting my hair done before spending several hours selecting the perfect dress. Reapplying my shadows four times, because the first attempts made me look either like a startled raccoon or a sleepy panda. With no acceptable middle ground. All this for my father's business partner. A man twice older than me but less handsome because of that. A man who's been the star of my inappropriate daydreams for at least a year now. I'm aware this makes me a walking cliché. I'm also aware I don't care. I give myself one last look in the mirror, smooth down the navy dress, and head downstairs. The smell of dinner wafts through the house—Mrs. Walker has outdone herself with her famous lobster risotto. Which means Dad's in full host mode. "Claire!" "Claire!" Dad's voice echoes through our estate, approximately from the dining room. "Would you mind fetching Hugh? He's in the guest room on the third floor for now. Dinner's ready." Would I mind? Oh, dear Dad… If only you knew. "Of course," I say, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near manically cheerful. I climb the stairs, mentally rehearsing normal human behavior. Knock. Wait. Deliver the message. Do not stare. Do not drool. Do not make it weird. The door of his temporary room is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway because I was raised with manners. Even if my thoughts toward this man are decidedly unmannerly. "Hugh? Dinner is…" No response. I push the door open wider, stepping inside cautiously. The room is empty—his leather duffel bag open on the bed, clothes laid out with precision, and I glance toward the bathroom. The door's cracked open, but it's silent. No running water, no movement. I should leave. This is clearly a private space. Instead, I find myself drifting deeper into the room, my fingers trailing across his suitcase. His cologne sits on the dresser. A book on the nightstand—something about economic theory that makes me smile because of course he reads for fun. Then I see it. His shirt, draped over the chair by the window. That dark grey button-down he wore last time. The one that stretched deliciously at his chest when he took a deep breath. Before my brain can engage with what my body's doing, I've crossed the room and picked it up. The scent hits me immediately—cedar and something darker, something I can't quite name but that makes my skin feel too tight and my thoughts fuzzy. I breathe it in deeper, eyes closed, and honestly? Worth it. The warmth registers first. Body heat radiating against my back, close enough that I can feel it through my dress. Then a deep inhale near my neck—someone breathing me in the same way I'm breathing in this shirt. "Find what you're looking for?" My heart nearly stops and when I spin around, he's right there—inches away, so close I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. How did I not hear him? How did a man that size move so quietly? What is he, part ninja? Hugh towers over me, all six and a half feet of billionaire perfection. His dark hair is damp, pushed back from a face that belongs on ancient sculptures—sharp jaw, straight nose, cheekbones that could cut glass. Silver threads at his temples only make him more devastating. Water still beads on his broad shoulders, trailing down the muscled planes of his chest and relief of his hard abs. He's wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips, and I'm pretty sure my ovaries just signed their own death certificates "I… Dinner. Dad sent me to…" My brain has apparently decided to take a vacation. "Dinner is ready." He doesn't step back. Those steel-gray eyes drop to the shirt pressed against my chest, then slowly—so slowly—drag back up to my face. The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. "You're in my room." His voice is rough, almost a growl. "Holding my clothes." "I was just—" I swallowed hard. "You weren't answering." "So you decided to help yourself?" Heat floods my cheeks. "I should probably go." But I don't move. Can't move. He's standing so close that if I breathed too deeply, my chest would brush against his. "That’s not an answer to my question." He leans in slightly then, and I catch his scent again—cedar and something wild underneath that makes my coherent thoughts disappear completely. "Did you change your perfume? You smell…" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "I smell… what?" His eyes flash with something that looks almost like pain and hunger. Or maybe it’s just my horny imagination. "Different." The word hangs between us, charged with meaning I don't understand. "Different how?" I whisper. His gaze drops to my lips. "Like you're..." Another pause, another internal war. But it’s just for a heartbeat before he wrenches it away. "Doesn’t matter." "Dinner's ready," I manage again, my voice embarrassingly breathless. "You should probably… put on clothes." "Probably." But he still doesn't move. The air feels thick and electric, and my pulse is pounding so hard I'm certain he can hear it. His chest rises and falls with controlled deep breaths, like he's fighting something. "The shirt." His voice drops lower. "You can let go now." I look down, realizing I'm still clutching it against my body like a shield. When I release it, our fingers brush and the contact sends a jolt through me that's entirely disproportionate to the touch. "Sorry," I whisper. "Don't be." The words come out strained before he steps back, putting distance between us, and the spell shatters. "Tell your father I'll be down in five minutes." I flee, there's no other word for it. Practically run from the room, and I don't stop until I'm safely back downstairs, pressing my hands to my burning cheeks. Dinner is torture. Beautiful, excruciating torture. Dad is in rare form tonight—warmer than usual, almost affectionate in his restrained way while discussing my birthday party with genuine enthusiasm. Though "enthusiasm" for multi-billionaire Richard Winters means detailed logistics rather than actual emotion. It would be sweet if it weren't so controlling. And if the man sitting across from me weren't making it impossible to focus on anything except the memory of water droplets on his bare skin. "So, Hugh," I say, "how was London?" He glances up, and for a second, our eyes meet. Then he looks away, jaw tight. "Productive. The meetings went well." "What's it like this time of year?" "Cold. Rainy." There's the ghost of a smile. "You'd probably enjoy it. Very atmospheric." It's polite and perfectly pleasant. But there's a wall between us now, like he's carefully measuring each word. Dad jumps in with a story about his own trip to London, and Hugh engages easily enough this time. He’s clearly more comfortable in conversation with his old friend and business partner than with his young silly daughter. Well, shit. When I try to ask another question, to test my theory, Hugh's response is brief before he redirects the conversation back to Dad. Not rude, just distant. Carefully, deliberately distant. And yet I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm focused on my plate. Brief, unguarded moments before he wrenches his gaze away. The contradiction is maddening—the distance in his words versus the intensity in his eyes. After the main course, I excuse myself to make tea, and when I return, voices drift from Dad's study nearby. Raised voices. Which is shocking, because Hugh never raises his voice. Ever. I shouldn't eavesdrop, I know that, I was raised better than that and whatever. I do it anyway. "—too dangerous, Richard." Hugh's voice cuts through the door, sharp and angry. "You can't keep her in the dark about this!" "Claire doesn't need to know anything until after—" Then sudden silence, the kind that means they've heard something. Or someone. That alone is a clear message for me and I hurry away before they open the door, my pulse racing. What don't they want me to know? What's dangerous? Don't I already have a full picture of what's going on with my life? Chapter 2 I wake up to silence, which in this house is basically a fire alarm. Dad's gone—left before dawn for some emergency that couldn't wait until after my party. The note on my nightstand is characteristically brief: ‘Emergency with Singapore, but I’ll be back for your party. Don't do anything reckless until then, sweetheart.’ Which is rich, considering I triple-check the stove is off before leaving the house. And I don’t cook. Ever. Dad made sure of that with all of the help in our mansion. Raising and guarding properly the billionaire’s heiress I am and all. The summer heat is already oppressive at nine in the morning and I lie in my bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about cryptic arguments or the way Hugh looked at me over dinner. Or in his room. Like I was a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve. With his mouth. Okay, I'm totally thinking about that. By noon, I'm restless and the walls feel like they're closing in. So I do what any reasonable person does when faced with an existential crisis: I decide to exercise it away. The pool is perfect—crystal blue and deserted. I dive in and immediately feel better. There's something about being underwater that makes the world go quiet in the best way. I swim laps. And more laps. My muscles burn in that good way, but somewhere around the half hour mark, things start to feel... off. At first it's just lightheadedness and I pause at the shallow end, gripping the edge, waiting for it to pass. It doesn't, my vision blurs at the edges. Then my limbs turn to lead. I try to push toward the ladder—it's right there, maybe three feet away—but my arms won't cooperate. They're moving through molasses, and the panic hits the exact moment water closes over my head. I'm sinking. Actually fucking sinking. I can't move, can't call for help, can't do anything except watch the surface get farther away. This is gonna be so stupid of me to die this way and that young. Suddenly, strong hands grip my arms, yanking me upward with enough force that it almost hurts. Air and sunlight hit my face as I break the surface before being hauled out of the water and lowered onto one of the pool loungers. Warm and big palms on my face, tilting my head. A voice, sharp with command: "Breathe. Focus on me. Come on, Claire, breathe." I'm coughing up water, my lungs burning and my whole body shaking despite the heat. When my vision finally clears enough to focus, I find Hugh crouched beside me. His expensive suit is completely soaked through, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, expression harder than I've ever seen it. But his hands are gentle as they brush wet hair away from my face. "What the hell were you thinking, swimming alone with a fever?" His voice is rough, almost angry, but it sounds like fear underneath. I'm still trying to catch my breath, still trying to process that Hugh is here, with me. The way his wet shirt clings to his chest is doing nothing for my ability to form coherent thoughts. "I don't…" I manage between gasps. "I just got… dizzy. I'm fine." "You're not fine." He cuts me off, jaw tight as he leans closer. "I came to retrieve documents for your father and instead see you from the window, drowning." Without thinking, my hands reach up and fist in the wet fabric of his shirt. I pull myself even closer, pressing my face in some unconscious need against his chest because somehow his scent cuts through the chlorine and panic. Cedar and something wild. Somehow, it makes my racing heart beat slower. "Claire." His voice sounds strangled. "What are you…" "You smell so good…" I murmured against him, still dazed, nuzzling into the solid warmth of his chest. Safe. He smells like safety and it’s completely intoxicating and exactly what I needed before I even knew it. His entire body goes rigid after my words as if it struck him right in the gut, every muscle turning to stone. For one heartbeat, his hand comes up to cup the back of my head and fingers threading through my wet hair, pressing me closer. Then he makes a rough sound in his throat—half growl, half groan—and practically launches himself away from me. One of the housekeepers appears with towels like she's been waiting in the wings for her cue and Hugh takes one, draping it around my shoulders with careful, impersonal efficiency that feels like a wall slamming into place. "Call a doctor," he tells her. "Make sure someone stays with her." "I said I'm fine," I insist. "I just got overheated…" His eyes flash. "You could have drowned." There's this moment of loaded silence where I become acutely aware that I'm sitting here in nothing but my bikini—the skimpy red one that makes my boobs look amazing and barely qualifies as fabric. That the wet fabric clings to every barely hidden curve. That Hugh's gaze flickers down for just a fraction of a second before he wrenches it back to my face, his jaw tight with the effort. "Thank you…" I say quietly. "For saving my life." He's already turning away. "I need to change. Get those documents." He pauses, his back to me. "Don't swim alone again when you’re not feeling well, Claire." It sounds less like a suggestion and more like an order. Then he's gone, and I'm sitting there wrapped in a towel, replaying the moment I pressed myself against him and he held me back. Just for a second, before forcing himself to let go. The doctor arrives an hour later and pronounces me dehydrated and overtired but otherwise fine. But I can't stop thinking about how Hugh looked when his carefully constructed walls cracked wide open. By evening, I've had a long bath and convinced myself I'm perfectly normal and not at all affected by the day's events. This is a lie, but I'm committed to it. I'm in my room wearing only a thin camisole and my favorite cotton panties, my hair still damp on my shoulders, when there's a knock at my door. Perhaps it's the housekeeper checking on me for the fiftieth time, like I’m still a fucking child. Except I open the door to find Hugh, and his eyes immediately drop before he can stop himself. It's like watching someone lose a battle with their own willpower in real-time. His gaze sweeps down my body—taking in the thin camisole that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, the way my nipples are clearly visible through the fabric, the expanse of bare legs that goes on for days. His pupils dilate like he's been drugged, and his jaw tightens so hard I'm worried he might crack a molar as he forces his gaze back to my face. "I…" His voice comes out hoarse until he clears his throat and starts again. "The doctor said you were fine, but I needed to see for myself." "And?" I lean against the doorframe, making no move to cover myself. "Do I look fine to you?" The question comes out more provocative than I intended. Or maybe exactly as provocative as I intended. Anyway, his hands clench at his sides, knuckles going white. "Claire." My name sounds like a warning. "Hugh." I mirror his tone, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "You should put on more clothes." "Why would I?" I tilt my head, playing dumb. "This is my bedroom, I wasn't expecting visitors." "I'm not…" He takes a breath, visibly struggling for control. "I just came to check on you." "And you've checked." I don't step back. Neither does he. "Anything else?" The air between us feels combustible as his gaze drops to my lips, lingering there for a moment too long. When he speaks, his voice is rough. "You shouldn't have been out there alone, you could have died. Do you understand that?" "I understand you saved me." I reach out, my fingers brushing his where they're clenched at his side. The contact sends that familiar but still strange electricity up my arm. "Unless you keep finding reasons to put your hands on me." His breath catches and for one endless moment, I think he's going to step forward. Going to close the distance between us and do something we can't take back. What I desperately wanted him to do for over a year now. Instead, he steps back like I've burned him. "Happy early birthday, Claire." The words come out strained, almost pained, as he turns and walks away before I can respond. I close the door and lean against it, my heart pounding, my skin flushed with heat that has nothing to do with fever. Drowning might have been less dangerous than whatever this is. She thought it was just tension, until she realized her body was reacting to something far older and far more dangerous than a crush 🔥. Read His to Protect now 🥵