Free He Claims Me by Cynthia Sax

my pants. Perspiration drips down my spine.
    I’m close, too close, my body coiling tight, my inner muscles gripping his fingers. Oh Lord. My thighs shake, the effort to remain still, to remain silent, tremendous. I’m going to come here, in a restaurant, while Blaine’s business associates watch.
    â€œBlaine,” I whisper.
    He leans closer, the heat of his body driving me ruthlessly toward fulfillment. “Come for me, Anna. Here.” He plunges deep inside me. “Now.” He curls his fingers and smacks the heel of his hand against my clit.
    I buck upward, a cry torn from my lips. As I lose control, breaking into a million pieces, uncaring who sees or who hears, Blaine flings his arm out, knocking a full glass of water across the table. Women shriek and men jump to their feet. Waiters rush to soak up the mess.
    Amidst the chaos, Blaine pins me to my chair. I writhe, the room spinning around me, my juices gushing over his fingers. He strokes along my inner walls, caressing inside me. Gradually, my heartbeat slows, my rational thought returning, and Blaine withdraws his hand, resting his wet fingers on my upper thighs.
    â€œYou’re so responsive,” he murmurs into my ear, pressing his cheek against mine. “And beautiful.” Blaine nibbles on my earlobe, teasing my sensitive flesh. “And mine.”
    His employees return to their seats. Henley remains where he is, having never moved, his gaze fixed on us. He knows. I wipe Blaine’s fingers with a cloth napkin, seeking to hide the truth from the others.
    â€œAre we talking business?” Volkov grumbles. “I have an afternoon flight tomorrow.”
    â€œWe’re talking business.” Blaine wraps his arm around my waist, tucking me close, and he turns back to the impatient businessman.
    I glance across the table. Henley meets my gaze and tugs on the cuffs of his suit. I gaze down at Blaine’s hands. One of his cuffs is pulled up, revealing his tanned wrist, his skin speckled with my pussy juices.
    My face heats. I smooth Blaine’s sleeve back down and Henley nods his approval, his face stern and his chin square.
    He continues to watch me. I look around the table. Other ­people watch me, watch Blaine. They don’t see all of me and they never will but I’m no longer invisible. I’m vulnerable, exposed, and until I develop another strategy to cope, I’ll have to trust Blaine to protect me. I fit into his body, meshing my curves with his muscle, and his grip on me tightens.
    As the night progresses, the conversations around us wane, and the waiters clean the table. One smiling waitress assures me no food is wasted, the leftovers are sent home with staff members. Men and women say their good-­nights, returning to their homes, to their families.
    Blaine and Volkov continue to talk, their heads bent and their tones serious. Mrs. Volkov sips coffee, her expression resigned, as though she’s spent decades waiting for business talk to wind down. Every once in a while Volkov reaches over, squeezes her hand, and her face lights up.
    They’re a team, an aging patriarch and the woman who loves him. Mrs. Volkov isn’t flashy. Her breasts are natural and her figure is soft. She also doesn’t talk a lot. She’s quiet like me. Talking isn’t necessary. Volkov knows she’s there, supporting him as he supports her.
    I close my eyes, listening to the rumble of Blaine’s voice, engulfed in his warmth. This is where I’m supposed to be also, by Blaine’s side, supporting him, loving him.
    I WAKE TO sunlight streaming through a window, the glass splitting the rays into a rainbow of colors. I frown, confused. My bedroom in the Leighs’ bungalow doesn’t have a window. As I try to sit up, a heavy band over my stomach prevents me from moving.
    I look down at the tanned male arm strewn across my near naked body. Blaine lies with his face buried in a white fluffy