Fucking My Untamed Hunk

Claire's POV

The suite door hissed open.

Richard had Olivia Thompson pinned against the glass, her skimpy red dress rucked up to her waist, panties dangling off one ankle. His pants were around his thighs as he fucked her hard and fast, the city lights strobing across their sweat-slick skin. My North Star diamond pendant (the one he’d proposed with) swung between her bouncing tits with every brutal thrust.

“Richard—fuck—right there!” she screamed, legs locked around him, heels digging into his ass.

I dropped my coffee. It splattered like blood across the marble.

“Well,” I said, voice razor-sharp, “this explains the ignored texts.”

Richard jerked out of her so fast she almost fell. Olivia’s hand flew to the necklace, eyes wide, pussy still glistening in the neon glow.

“Claire—baby—it’s not—”

"Obviously." I set down my bag with deliberate calm. "Olivia, darling, that's a beautiful necklace. Where did you get it?"

She clutched the North Star pendant protectively. "Richard gave it to me. He said—"

SLAP.

My palm connected with her cheek before I even realized I'd moved. The sound echoed through the suite like a gunshot.

"That's my engagement necklace, you pathetic wannabe." My voice was ice-cold. "And you're in my fiancé's hotel room."

Olivia's hand flew to her reddening cheek. "You can't hit me! I'll sue you for assault!"

"Please do. I'd love to explain to a judge exactly what you were doing when I walked in." I smiled sweetly. "Though I doubt your publicist would appreciate the headlines."

Richard finally found his voice. "Claire, let me explain—"

"No need." I held out my hand to Olivia. "The necklace. Now."

She fumbled with the clasp, her hands shaking. The North Star pendant dropped into my palm, still warm from her skin.

"Get out," I said quietly. "Both of you. I need space."

After they scrambled to collect Olivia's clothes and fled, I walked to the balcony. The December wind cut through my thin cashmere sweater, but I didn't move. Something about the cold air cleared my head. Below me, Boston Harbor stretched out, the water dark and choppy under the evening sky.

I heard the sliding door open behind me an hour later.

"Claire." Richard's voice was cautious. "We need to talk."

"Do we?" I didn't turn around. "I don't love you, Richard. You don't love me. This is a business arrangement between our families. At the very least, we owe each other respect."

He stepped beside me. "I know. I was careless."

"You gave her my engagement necklace."

"It was... a mistake."

I finally looked at him. "Your mistake was getting caught. I don't care who you sleep with, but publicly humiliating me damages both our families' reputations."

Richard studied me for a long moment. "Six children, and you're the only one who lives up to your name."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Claire. Clear, bright." He sighed. "Everyone else is just trying to be William Stanton's child. You actually succeed."

I didn't respond. He was right. That was exactly what my father had hoped for when he named me. In the Stanton family hierarchy, I'd clawed my way to the top. As the third child, I was never supposed to be the heir, but I made myself first in line for succession.

My father, William Stanton, had been married three times. First to Amy Walker, a politician's daughter who died young. Then to my mother, Margaret Wilson, who divorced him and moved to London. Now to Jessica White, a former Hollywood actress only four years older than me, who'd just given him his sixth child.

The truth was, I had no room for men in my emotional life. My focus was solely on my career. Men were just tools for physical pleasure when I needed release. Nothing more.

The next evening, the Four Seasons ballroom glittered with Boston's elite for the annual charity auction. I wore the North Star pendant, making a statement that Richard and I were still united. I sipped champagne when shouting erupted near the restrooms.

"Why don't you just come in and watch me pee!" A pale, thin blonde girl yelled at a tall man in an ill-fitting black suit.

The man stood motionless, two red scratches marking his cheek like war paint. Easily 6'2", his shoulders strained against expensive fabric, every line of him coiled power barely contained.

His dark hair was military-short, but it was those eyes that made my breath catch—pale blue-gray like winter ice, devastating in their intensity.

And I knew those eyes.

Six months ago. My business trip to Somalia had gone sideways when our convoy was attacked by militants. I'd been trapped in an overturned vehicle, blood running down my face, when those same ice-blue eyes had appeared in the broken window.

"American?" he'd asked in a voice rough with smoke and gunfire.

I'd nodded, unable to speak.

He'd ripped the door off its hinges with his bare hands and pulled me to safety, carrying me through gunfire to the extraction point. I never learned his name - just watched him disappear into the chaos as the military helicopter lifted off.

My savior. My guardian angel.

And now he was here, close enough to touch.

When his gaze found mine across the room, recognition flashed in his eyes for just a moment before that professional mask slammed back into place. Heat shot down my spine, and for the first time in my life, I understood what people meant when they talked about love at first sight.

I traced the sharp cut of his jaw, watched his shirt pull taut across his chest with each breath. His forearms, visible where sleeves were rolled back, showed subtle muscle definition that made my mouth go dry.

Everything about him radiated barely leashed danger—the kind of man who could destroy you with those ice-fire eyes alone, and you'd thank him for it.

"Victoria, that's enough," he said to the blonde, his voice low but firm.

"Screw you!" She tried to push past him, but he caught her arm.

"We're leaving. Now." He practically lifted her off the ground as he guided her toward the exit.

The woman next to me leaned in. "That's Victoria Reynolds, Robert Reynolds' daughter. Energy magnate."

"The one with the drug problem?" I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from him.

"Two years of rehab. Daddy keeps her on a tight leash now." She nodded toward the man. "That's her new bodyguard. Ex-Navy SEAL, I heard. Did UN peacekeeping missions in Syria and Somalia."

Somalia. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Seems intense," I managed.

"Word is she was trying to score drugs. The charity circuit is perfect for that."

I watched them disappear through the door, noting the way his hand never left her arm, the controlled power in his movements. Something had shifted inside my chest - a crack in the ice around my heart I'd thought was permanent.

I touched the North Star pendant at my throat and smiled.

After twenty-eight years of emotional emptiness, Claire Stanton had finally found something worth wanting.