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In the master bedroom, he opened the walk-in closet to reveal exactly what he'd promised—half the space cleared, new organizers installed, hangers waiting. But what caught my attention was the small velvet box sitting on the center shelf.

"What's that?" I asked, nodding toward it.

"A housewarming gift," he said, retrieving the box with careful hands. "For the woman brave enough to share her life with Lucas Turner."

Inside was a key, not the simple gold of my necklace, but platinum, intricate, clearly custom-made. Hanging from a chain that matched the metal of his watch, now circling my wrist.

"A key to what?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.

"Everything," he said.

"The penthouse. The Napa house. The cabin in Tahoe. My life, Savannah. All of it."

The gesture was overwhelming in its completeness, its absolute commitment. I looked up at him, this powerful man who was offering me not just access to his world, but equal partnership in it.

"I love you," I said, the words feeling insufficient for the enormity of what I felt.

He set the box aside and pulled me against him, his mouth finding mine with desperate intensity. This wasn't the controlled passion I'd grown accustomed to, but something rawer, more urgent. A claiming that went both ways.

"Mine," he murmured against my lips, hands already working at the buttons of my blouse.

"Yours," I agreed, my own fingers busy with his shirt. "Just as you're mine."

The confirmation seemed to unleash something in him. He lifted me easily, carrying me to the bed—our bed now—and laid me down with reverent care. But there was nothing gentle in the way he stripped away my remaining clothes, nothing controlled in the heat of his gaze as he took in every inch of exposed skin.

"I need to touch you," he said, his voice rough with desire. "Need to feel you respond to me. Need to know this is real."

"It's real," I promised, reaching for him.

This wasn’t careful, wasn’t slow—this was desperate, a claiming that went both ways.

”You are mine," Lucas breathed against my lips, already undoing my blouse, fingers grazing bare skin as he worked the buttons open one after another.

"Yours," I said back, my fingers fumbling at his shirt, tugging it free of his pants, greedy for the heat of his skin. "But you’re mine, too. All of you."

That made him growl—a rough, low sound in his throat. He yanked my blouse off and tossed it aside. His mouth was on my neck, then lower, teeth scraping along my collarbone, leaving marks that would last for days.

He lifted me, carried me to the bed—our bed. He laid me down, not gentle now, eyes dark as he stripped the rest of my clothes away, like he couldn’t get me naked fast enough.

He knelt over me for a second, looking down at every inch of exposed skin. His hands roamed, rough palms on my thighs, my hips, squeezing my ass, pushing my legs open wider.

"I need to touch every part of you," he rasped. "Need to feel you shake for me."

I reached up, dragging him down until his weight pressed me into the mattress. His body was hot and heavy, all muscle andwant. He slid his hands up my ribs, cupping my breasts, thumbs flicking over tight nipples until I arched up for more.

He bent to suck one into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. I twisted under him, needy and shameless, legs spreading, grinding my hips up to feel him—hard and thick through his pants.

"Off," I ordered, voice rough with need, tugging at his belt.

He obliged, standing to strip in one fast, practiced motion.

His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and my mouth watered at the sight. He stroked himself, eyes locked on me, pupils blown wide.

"Spread your legs for me," he said, voice all command, no patience left.

I obeyed, knees falling wide. He crawled between them, pausing to run his tongue up my thigh—slow, hot, teasing. Then he buried his mouth between my legs, tongue flicking, sucking, licking me until I was shaking, fists twisted in the sheets, breath coming fast and sharp.

"Lucas—fuck?—"