2

2

Sienna’s POV.

Pain.

That’s the first thing I register. A deep, slow ache between my thighs, radiating up my spine, down to my knees. My body feels wrecked. Ruined. Used.

The second thing I register is movement. A shift in the mattress. A presence.

I bolt upright, or at least I try to. My limbs protest, muscles sore in places I don’t want to think about. Damian is standing near the window, already dressed, dark suit pristine, tie in place, like last night was just another job for him. Like I wasn’t on my knees for him hours ago, my face pressed against the floor, his cock ruining me.

A rush of heat floods my cheeks, but I bury it deep. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“You’re still here?” My voice is rough. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, blinking against the glare of the screen. Past noon. Shit.

“I had business to take care of.” He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s waiting for me to break.

I won’t.

I toss the sheets aside and swing my legs over the edge, ignoring the dull throb between them. “Good. Then you can leave.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s infuriating.

I stand on unsteady legs, ignoring the way his eyes rake over me, taking in the bruises on my hips, the faint red marks on my wrists. I refuse to acknowledge any of it.

Instead, I lift my chin and remind him, “I’m the boss here, Damian. Not you.”

His smirk deepens.

“You keep telling yourself that, princess.”

I hate how my stomach clenches at his voice, at the mocking lilt that says he knows better. That I know better.

But I won’t let him have this. I grab my robe and stride past him, refusing to look back. He can go fuck himself.

***

By the time I make it to the office, I’m back in control. Or at least, I look like I am. My hair is sleek, my red lips sharp, my pencil skirt hugging my hips just right. No one would guess that I spent last night with my face shoved into the wall, begging for air, begging for him.

And Damian? He’s unreadable as ever, standing near the entrance like a shadow, his black suit impeccable. I wonder if he even has flashbacks to last night just like I was. I stare at him for a few seconds and then I ignore him.

If he thinks last night changed anything, he’s wrong.

Instead, I set my sights on Ethan.

Ethan is charming, attractive in that clean-cut way. He’s one of our corporate partners, a man with an easy smile and just enough arrogance to make him fun. He flirts. I flirt back.

I laugh a little too loud at his jokes. Touch his arm when I don’t need to. Bat my lashes like I’m some wide-eyed girl instead of the woman who had her knees forced apart just hours ago.

And Damian?

Nothing.

No reaction.

Not a flicker of jealousy, not a tightening of his jaw, like I don’t exist.

It pisses me off.

The game isn’t fun if he doesn’t play.

I stare at him for a few moments longer before deciding that maybe last night was just a one night thing and he wasn’t interested in anything more. I shouldn’t be interested in anything more.

***

The office has finally emptied, but I am still in the conference room, doing a quick job of signing proposals and contracts that needs to be sent out before tomorrow.

The door opens, and I feel him before I even see him. Of course he had to be the one. No one else was in the office.

A hand. Large. Rough. Wrapping around my throat from behind, just firm enough to make my pulse stutter. He lifts me up gently, kicking the chair away.

I don’t gasp. I won’t. But my body betrays me, back arching slightly, lips parting as he turns me, shoving me against the wall.

Damian towers over me, eyes dark, mouth set in that infuriating smirk.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, princess.”

I smile, saccharine sweet. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His fingers tighten just enough to make my breath hitch.

“Flirting with men who don’t own you.” His thumb brushes the pulse in my throat, and I know he feels it racing.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

His eyes flick over my face, my lips, my throat, like he’s deciding something. Then his free hand grips my hip, yanking me forward.

His thigh slots between mine, pressing up, and my breath catches because—fuck—he’s solid, warm, right there.

I set my jaw, refusing to move, but he doesn’t let me have that choice. His grip shifts, guiding my hips, making me grind against him.

A sharp rush of humiliation spikes through me.

He’s not even touching me. Not really. He’s making me do this to myself.

My hands fly to his chest, nails digging in as I try to stop him but he doesn’t even budge.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear.

I open my mouth to talk, but, fuck, I can’t.

I hate the way my body responds, the way the friction sends heat licking up my spine, the way my own wetness makes each movement slicker, easier.

My stomach clench and I want him deep inside of me, massaging my walls and using me like he did yesterday, but I also know what he wants. He wants me to beg, but I won’t. Not this time.

My thighs tremble, my breath shuddering as he forces me to keep moving.

He chuckles in a low and knowing manner.

“You wanted my attention,” he taunts. “Now you have it.”

I grit my teeth, hands fisting in his suit, but my hips betray me, rolling again, again, chasing something I refuse to name.

His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my head spin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Grinding on me like a desperate little thing.”

Heat floods my face, shame curling in my gut but my body doesn’t care. It’s wired for him now, wrecked by him.

His thigh is rock solid, pressing just right, his grip unrelenting as he forces me to take what I need.

I bite my lip, trying to hold back, trying to fight it.

But he sees. Of course he sees.

“Come for me,” he commands, voice like smoke, fingers tightening at my throat. “Make a mess of yourself.”

And I do.

I shatter, right there, fully dressed, shaking against his thigh as pleasure rips through me.

It’s humiliating.

It’s intoxicating.

When I finally catch my breath, my legs weak, his smirk is back, smug and satisfied.

“Good girl.”

I shove at his chest, feeling so damn furious.

He lets me, taking a step back and adjusting his tie like this was just another task on his list.

“You’re an asshole,” I snap, voice hoarse.

He smirks. “And you’re still mine.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me against the wall, shaking, ruined, and wanting more.