3

3

Sienna’s POV.

The second we step into my penthouse, I rip my arm from Damian’s grip and whirl on him, furious.

“You don’t own me,” I snap, voice sharp with rage.

Damian doesn’t even flinch. He just shuts the door behind him, his massive frame blocking the exit like a human barricade.

“I never said I did,” he says, his voice infuriatingly calm. “But I’m responsible for you.”

I let out a sharp laugh, tossing my clutch onto the couch. “Responsible for me?” I stalk toward him, heels clicking against the marble floor. “That’s cute. You think just because you got hired to protect me, you suddenly get a say in my life?”

His gaze flickers—dark amusement, something dangerous lurking beneath.

“You think I need your permission to do my job?” he counters.

I scoff, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “You’re my employee. Not my keeper.”

His smirk is infuriating. “Then why are you acting like a spoiled little brat throwing a tantrum?”

I freeze, breath hitching.

And that’s when I realize this is what he wants.

He likes this.

My anger, my resistance, the way I bite back at him.

It feeds him.

“Fuck you,” I sneer.

He just tilts his head, studying me, like he’s already planning how to break me down.

“Last warning, Sienna.” His voice is smooth and even, but laced with sharpness. “You’re testing my patience.”

“Good.” I step closer, deliberately invading his space. “I want to see what happens when you lose it.”

A slow, amused chuckle rumbles from his chest.

“Careful what you wish for, princess.”

And then his hand shoots out, gripping my chin, tilting my face up to meet his.

I barely get a chance to react before he shoves me down to my knees.

A shocked gasp leaves my lips as I land on the floor, my dress pooling around me.

“Wha—”

“I warned you,” he murmurs, looking down at me, his eyes dark with intent. “But you don’t listen. Do you, Sienna?”

I try to jerk away, but his grip tightens, fingers digging into my jaw.

“You want to act like a brat?” he says, tilting his head. “Then you can kneel like one.”

Heat floods my body, humiliation coiling in my stomach.

I should fight but my body stays frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Crawl.” His voice is low and commanding.

My breath catches. “Excuse me?”

His smirk is pure arrogance. “I said, crawl.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to be stubborn.

Another mistake.

He tightens his grip, dragging his thumb across my bottom lip.

“You wanted to push me, princess.” His voice drops to a dark, silken threat. “Now crawl to me like the spoiled little thing you are.”

I shouldn’t.

I won’t.

But then he lets go, stepping back, his arms folding across his chest as he watches me with amused patience.

Waiting.

Taunting.

Heat crawls up my spine, shame and arousal twisting together into something sickly sweet.

I should slap him or tell him to fuck off.

But my body betrays me.

Slowly, deliberately, I shift forward onto my hands, my nails scraping against the floor.

I crawl.

My face burns.

His gaze is heavy on me, drinking in every humiliating movement.

When I finally reach him, I glare up at him, breathless, seething.

His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.

“Good girl.” My stomach clenches at his words.

I hate how much that affects me.

I shouldn’t be wet from this.

Shouldn’t be shaking with need just from the way he’s looking at me.

But I am.

And he sees it. His fingers slide into my hair, gripping the strands, forcing my head back.

“You look good on your knees, Sienna.”

I swallow hard. “You—”

His other hand unbuckles his belt and my pulse spikes.

I really should pull away or fight him.

Instead, I stay perfectly still, my breathing shaky as he unzips his pants, freeing his cock.

He’s already hard, thick and heavy in his grip.

A smug smirk tugs at his lips. “I should make you beg for it.”

I scowl, refusing.

Another sharp tug on my hair.

I whimper.

He chuckles, running the tip of his cock across my already parted lips.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “You want it so bad, don’t you?”

I meet his gaze, my pride hanging by a thread.

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

His smirk deepens.

“Not yet.”

And then he pushes into my mouth, forcing me to take him.

I gasp, my hands flying to his thighs, trying to steady myself.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust.

Just grips my hair, controlling every movement, using my mouth the way he wants.

“Look at you,” he breathes, watching me with predatory satisfaction. “So fucking obedient when I take control.”

I should be angry at his words but all I feel is heat, the heady rush of submission curling in my belly and intoxicating me.

He fucks my mouth, slow at first, dragging his cock along my tongue, making me feel every inch.

I moan around him, my thighs clenching.

“Such a messy little thing,” he taunts, tilting my face up. “You like being on your knees for me?”

I hate that he’s right.

His grip tightens, forcing me deeper, my throat stretching around him.

Tears prick my eyes, my nails digging into his thighs as he holds me there, my body trembling.

“Breathe through it,” he murmurs.

I whimper, my body shaking and pleasure coiling low in my stomach.

Damian’s grip tightens in my hair, holding me still as he thrusts deep, his cock pulsing on my tongue.

“Take it,” he growls.

I don’t get a choice.

His body shudders, and then he’s spilling into my mouth, thick and hot, forcing me to swallow every drop.

I gag, my nails digging into his thighs as he holds me there, making sure I don’t waste a single drop.

When he finally pulls out, my lips are swollen, my breath ragged, my body trembling from need.

I wait.

Wait for him to touch me, to give me relief.

Instead, he smirks, tucking himself back into his pants, completely unaffected, while I remain on my knees, wrecked, aching, and soaked.

“You look good like this,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through my hair.

I glare up at him, my pride hanging by a shredded thread.

“I—”

Before I can snap, he grips my jaw, forcing my mouth open.

His thumb drags across my bottom lip, checking, making sure I swallowed everything.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his smirk dark and mocking.

Heat flares in my chest, my rage and humiliation intertwining because I’m still aching, still throbbing with desperate need, and he knows it.

And yet he does nothing about it.

He just straightens his cuffs, completely composed, like he didn’t just use my mouth and leave me here, trembling and unsatisfied.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” he says, like I’m nothing more than a mess to be discarded. “I’ve had my fun for the night.”

I gasp, my body jerking as if he just slapped me.

And then he turns and walks away leaving me there, needy, humiliated and burning.

I hate him.

I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone.

And yet, as I kneel there, wrecked and trembling, I already know I’ll let him do it again if he wanted to.