6

6

Sienna’s POV.

I can’t think. I can’t focus. I can’t fucking breathe.

Damian is ignoring me.

Not in the obvious way, not in a way anyone else would notice, but I feel it. I feel it in every inch of my body, in the way my skin is too tight, my pulse too sharp, my breath too shallow. He’s close, but not close enough. Watching, but not touching. Standing there, cold and unaffected, while I sit behind my desk pretending I don’t care.

I hate him. I hate him for what he’s done to me, for how he’s ruined me. I should be above this. I’m Sienna Laurent, for fuck’s sake. I don’t need a man. I don’t beg for attention. And yet, here I am, shifting in my seat, my thighs pressed together because I’m so fucking restless I could scream.

And he knows.

I see it in the way he stands against the far wall, arms crossed over that impossibly broad chest, his expression unreadable. He’s toying with me. Testing me. I should ignore him the way he’s ignoring me, but I can’t.

So I push.

I lean back in my chair, stretching deliberately, letting my blouse shift just enough to show the lace edge of my bra. His eyes flicker, a flash of something dark and hungry, gone as fast as it appears.

Not enough.

I stand, pretending to check something on my shelf, arching my back as I reach up, my skirt riding high on my thighs. I hear it then, the slow, controlled inhale, the tightening of his jaw.

Still not enough.

I glance over my shoulder, meeting his eyes with a smug little smirk. “Something wrong, Damian?”

His expression doesn’t change. “No, ma’am.”

Oh, I hate him.

I stalk toward him, my heels clicking against the floor, stopping just short of touching him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react. He’s so fucking composed, so infuriatingly in control.

I tilt my head, letting my fingers trail up the buttons of his shirt. “I think you’re mad at me.”

Nothing.

I let my nails drag a little, my voice dropping into something sultry. “Or maybe you’re jealous. Maybe you didn’t like how I flirted with that man at the gala.”

That does it.

In an instant, he moves. One second, I’m standing there, teasing him; the next, I’m pinned against my desk, his hand gripping my jaw, forcing me to look up at him.

His voice is low, dangerous. “You’re pushing me, Sienna.”

I swallow hard, but I don’t back down. “And what are you going to do about it?”

His grip tightens just enough to make my breath hitch. “You want my attention?” he murmurs. “Fine. Earn it.”

My pulse pounds. “What?”

He shoves me down onto my knees.

I gasp, my hands gripping his thighs for balance, but he doesn’t give me a chance to protest. He fists a hand in my hair, forcing my chin up.

“Beg.”

The humiliation burns through me, setting my skin on fire. I should slap him, should scream at him for even thinking he can command me like this. But I don’t. I can’t.

I’m too wet.

I lick my lips, hating how breathless I sound. “Please.”

His fingers tighten in my hair. “Pathetic.”

Heat floods my body.

He unzips his pants, pulling himself free, thick and heavy and so fucking hard. He grips the base, rubbing it against my lips, smearing precum over them. “Open.”

I do.

He slides inside, slow and deliberate, filling my mouth until I’m gagging on him. I dig my nails into his thighs, my eyes fluttering shut as I try to take all of him.

“Look at me.”

I force my eyes open, meeting his cold, merciless stare. He grips my hair, using it as leverage as he starts fucking my mouth, shallow at first, then deeper, rougher.

I choke, but he doesn’t stop. He watches me struggle, watches the tears gather in my eyes, and I feel it—the humiliation, the raw, burning need.

I shouldn’t love this. I should be ashamed.

But I’m dripping.

“Messy little thing,” he murmurs. “Is this what you needed? My cock down your throat?”

I moan around him, my thighs pressing together. I hate how much I love it. I hate that I want more.

He pulls out, leaving me gasping, spit and precum trailing down my chin. “Get up.”

I try, but my legs are shaky. He grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet before spinning me around and shoving me over my desk.

His hand presses between my shoulder blades, pinning me down.

“You’ve been a fucking brat all day,” he growls. “Time to remind you who’s in charge.”

I hear the tear of fabric, my panties ripped away. Then his fingers are there, sliding through my soaked folds, spreading me open.

“Pathetic,” he mutters. “Soaking wet from sucking my cock. Do you have any shame at all?”

I don’t.

I arch my back, pressing against him. “Damian—”

He slaps my pussy.

I cry out, my body jolting at the sharp, humiliating pleasure.

“That’s not my fucking name,” he says. “Try again.”

I grit my teeth, refusing. He slaps me again.

A choked moan rips from my throat. I’m trembling, my body betraying me.

He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “Say it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t. I won’t.

Another slap. My legs nearly buckle.

“Say it.”

“Sir—”

He thrusts inside me.

I scream, my fingers clawing at the desk. He’s deep, too deep, stretching me open in a way that’s almost unbearable.

Almost.

He doesn’t move at first, letting me feel it—how completely he owns me.

Then he starts to fuck me.

Hard. Brutal. Relentless.

Every thrust forces a broken moan from my lips. He grips my wrists, pinning them behind my back, taking what he wants.

“This is what you needed,” he growls. “Isn’t it?”

I hate him. I fucking hate him.

But I nod, my voice wrecked. “Yes.”

His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. “Yes, what?”

I tremble. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me, sudden and violent, leaving me sobbing against the desk. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, dragging me through it, using me and making sure I know exactly who I belong to.

By the time he comes, spilling deep inside me, I’m a wreck, boneless, ruined and broken.

And I fucking love it.