7

7

Sienna’s POV

I’m losing myself.

It’s been building for weeks, this slow, creeping obsession. I should hate him for it—for the way he’s unraveled me, twisted me into something I don’t recognize. I should push back, regain control.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Not when every touch, every command, every filthy word he’s ever whispered to me has burrowed so deep inside me I can’t escape it. Not when I close my eyes and all I see is him.

Damian Cross has ruined me.

And the worst part? He knows it.

He watches me too closely now, like he’s waiting for me to crack, waiting to see just how far I’ll go before I finally admit that I belong to him.

But I won’t.

So I do the only thing I can—I fight. I act out. I remind him that I’m still Sienna Laurent, the woman who doesn’t bow to anyone.

Even when we both know it’s a lie.

The party is in full swing, glittering chandeliers casting golden light over the ballroom. The air is thick with expensive perfume, laughter, the clink of champagne glasses.

I don’t care about any of it.

I only care about him.

Damian, standing near the entrance, his broad frame dressed in a black suit, his sharp blue eyes locked onto me with quiet authority. He doesn’t have to speak to remind me of the rules he’s already laid them out in ways I’ll never forget.

Behave. Don’t test me.

I stare back, daring him to stop me.

And then I turn, pressing my hand to the arm of the man beside me, letting my fingers linger just a little too long. I don’t know his name, don’t care. He’s just a prop, a means to an end.

Damian doesn’t move.

I smile, leaning in closer, letting my lips brush against my companion’s ear as I whisper something meaningless. It’s not about him. It’s about the man watching from across the room.

Still, nothing.

Fine.

I reach up, deliberately adjusting my necklace, letting my fingers trace my throat, the same way Damian does when he grips me there, when he presses just hard enough to make my pulse race.

This time, I see it.

The way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers flex at his sides.

Got you.

Then he moves.

One second, he’s across the room; the next, he’s right behind me, his hand gripping my elbow like a steel vise.

I don’t even get to react before he’s pulling me away from the crowd, his grip firm, his pace unrelenting.

Heat rushes through me, my heart pounding with something dark and electric.

“Where are we going?” I taunt, breathless.

He doesn’t answer.

He shoves open a side door, dragging me into the dark alley behind the venue.

Then he slams me against the wall.

I gasp, my hands flying up to push at his chest, but he grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand.

His voice is low, furious. “Are you done acting like a fucking brat?”

I smirk. “I don’t know. Did it work?”

The look in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine.

“You really think you can play games with me?” he murmurs, pressing closer. “That you can act out like some spoiled little bitch and not face the consequences?”

His free hand trails down my side, over my hip, sliding beneath the slit of my dress.

I gasp as his fingers push against my panties, pressing right where I’m already soaking for him.

I hate him.

I arch into his touch anyway.

He lets out a dark chuckle. “So fucking wet. You love being put in your place, don’t you?”

I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

He rips my panties off.

I don’t even have time to react before he’s flipping me around, pressing my chest against the cold brick, his body caging me in.

“Since you like giving other men attention,” he breathes against my ear, “I think it’s time I remind you who you fucking belong to.”

I whimper, my nails scraping against the wall. “Damian—”

“Not my name,” he growls.

I bite my lip, shaking my head. I won’t say it.

He grips my hair, yanking my head back. “Say it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

His hand slides between my thighs again, teasing me, tormenting me, pushing me to the edge without giving me what I need.

I’m trembling, my body betraying me.

“Say it.”

I clench my teeth.

He slaps my pussy, sharp and humiliating.

I choke on a gasp, my legs threatening to give out.

“Say. It.”

I break.

“Sir—”

He slams inside me.

I scream, my fingers clawing at the wall. He’s deep, too deep, stretching me open with no mercy, no hesitation.

This isn’t slow. This isn’t gentle. This is punishment.

He grips my hips, pulling me back against him as he fucks me against the brick, hard and ruthless.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls. “To be fucked like a needy little whore?”

I sob, humiliated, desperate, aching.

“Tell me,” he demands.

I shake my head, my pride holding on by a thread.

He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in, knocking the air from my lungs.

“Tell me.”

I whimper. “Yes, sir.”

His hand slides up my throat, not squeezing, just holding, owning, claiming.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my ear. “You belong to me. No one else. No one else gets to see you like this, hear you like this, make you fucking fall apart like this.”

His words unravel me.

My orgasm crashes over me, violent and all-consuming. I sob his name, my body shaking, my walls squeezing around him as I shatter.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going, drawing it out, dragging me through the pleasure until it’s too much, until I’m nothing but wreckage in his hands.

Then he grunts a curse, thrusts deep, and comes inside me, filling me with his release.

I slump against the wall, boneless, ruined, utterly his.

His hands smooth over my skin, his lips brushing my shoulder—not gentle, not soft, but possessive.

“You don’t get to act out like that again,” he murmurs.

I let out a breathless, exhausted laugh. “Or what?”

His fingers dig into my hip, reminding me exactly who I’m dealing with. “Or I’ll remind you like this every fucking time.”

A shiver runs through me.

God help me…

I think I want him to.