Contract with the devil ceo

Chapter 4

Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting a golden glow over the sleek kitchen island where Elara sat nursing a cup of coffee.

Sleep had been elusive after the gala.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Damien’s hands on her thighs, his mouth devouring hers in the back of the limo, the thick press of his arousal grinding against her.

Her body still hummed with unresolved tension, a low, persistent ache that made her shift restlessly on the barstool.

She wore one of the new silk robes, emerald to match last night’s gown tied loosely at the waist.

The material whispered against her skin, a constant reminder of her new reality.

The sound of footsteps made her look up.

Damien appeared from the staircase, dressed for battle in a tailored navy suit that hugged his powerful frame.

His hair was still damp from a shower, and the faint scent of his cologne reached her before he did.

He looked every inch the untouchable billionaire CEO, but the heat in his gray eyes when they landed on her was anything but professional.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with the remnants of last night.

He stopped behind her, one large hand resting on the back of her neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.

“You look far too tempting for breakfast.”

Elara tilted her head, exposing more of her neck almost instinctively.

“And you look like you’re about to conquer the world. Again.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through her.

Leaning down, he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below her ear.

“The world can wait five minutes.” His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

The hard planes of his body molded perfectly to her softer curves.

She could feel him already half-hard against her lower back.

“Damien…” She breathed his name like a warning and a prayer.

Instead of pushing further, he released her with visible restraint and moved to the coffee machine.

“The tabloids are already exploding. Blackthorne’s Mystery Fiancée Steals the Night.’ Photos of us on the dance floor are everywhere. You played your part perfectly.”

Elara sipped her coffee to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks.

“It didn’t feel entirely like playing.”

His eyes darkened as he set a plate of fresh fruit and avocado toast in front of her.

“Good. Because we have a lunch meeting with my grandfather’s lawyers today at 1 PM. They want to see the happy couple in person. Grandfather’s health is declining faster than expected. The merger depends on this looking real.”

The reminder of the contract cooled some of the heat between them. Elara poked at her food. “And after that?”

“After that, you’re free until evening. I have back-to-back meetings.” He paused, studying her.

“There’s a home office set up for you on the third level. Your design software is already installed. Work on whatever you want. The Blackthorne creative team might have use for your skills soon.”

Surprise flickered through her. “You’re letting me work?”

“I’m not caging you completely, Elara. I want your fire, not a broken doll.” His tone softened fractionally. “Finish breakfast. We leave in an hour.”

The lunch meeting was held in a private dining room at an exclusive club overlooking the river.

Damien’s grandfather, an elderly man with sharp eyes despite his frail body, watched them intently from his wheelchair.

Lawyers hovered with documents.

Elara channeled every ounce of acting ability.

She leaned into Damien’s side, laughed at his dry jokes, and let her hand rest possessively on his thigh under the table.

When he fed her a bite of dessert, she licked the spoon slowly, eyes locked on his. The air between them crackled.

“Finally,” the old man rasped, satisfied. “I thought you’d die alone, boy. She’s got spirit. Good choice.”

Damien’s hand tightened on hers, but Elara caught the brief flash of something vulnerable in his expression, relief mixed with old pain.

On the ride back to the tower, silence settled heavily.

“You don’t talk much about your family. The internet and everyone knows everything about you except your family,” she ventured.

His jaw clenched.

“There’s not much worth knowing. My father was a bastard who nearly destroyed the company with bad deals and worse vices. Grandfather saved it… and raised me after my parents’ accident. Trust doesn’t come easily.”

Elara reached over, threading her fingers through his, he didn’t pull away. The simple touch felt more intimate than the heated kisses from last night.

Back at the penthouse, Damien left for his office with one last searing look that promised he’d pick up where they left off.

Alone, Elara explored.

She changed into workout clothes, a sports bra and high-waisted leggings, and headed to the home gym.

The wall of mirrors reflected her determined expression as she pushed through a punishing session on the treadmill, trying to burn off the lingering frustration.

Sweat slicked her skin, hair sticking to her neck. She was mid-stretch when the door opened.

Damien stood there, jacket discarded, tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up.

His eyes devoured her, tracing the curve of her breasts in the tight bra, the dip of her waist, the way the leggings hugged her ass and thighs.

“Early day?” she asked, breath still coming fast from exertion.

“Couldn’t focus.” He stepped inside, closing the door.

The click sounded final.

“Not with you here, looking like every fantasy I’ve tried to ignore.”

Elara’s pulse raced.

She walked toward him slowly, hips swaying. “Then stop ignoring it.” She said boldly.

He met her halfway, backing her against the mirrored wall.

The cool glass contrasted sharply with the heat of his body as he pinned her there.

One thigh slid between hers, pressing deliciously against her core. Elara gasped, grinding down instinctively.

“f**k, Elara.” His mouth crashed onto hers in a hungry kiss. Tongues tangled, hands roamed.

He cupped her breasts, thumbs teasing her n*****s through the fabric until they ached.

She moaned into his mouth, fingers working open the buttons of his shirt to reveal the sculpted chest beneath.

His skin was fever-hot. She explored the ridges of his abs, nails scraping lightly, earning a deep groan that vibrated through her.

Damien’s hand slipped into her leggings, finding her soaked and ready.

Two thick fingers stroked along her folds before circling her c**t with expert precision.

“So wet,” he growled against her throat, biting down gently.

“This p***y has been dripping for me since the limo, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, hips rocking against his hand.

The pleasure built fast and sharp.

He pumped his fingers inside her, curling them just right while his thumb worked her c**t.

The mirror behind her showed everything, the flush on her cheeks, his powerful arm moving between her legs, the raw need on both their faces.

“Look at yourself,” he commanded, turning her slightly so she faced the reflection.

“Watch how beautifully you fall apart for me.”

She did.

The sight pushed her over the edge.

Orgasm crashed through her in waves, thighs trembling as she cried out his name.

Damien held her through it, murmuring filthy praise against her ear.

But he didn’t take more.

Breathing hard, he withdrew his hand and brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting her with a satisfied hum.

“Not here. Not yet. I want you in my bed, spread out for hours when I finally claim you completely.”

Elara’s legs felt like jelly. She leaned against him, heart pounding. “You’re going to kill me with anticipation.”

His laugh was low and wicked. “That’s the plan.”

They showered separately, another test of restraint, then shared a quiet dinner on the terrace as the sun set.

Conversation flowed easier now.

Damien asked about her design work, listening intently as she described her dream projects.

In return, he shared fragments of his ruthless climb to the top: late nights, betrayals, the weight of expectations.

For the first time, the “fake” label felt like a distant technicality.

Later that evening, as Elara curled up on the massive couch with her sketchpad, Damien joined her.

He pulled her feet into his lap, strong hands massaging them absently while he reviewed reports on his tablet.

The domesticity was dangerously addictive.

Her phone buzzed with a notification.

A text from an unknown number: He’s not who you think. Be careful.

Before she could show Damien, another message arrived, this one a photo of him with the blonde from the gala, Veronica, looking far too cozy in what appeared to be a recent private setting.

Elara’s stomach twisted. She deleted the messages quickly, but the seed of doubt was planted.

Damien noticed her shift in mood. “Everything okay?”

She forced a smile, sliding closer until she straddled his lap.

“Just tired.” Her mouth found his in a deep, distracting kiss. If this was fake, she’d make the most of it.

But secrets were already circling, threatening to c***k their fragile illusion.

As Damien’s hands gripped her hips and the kiss turned heated once more, Elara wondered how much longer they could dance on the edge before everything burned.