Contract with the devil ceo

Chapter 3

The following two days were a crash course in becoming Damien Blackthorne’s perfect fiancée.

Stylists arrived in droves, transforming her wardrobe from practical to breathtaking.

Gowns in emerald, crimson, and midnight black. Lingerie sets of silk and lace that made her blush just holding them.

Jewelry that sparkled with diamonds and emeralds.

Damien approved everything via video call from his office, his voice clipped but his eyes burning through the screen.

“You’ll wear the green for the gala next week,” he commanded during one session, gaze lingering on how the sample dress hugged her hips and pushed up her cleavage.

“It matches your eyes when you’re angry… or aroused.”

Elara had flipped him off playfully after the call ended, but the heat in her cheeks lingered for hours.

Her mother’s update came via email, she was already settled in the new hospital wing with round-the-clock care.

The relief was overwhelming. For the first time in years, Elara felt like she could breathe.

But the price tag walked the penthouse halls like a constant reminder.

The night of the charity gala arrived wrapped in anticipation and nerves. Elara stood before the mirror in the emerald gown.

It was sinful plunging neckline that showcased the swell of her breasts, a thigh-high slit revealing smooth leg with every step, and a back that dipped dangerously low.

Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup dramatic with smoky eyes and bold red lips.

The door opened. Damien filled the frame in a tailored black tuxedo that accentuated every powerful line of his body.

His dark hair was styled back, jaw clean-shaven, exuding raw dominance.

“f**k,” he breathed, the word slipping out uncharacteristically.

He crossed the room in two strides, circling her slowly. One hand traced the bare skin of her back, sending goosebumps erupting.

“You look like a weapon designed to ruin me.”

“You clean up well yourself,” she replied, voice steadier than she felt.

His touch was possessive, fingers splaying across her lower back.

In the limo, he pulled her close, thigh pressing against hers.

“Remember the rules tonight. Touch me. Laugh at my jokes. Let them see the desire. The press will be ruthless.”

The red carpet was a blinding storm of flashes.

Damien’s hand stayed glued to her waist, thumb stroking circles that felt far too intimate.

When a reporter shouted, “Is this the mystery woman who tamed Blackthorne?”, he pulled her into a dip and pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, lips hot against her skin.

“Completely,” he answered smoothly, eyes only for her.

Inside the opulent ballroom, chandeliers dripping crystal, orchestra playing softly, elites in their finest.

Damien was magnetic.

He introduced her with pride, arm around her, fingers occasionally dipping to trace the slit of her dress.

Each touch built the fire.

During conversations, he’d lean in to whisper in her ear, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below it, making her shiver visibly.

One jealous socialite, a tall blonde in red approached with a saccharine smile. “Damien, darling. Back so soon with another pretty distraction?”

Elara felt his body tense.

She turned into him, sliding her hand up his chest boldly.

“Distraction?” She laughed lightly, channeling every ounce of sass. “I prefer ‘future wife.’ And you are…?”

The woman’s smile faltered.

Damien’s hand squeezed her hip approvingly, pulling her closer until her breasts pressed against his side.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Veronica. Excuse us.” He said as they walked towards the dance floor.

On the dance floor, the tension peaked.

A slow, sensual waltz played.

Damien held her scandalously close, one hand low on her back, the other cradling her hand.

Their bodies moved in perfect sync, hips brushing with every turn.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured, breath hot against her ear.

“Too well.”

She felt the unmistakable hardness of his erection pressing insistently against her stomach through their clothes.

Thick, insistent, impossible to ignore.

Elara’s core clenched with need. “You’re the one who can’t control himself, Mr. Blackthorne.”

“Damien,” he corrected, nipping her earlobe lightly.

The small sting sent pleasure shooting straight to her c**t.

“And control is overrated when you’re this tempting. I keep imagining sliding my hand through that slit… finding you wet and ready for me.”

Her breath hitched audibly.

She rocked subtly against him, earning a low growl that vibrated through his chest.

The dance became foreplayc bodies grinding subtly, eyes locked in a battle of wills. His free hand slipped lower, cupping the curve of her ass for a heartbeat before returning to a respectable position.

By the time they returned to their table, Elara was throbbing with unmet desire.

Her panties were damp, thighs pressed tightly together under the table.

Damien’s hand rested on her knee, inching higher under the tablecloth, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh but never quite reaching where she ached.

“You’re cruel,” she whispered during a lull.

“Strategic,” he countered, gray eyes molten.

“I want you desperate for the real thing.”

The ride home in the limo was pure torture.

The privacy divider rose, sealing them in dim light.

Damien hauled her onto his lap without warning, strong hands gripping her hips as the gown pooled around her thighs.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, mouth attacking her neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. His teeth grazed her pulse point, sucking lightly and sending sparks flying behind her eyelids.

Elara moaned, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

She ground down against the rigid length straining in his pants, the friction delicious through the layers of fabric. His hands roamed, squeezing her ass, sliding up to cup her breasts through the gown, thumbs circling her hard n*****s until she arched into him with a gasp.

“Damien… oh God…”

He captured her mouth in a fierce kiss, tongue demanding entry.

The taste of his wine and pure male dominance intoxicated her.

She kissed him back just as hungrily, rolling her hips in a rhythm that had them both groaning.

His hand slipped through the thigh slit, fingers brushing the soaked lace of her panties.

“So f*****g wet for me already,” he growled against her lips.

The limo slowed.

They had arrived.

Damien pulled back with visible effort, chest heaving, lips swollen.

His eyes were wild with lust. “Not here. Not like this.”

He helped her off his lap, adjusting her dress with surprisingly gentle hands.

“When I take you, Elara, it won’t be rushed in a car. It’ll be slow, thorough, and you’ll be begging by the end.”

She stepped out on shaky legs, body alight with frustration and need.

As the elevator carried them up to the penthouse, the silence crackled.

Damien stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, lips brushing her hair.

“This fake relationship is cracking faster than I expected,” he admitted quietly. “And I’m not sure I want to stop it.”

Elara leaned back into him slightly, feeling the hard evidence of his desire against her lower back.

Six months suddenly felt both too long and far too short.

The devil had drawn first blood.

And she was starting to crave the wound.