Accidentally His

Damien Blackthorn's raw desire for Lena Carter ignites as he corners her in his office, his dominant nature clashing with her nervous innocence, setting the stage for a night of surrender. ******** The elevator doors slid open with a quiet, hydraulic hiss, releasing Damien Blackthorn into the sterile expanse of the executive floor. The air was cool, conditioned to precision, carrying the faintest trace of lemon polish and a leather—standard for an office this high above the city. But beneath it, something else lingered. Something warmer. Sweeter. Her. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, lungs expanding with the intoxicating scent of vanilla and something faintly floral jasmine, maybe mingled with the barest hint of warm skin. His c**k twitched in his tailored trousers, the fabric suddenly too constricting, too aware of the blood rushing south. Damien exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides before he forced them still. Control. Always control. He turned the corner, the soles of his polished Oxfords silent against the marble, and there she was. *********** Lena Carter stood outside his office, her auburn hair pulled into a sleek twist that only made him imagine the way it would unravel between his fingers. The fluorescent lights caught the copper strands, turning them molten. She was bent slightly over the tablet in her hands, the pencil skirt she wore—f*****g hell—hugging the curve of her ass like it had been sewn onto her. The white blouse was prim, buttoned all the way to her throat, but the fabric was thin enough that he could just make out the shadow of her bra beneath it. Lace, if he had to guess. Something delicate. Something he’d tear apart with his teeth. His jaw tightened. She must have heard his approach because her shoulders squared an instant before she turned, her doe-brown eyes lifting to meet his. That goddamn smile bloomed across her face—soft, professional, innocent—and there it was. The dimple. A perfect, fuckable indentation in her left cheek, just deep enough to make his fingers itch to trace it. To press his thumb into it while she took his c**k between those pillowy lips. Damien’s palm slicked against his briefcase. He shifted his grip, the leather creaking under the pressure. “Mr. Blackthorn,” she said, her voice the kind of breathy that made his spine lock. “You’re early.” Early. As if she’d been waiting. As if she’d wanted to be the first thing he saw when he stepped off that elevator. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his gaze drag over her, slow and deliberate, watching the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. The way her fingers tightened around the tablet. She was nervous. Good. She should be. “Lena,” he said, her name a low rumble in his chest. He stepped closer, close enough that he could see the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Close enough that if she inhaled, her t**s would brush against his suit jacket. “What are you doing here?” Her lashes swept down, shielding her eyes for a fraction of a second before she lifted them again. “The quarterly reports. You asked for them first thing.” Liars had tells. Hers was the way her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip when she was unsure. The way her breath hitched just slightly when he crowded her space. Damien reached out, brushing his knuckles against the back of her hand where it rested on the tablet. Her skin was soft. Too soft. The kind of soft that made a man want to ruin it. “Did I?” He tilted his head, letting his thumb graze the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumped beneath his touch. “I don’t recall.” She swallowed. “Y-yes. Yesterday. You—you said to have them ready before the board meeting.” Damien hummed, low and considering, his gaze dropping to her mouth. Those lips were a sin—plump, naturally pink, the bottom one just full enough that he could imagine it wrapped around the head of his c**k, stretched obscenely wide. His free hand curled into a fist at his side. “And here I thought you were just eager to see me,” he murmured. The tablet trembled in her grip. “Mr. Blackthorn, I—” “Damien,” he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. “Call me Damien.” Her breath hitched. “That’s not—” “Not what?” He leaned in, close enough that his next words ghosted over the shell of her ear. “Not appropriate?” She shivered. The scent of her—warm, sweet, female—filled his lungs, and his c**k throbbed, heavy and insistent against his zipper. He wanted to press her against the wall. Wanted to hike that skirt up to her waist and find out if she was as wet as he suspected. Wanted to hear her moan his name while he f****d her raw, her dimple deepening around his c**k. His fingers twitched against her wrist. “You’re making me nervous, sir,” she whispered. Sir. f**k. That word, in that voice, did things to him. Dark things. Twisted things. Damien pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his thumb still stroking the delicate skin of her inner wrist. “Good,” he said, voice rough. “You should be.” Her pupils dilated, the brown of her irises swallowed by black. He watched, fascinated, as her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her n*****s tightening beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. She was reacting to him. For him. The realization sent a jolt of possessive heat through his veins. “Mr. Blackthorn—Damien—I should—” “Stay,” he commanded, his grip tightening just shy of painful. She froze. He released her, stepping back before he did something irrevocable—like back her into his office and lock the door. But the damage was done. The air between them was thick with it, electric with the promise of what he’d do to her if she didn’t run. And she hadn’t run. Damien adjusted his cufflinks, the gold glinting under the fluorescent lights. “The reports,” he said, nodding toward the tablet in her hands. “Leave them on my desk. And Lena?” She looked up, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Close the door on your way out.” For a heartbeat, she just stood there, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his mouth. Then, with a jerky nod, she turned and pushed into his office, the scent of her lingering in her wake. Damien followed, watching the way her skirt hugged her ass with every step, the way her heels clicked against the hardwood. She set the tablet down on his desk, her fingers lingering on the surface for a second too long. He didn’t miss the way her throat worked, the way her shoulders tensed as if she were bracing for something. Good girl. She knew. Damien moved to his chair, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving her. When he sat, the leather creaked, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. He leaned back, spreading his thighs just enough that the bulge of his erection was impossible to miss. Her eyes dropped. Her breath hitched. “Is there something else, Lena?” he asked, his voice a dark purr. She shook her head, but she didn’t move. Didn’t run. Damien smirked. “Then why are you still here?” She lifted her chin, just a fraction, but it was enough. Defiance. Or maybe just curiosity. Either way, he’d break her of it. Eventually. “I—I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything else,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Oh, I need plenty. He reached for the top button of his shirt, loosening it with deliberate slowness. Her gaze tracked the movement, her tongue slipping out to wet her lower lip again. His c**k jerked, pre-c*m dampening the front of his boxers. “Come here,” he said. She hesitated. Just for a second. But she came. Damien didn’t move as she rounded the desk, her steps slow, uncertain. When she stopped in front of him, he reached out, his fingers finding the hem of her skirt. The fabric was smooth beneath his touch, cool against his skin. “Closer,” he murmured. She obeyed, her knees brushing against his spread thighs. He could feel the heat of her through the fabric of his suit, the faintest tremor in her legs. His hands slid up, over the curve of her hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of her skirt. “Do you know what I think about when I see you, Lena?” he asked, his voice a rough growl. She shook her head, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “I think about bending you over this desk.” His fingers tightened, pulling her forward until she was balanced precariously on the edge of his knees. “I think about hiking this skirt up to your waist and finding out if you’re as wet as I suspect. I think about tearing these panties off you with my teeth and f*****g you until you scream.” A whimper escaped her, high and needy. Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging in through the fabric of his suit. Damien groaned, his hips lifting involuntarily, grinding the thick ridge of his c**k against her. “f**k, baby,” he breathed. “Tell me you want that.” She didn’t answer. But her hips rolled, just once, a tiny, desperate motion that had his vision whiting out at the edges. The intercom on his desk buzzed, shattering the moment. Lena jerked back like she’d been burned, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. Damien snarled, slamming his palm down on the intercom button. “What?” he barked. “Sir, your nine o’clock is here,” his assistant’s voice crackled through the speaker. Damien’s gaze locked onto Lena’s, his grip on her hips bruising. “Get rid of them.” A pause. “Sir?” “Now,” he growled. “Y-yes, sir.” The line went dead. The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of what they’d almost done. What they would do. Lena’s chest heaved, her fingers still curled into the fabric of his jacket. Damien could see the war in her eyes—the fear, the desire, the need—and he knew, with a dark, possessive satisfaction, that she was his. She just didn’t realize it yet. He released her, leaning back in his chair, his c**k aching, his control hanging by a thread. “Tonight,” he said, his voice a dark promise. “My place. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.” She stumbled back, her skirt riding up her thighs as she hit the edge of the desk. “I—I can’t—” “You can.” His gaze dropped to the damp spot darkening the front of her panties, visible through the thin fabric of her skirt. “And you will.” She pressed her thighs together, her face burning. Damien adjusted himself, the friction almost painful. “Eight o’clock, Lena. And wear something easy to take off”