Secretly Claimed By the Billionaire CEO

The clock on her laptop screen shone 12:43 a.m., the numbers searing into Elena Voss’s sleepy eyes like a challenge. She stroked the back of her neck, feeling the tight knot of muscles that had developed sometime about hour fourteen of her day. This was meant to be a calm moment at the Sterling Tower. Blank where only the cleaning team and the most dedicated were working. She was apparently fixated. Elena settled back in the elegant leather chair and looked out over the glittering Manhattan cityscape. Rain had begun, softly at first, then heavier, running down the floor-to-ceiling windows like tears. From the 47th floor, the city looked nearly serene. Close. She knew better than that. There were still people down there, scrabbling, battling, staying alive. Like her mother had—twenty-four years, double shifts so Elena could follow this impossible ambition. Empire Sterling. Her gut knotted at the name, half in amazement, half in determination. This wasn't some soul-less organization. It was a machine that drove markets, created trends, and quietly moved governments. And she, Elena Voss, twenty-four, fresh from a state school with student loans that made her cringe, had somehow gotten a very competitive internship here. She wasn’t going to squander it. Her fingers sped across the keyboard again, as she refined the social media targeting model she had been creating for days. Most of the interns got coffee and watched. Elena had decided from day one that she was going to do more. She'd previously identified three inefficiencies in the last campaign and delivered a thorough report at 3 a.m. last week. There was no answer. She convinced herself that it didn’t matter. A little ding from the lift down the hall interrupted her. Who the hell…?" Followed footsteps Slow. Yeah. The kind of walk that belonged to someone who owned every inch of the place they walked through. Elena’s heart started to pound. She hastily slipped her black blazer over her slightly crumpled white top and tidied her long dark wavy hair. She looked like a pro. For the most part. The footsteps halted just outside the conference room door, which was ajar. She turned round. And there he was. Damien Sterling. He stood in the entryway as if he'd been cut out of it. Tall. Six-four, at least. Broad shoulders bulged against the fitted black suit jacket he hadn't even bothered to fasten. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves were pushed up, revealing muscular forearms, and the dark tie was loose around his neck as if he'd been doing something important when he decided the world could wait. His face… Oh, God, his face. A strong jaw sprinkled with the tiniest five o'clock shadow. High cheekbones. Eyes the colour of winter storms; grey, piercing and far too clever. Hair messy enough to be accidental, but Elena thought anything about this man was accidental. He glanced at her. Really looked. The stillness grew longer. The rain beat more savagely against the window. “Working late, Miss Voss,” he replied. His voice was low, a little gruff at the edges, like it didn’t get used much for small conversation. Elena gulped. "Yes, sir. I had just finished some forecasts for the Q3 campaign.” He walked in, closing the distance between them slowly. The air appeared to alter, heavier, warmer. He stopped on the other side of the long mahogany table, his storm-gray eyes taking in the scattered papers, the empty coffee cups, and then settling back on her face. “You sent me a forty-seven-page report last week, unsolicited,” he remarked. Her cheeks were burning. "I... yes. Sorry if I crossed the line. I detected some holes in the targeting, and— “You were right.” Elena blinked. " "I was?" His mouth twitched at the corner, not a smile but close enough. We took three of your recommendations and put them into practice. Revenue projection is up roughly 12 percent. “The board was very impressed. She felt an absurd pride flush through her. And stamped it instantly. Don't ease up. This is the guy that fires individuals for breathing too loudly in meetings. “Thanks, Mr. Sterling.” He c****d his head, examining her like a riddle he’d been unprepared to uncover at this hour. “Most interns will send me memes or ask me for LinkedIn recommendations. You send me plans of war.” “I don’t want to be an average intern. The words were out before she could stop them. Damian’s eyes sharpened. He walked slowly, measured steps, around the table. Elena’s heart drummed in her ears. She stood her ground, not flinching as he halted a foot and a half from her. Close enough to smell him, cedar, bright citrus, something darker underneath. “No,” he whispered, his voice sinking. "You don't." Thunder rumbled outside. The lights flickered one time. He said, "You ought to go home," but he did not move. His eyes followed the line of her throat, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers grabbed the edge of the table. “After midnight, this building consumes ambition.” “I can manage,” Elena said, lifting her chin. In his eyes there was a shining of menace. “You can?” That was a loaded question. It seemed as if the late hours didn’t really matter. She should have said goodnight. She should have shut her laptop and gone. Instead she glared him out. Try me. The stillness that followed was charged. Damian carefully raised his hand, giving her every opportunity to get away. When she didn’t, his fingers swept a stray wave of hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. The touch was almost tender for a man who should have ice in his veins. “You don’t know what you’re doing to yourself, Elena,” he muttered. In his mouth her name was sin. "Maybe I do," she breathed. It was all it required. He bridged the distance in one swift movement and captured her lips in a kiss nothing like the courteous, controlled guy the world saw. It was hunger. A lifetime of restraint all at once breaking. Elena gasped and he took it into his mouth, deepening the kiss until her head spun. Her hands came to his chest, feeling the firm muscle underneath the thin shirt. He was coffee and power and something addictive and she already knew she wouldn't get enough of him. He lifted her onto the table, papers flew as if she weighed nothing. Her skirt hiked up her thighs. His hands, big, warm, and commanding, closed around her hips and jerked her flush against him. "Tell me to stop," he snarled against her mouth, kissing her harder, lips mapping a path down the side of her neck. "No," she moaned, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. “Keep going. A low rumble in his chest, approval and need and warning all at once. What followed was a swirl of heat and feeling. His mouth on her clavicle. Her hands slid his jacket off those strong shoulders. The anxious fingers unbuttoning buttons. The chilly wood of the table on her back. The warmth of his body on hers. The rain rattled the windows. Lightning flashed, revealing the raw need on both their faces. Damian was everywhere. His scent, his touch, the low murmurs of praise and order that made her shudder. He moved like a man who knew precisely what he wanted and was not going to be denied. And Elena paid her back as good as she received. She arched into him, nails burrowing into his shoulders, saying his name like a secret she no longer feared to keep. For the first time in years, she was not worried about predictions or debts or proving herself. She was feeling it. When the maelstrom within eventually broke, they remained locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed tight. Damian's thumb traced her swelling lower lip. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh. “This is not over tonight. Elena's heart lurched. Reality tried to push its way back in—the power imbalance, the risk to her career, the reality that this man might destroy her with a single remark. But as she looked into those storm-grey eyes, something moved within her. She pushed herself up and kissed him, slow and sure. “Then don’t let it end,” she muttered against his lips. Then Damian grinned. A real smile. Small. Dangerous. Full of promise. “Be careful what you wish for, Elena Voss.” He lifted her off the table, steadied her as her legs buckled. They dressed in tense stillness, glancing at each other, sharing little, almost bashful smiles that felt curiously intimate after what they’d just done. He caught her wrist lightly as she gathered her stuff. “Your driver will take you home. No arguing.” She opened her lips to complain, and closed them again. She felt that arguing with Damian Sterling was a war she wasn’t prepared for tonight. At the lift, he gave her one last kiss, gentler this time, almost tender. “We talk about what this means tomorrow,” he replied softly. Elena entered the lift, heart racing, lips still tingling. The doors shut and she slumped back against the mirrored wall, breathing hard. What did she say? And why did she already know she would do it again?