TAMING THE DEVIL CEO🥵

chapter 4

Isabella’s phone buzzed violently against the nightstand as the sun dared to peek over the Manhattan skyline. She groaned, turning over in the massive bed that felt far too empty and cold after the events of last night. Her body ached in all the places Damien had claimed, and her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts she had no idea how to silence.

The name flashing on her screen—"Mom"—was a stark reminder of reality. With a reluctant sigh, she picked it up.

“Hi, Mom.”

"Isabella Quinn!" her mother’s voice screeched through the receiver. “I heard from your sister that you were at some gala last night. With the Wolfe heir? Don’t tell me you’re getting caught up with that man!”

Isabella rubbed her temples. "It was business, Mom. I planned the event. That’s all."

“Business doesn’t leave you out until 3 a.m.,” her mother snapped. “You have dreams, Bella. Don’t let some billionaire playboy derail you.”

“Goodbye, Mom.” Isabella hung up before the conversation could spiral any further. She didn’t have the energy to explain the electric chaos between her and Damien—especially when she didn’t even understand it herself.

She rolled out of bed and slipped into a silky robe, the one she usually saved for client meetings over Zoom. Today, it felt like armor. As she passed the mirror, she paused. Her lips were swollen, cheeks flushed. Damien’s presence lingered on her skin like a haunting. His touch, his kiss, even the way he said her name—all of it lived in the corners of her memory, looping endlessly like a fever dream she couldn’t wake up from.

With a shake of her head, she headed to the kitchen and poured herself a strong cup of coffee. She had a full schedule: finalizing two corporate proposals, approving a wedding venue, and reviewing footage from the gala. Damien Wolfe didn’t have a slot in her planner.

But at 9:47 a.m., he made one.

Her phone rang again. This time, it was his name on the screen.

She stared at it, heart pounding. Then, she answered.

“Miss Quinn,” came his deep voice, smoother than sin. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did. Busy day ahead,” she replied coolly, walking to her desk.

“I’m sure. Unfortunately, so am I. My office needs someone with your skills. For six weeks. I want you to plan our next investor gala. Big clients. Big exposure.”

“Six weeks?” Her coffee nearly dropped. “I run my own company, Mr. Wolfe.”

“And I’m offering a contract that could retire you early.”

There was a silence that burned. Her fingers tightened around the phone. She hated how easily his voice slithered under her skin, igniting every nerve ending.

“I’ll send the offer. Think about it.” He hung up.

Isabella stood frozen. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation. Six weeks with Damien Wolfe? It was professional suicide. Or a career-altering move. She walked to her laptop, logged into her email. The contract was already sitting there. And the sum? Astronomical.

Damien didn’t just want a planner. He wanted her.

And a very dangerous part of her wanted him back.

---

Damien sat in his sleek corner office, staring at the skyline but not seeing it. He couldn’t get her out of his head. The way her laugh lingered. The way she bit her lip when she was thinking. The way she tasted.

He should’ve never touched her. But now he couldn't stop wanting her. Every hour since she left his penthouse had been a torment. He’d paced like a caged lion, replaying every moment from the gala—the spark in her eyes, the fire in her kiss, the sharp intellect behind her wit.

There was a knock. His assistant poked her head in. “Sir, Miss Quinn has replied. She’s accepted.”

His pulse jumped. “Set up a lunch meeting. Somewhere private.”

---

The restaurant was secluded, rooftop-level, with soft jazz and flowing champagne. Isabella arrived in a tailored navy-blue dress, her hair swept into a bun that defied gravity. Her heels clicked across the polished floors with a confidence she wasn’t entirely sure she felt.

“You’re early,” she said as she slid into the booth across from Damien.

“I’ve been waiting since you walked away last night.” His eyes locked onto hers, intense and unyielding.

She tried to deflect. “So. Six weeks. Investor gala. What’s your vision?”

He leaned forward. “You. Running the show. Total creative freedom. But there's a caveat.”

She raised a brow. “Of course there is.”

“I want you close. Daily check-ins. Late nights, if needed.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’ll be working from my building.”

“That’s not standard procedure.”

“Neither is last night.”

Her breath hitched. “That was a mistake.”

“Was it?” he challenged. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you. And I know you feel it too.”

She hated that he was right.

“Let’s make something clear,” she said, voice low. “I’m not a conquest. I’m not someone you use to pass time.”

“Then don’t let me,” he said simply. “Challenge me. Make me want more.”

She stared at him, heart beating too fast. Challenge him? She already was.

Their eyes held for too long. The tension was razor-sharp, and the air thick with unspoken questions. They spent the rest of lunch pretending to talk business, but every glance, every brush of fingers when passing documents, told a different story.

---

The next few days were a blur. Meetings in glass-walled conference rooms. Swatches of fabrics. Wine tastings. Venue inspections. Every detail of the gala passed through her hands—and every time she passed Damien in the hallway, electricity snapped between them.

He watched her like she was his favorite sin.

She responded like she was trying not to fall.

But she was falling.

One night, working late at Wolfe Tower, the power flickered.

“Generator’s kicking in,” Damien said, walking into her office.

“You work late too?” she said, sipping tea.

“I haven’t left.”

There was a pause. He came closer.

“Why do you keep fighting this?” he asked, voice husky.

“Because you burn, Damien. And I’m not trying to get scorched.”

“Maybe you need to learn how to control fire.”

She stood, breath shaking. “I don’t trust men like you.”

He was inches away. “Then let me prove you wrong.”

His hand brushed her cheek. She didn’t pull away.

When his lips met hers, it wasn’t sweet—it was desperate. Demanding. The kiss exploded like something forbidden finally set free.

Her hands gripped his shirt. His body pressed her against the wall. Time lost all meaning. His fingers tangled in her hair. Her moan escaped before she could stop it.

When they broke apart, he whispered, “Come home with me.”

She hesitated. Then nodded.

She didn’t want to fall.

But she was already in freefall.

His penthouse was dimly lit, music playing in the background—something slow and sensual. Damien poured her a glass of wine and watched her sip it like he was studying art.

“You always stare like that?” she teased.

“Only when I’m trying to memorize something.”

He took the glass from her and set it down. “I don’t want to pretend with you.”

“Then don’t.”

Their clothes came off in layers of tension and fire. His mouth explored every inch of her, reverent and hungry. She responded with equal ferocity, pulling him closer, tasting, touching, needing.

He made love like he owned her.

She surrendered like she’d been waiting for this.

Afterward, tangled in his sheets, silence stretched between them.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to stop.”

Neither did she.

But morning would come.

And nothing would be the same.