The Wrong Man to Love

CHAPTER SIX

I didn't knock.

The study door was unlocked—maybe he wanted me to come, maybe he was too drunk to remember to lock it. Either way, I walked in without making a sound and stood there until he looked up from his glass. My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could hear it across the room, but I kept my chin up, my shoulders back. I wasn't the scared little girl he thought I was. Not anymore.

Damien sat behind the desk, tie completely gone, shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. The top button of his trousers was undone. The bottle of whiskey was half-empty, amber liquid catching the lamplight. His eyes were glassy, dangerous, nothing like the controlled CEO who'd stared me down at breakfast. This Damien was unraveling at the seams, and I wanted to see what happened when he completely fell apart.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice was rough, scraped raw.

"You were outside my door last night." I took another step closer, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. "I heard you. I saw your shadow."

The glass froze halfway to his lips. Something flickered in his expression—panic, shame, hunger so intense it made my thighs clench. He set the whiskey down hard enough to slosh it over the rim, staining the mahogany dark

.

"Leave, Isla."

"No." I stepped closer again, until I was standing on the opposite side of his desk, close enough to touch him if I reached out. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my voice steady. "I saw you. Four days ago. Through the door."

His jaw tightened, muscle ticking. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I saw your hand wrapped around your cock." The words felt dirty in my mouth, obscene, but I didn't look away. "I saw how big you are. I heard you say my name when you came. I heard you say I was yours."

The air left the room.

Damien stood up slowly, unfolding his tall frame from the chair like a predator uncoiling. He walked around the desk, not stopping until he was towering over me, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the soap on his skin, the anger and desire radiating off him in waves. His chest heaved, his eyes were black with want, and I could see the hard outline of him straining against his trousers—ready again, already, just from my words.

"You watched," he said, voice low and lethal.

"I watched."

"And you stayed."

"I stayed." I tilted my chin up, meeting his gaze. "And I touched myself after. In my bed. Thinking about you."

His control snapped.

His hand shot out, gripping my jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to hold me still, to claim me. His thumb pressed against my lower lip, rough and trembling, and I felt his whole body shaking with restraint. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he growled. "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you? How I want to ruin you?"

"Show me," I whispered, and I licked his thumb.

He made a sound—half animal growl, half broken prayer—and then his mouth was on mine, brutal and desperate and starving. He kissed me like he was trying to consume me, his tongue forcing my lips open, his teeth nipping hard enough to bruise. He pushed me backward until my spine hit the bookshelf, hardcovers digging into my shoulder blades, his body pinning me there with his weight.

"Tell me to stop," he panted against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse, his hand sliding down to grip my thigh. "Tell me to stop and I will. Last chance, Isla. Last f*****g chance."

I didn't. I pulled his mouth back to mine and bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, to make him groan.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing, his hands rough under my thighs, and set me on the edge of his desk. Papers scattered beneath me—contracts, stock reports, his empire in disarray. He shoved my skirt up to my waist with desperate, angry movements, his fingers hooking in my underwear and tearing them down my legs. The air was cold on my bare skin, but his hands were burning.

"You're soaked," he growled, his fingers finding my center, testing, sliding through the wetness there. "f**k. You're soaked for me. You've been thinking about this, haven't you? Thinking about me inside you."

"Please," I whimpered, not even sure what I was begging for, my hips bucking against his hand. "Please, Damien—"

He didn't make me wait. He freed himself from his trousers—thick, heavy, impossibly hard and veined, bigger than I'd imagined—and pressed the broad head against my entrance. No warning. No protection. Just one brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt, stretching me open, filling me completely.

I cried out, my head falling back against the bookshelf, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. It burned. It ached. It was perfect, it was too much, it was everything.

"Look at me," he commanded, gripping my chin with his free hand, his voice wrecked and ragged. "Look at me while I f**k you. Look at me while I ruin you for anyone else."

He set a punishing rhythm, hard and deep, each thrust pushing me back against the wood, shaking the shelves. Papers scattered to the floor. A pen rolled off and clattered against the carpet. A picture frame tipped over. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on, my vision blurring, my body climbing fast and hard toward something terrifying.

"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his thumb finding my c**t, pressing hard circles there. "Say it. Say it while I'm inside you."

"You," I gasped, my voice breaking. "I belong to you. Only you."

He f****d me harder, angrier, like he was trying to punish me for making him want this, for making him need this. His hand slid between us, thumb pressing relentlessly against my c**t, and I shattered around him with a scream that probably carried through the whole house, my body clamping down on him, milking him.

He followed seconds later, spilling inside me with a strangled groan, his face buried in my neck, his body shaking apart. I felt him pulse, hot and wet, filling me up, marking me from the inside out. He stayed there, buried deep, his breath ragged against my skin.

Silence.

The reality crashed in—the papers on the floor, my skirt bunched around my waist, the fact that he was still inside me and I'd never felt more claimed or more ruined. I could feel his release dripping down my thighs already, obscene and undeniable.

Damien pulled back slowly, his expression shuttering. His eyes were dark, unreadable, his face a mask of guilt and possession and horror. He didn't look at me as he fixed his trousers, as he found my torn underwear and handed them to me like they were nothing.

"Get out," he said, voice rough and cold.

I stared at him, my chest heaving, my body still trembling. "What?"

"Get out." He finally looked at me, and I saw it—the regret slamming down, the walls rebuilding. "This was a mistake. A weakness. It won't happen again."

I stumbled off the desk, my legs trembling, his release warm and dripping down my inner thighs, marking me with every step. I grabbed my skirt, my dignity, whatever was left of my heart.

At the door, I turned. He was standing at the window, his back to me, shoulders rigid, a glass of whiskey in his hand like nothing had happened.

"Damien—"

"Don't," he said, his voice empty. "Just... don't."

I ran.