In Between Her Legs.

Chapter Eighteen: His Rules

The next morning, I wake up to nothing.

No message. No call. No sign that Damien even remembers last night, let alone that I exist outside of his bed.

I barely slept, tossing and turning, my body still aching for his touch, my mind running in circles trying to understand what changed.

I thought I belonged to him.

But now, it feels like I’m just another thing he controls.

And maybe that’s all I ever was.

When I arrive at work, I expect another day of silence.

But the second I step onto my floor, Claire, his assistant, intercepts me.

"Mr. Sinclair wants to see you."

My pulse jumps. I nod quickly and head to his office, smoothing down my dress, hating how desperate I feel for his attention.

For something anything that will remind me I haven’t lost him.

I step inside his office, the door clicking shut behind me.

Damien doesn’t look up from his desk.

His fingers move effortlessly over the keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration, his suit immaculate, his posture relaxed but his energy?

Ice-cold.

I stand there, waiting.

After what feels like forever, he finally leans back in his chair, his sharp, assessing gaze locking onto mine.

Something shifts in my stomach.

The heat. The tension. The power radiating off him like a quiet, steady storm.

"Sit," he orders.

I obey without thinking, crossing my legs, waiting for him to say something.

He doesn’t.

Not right away.

He just studies me, his fingers tapping once against the polished wood of his desk, his eyes dark, unreadable.

Then

"You’ll be staying at my penthouse from now on."

I blink. "What?"

His jaw tightens slightly, like he doesn’t like repeating himself.

"You heard me." His voice is smooth, controlled. "You won’t be staying at your apartment anymore. You’ll live in my penthouse until I say otherwise."

I gasp, straightening. "Damien, you can’t just"

"I can." He leans forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "And I am."

Heat flares through me. Not just the kind that makes my thighs clench, but anger, too.

"You don’t get to just decide where I live," I snap.

His brow lifts.

Amused.

Like my resistance is something he expected.

Something he’ll enjoy breaking.

"This isn’t up for discussion." His voice is steady, final.

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the way my pulse races under his stare. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"You belong to me," he says simply. "And I don’t like not knowing where you are."

My stomach tightens.

"You don’t touch me anymore," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "But you still want to control me?"

His eyes darken slightly, but he doesn’t react otherwise.

"You don’t need my touch to understand who’s in charge, Selena."

I shiver.

Because, deep down, I do understand.

Damien Sinclair isn’t just dominant in bed.

He’s dominant everywhere.

And right now, he’s reminding me exactly what that means.

I exhale shakily, gripping the arms of the chair. "And if I say no?"

His smirk is slow.

Dangerous.

"You won’t."

A challenge.

A promise.

I open my mouth to argue, to tell him he’s insane if he thinks I’ll just move in like some possession he keeps under lock and key

But then he stands.

Moves toward me.

And my brain short-circuits.

He doesn’t touch me.

Doesn’t even come close enough for our bodies to brush.

But the energy between us?

It burns.

"You’ll pack your things today," he murmurs. "Claire will send someone to handle the move."

I swallow hard, my entire body trembling. "Damien"

He tilts his head slightly, watching me.

"Do you really want to defy me, baby?"

My breath catches.

He’s daring me.

Daring me to fight.

Daring me to push him just far enough to remind me what happens when I disobey.

I exhale sharply.

And I make the only choice I can.

"...Fine."

A flicker of satisfaction crosses his face.

"Good girl."

I hate how much I like those words.

Hate how much my body reacts to them, heat pooling low in my stomach, my pulse fluttering against my ribs.

But he sees it.

Of course, he sees it.

And the small, knowing smirk that plays at his lips tells me exactly what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t have to touch me.

Doesn’t have to say a single filthy word.

Because I already know.

I still belong to him.

And he’s never letting me go.