January 15, 2026.
Damien’s office again. Mid-afternoon.
He’d texted at lunch:
Damien: Need you. Now. Conference room on 12. Door will be unlocked.
The building was busy—people back from lunch, phones ringing, elevators full. I signed in at reception as “freelance consult” again, heart already racing.
Floor 12 was quieter—executive conference rooms, glass walls with automatic blinds.
He was waiting inside the largest one, blinds half-closed, city view behind him. Suit jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. He looked like power and restraint barely holding.
He locked the door behind me.
No words.
He backed me against the long mahogany table, hands framing my face, kissing me like he’d been starving for days.
I kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer
