Chapter 9 — Too Close to Resist

By eight o’clock, the 40th floor is completely silent. The cleaning crew has already passed through, leaving the air smelling faintly of citrus polish and cold air conditioning. The ambient lights in the main corridor are dimmed to a low glow, casting long, dark shadows across the empty glass cubicles.

You sit at your desk in the quiet executive suite, staring at the same line of code on your terminal for twenty minutes. Your heart has been thumping a steady, heavy rhythm against your ribs ever since you stepped out of his office five hours ago.

You stand up slowly. You don’t grab a binder. You don’t bring a notebook.

You smooth down the front of your dark navy pencil skirt, adjust the collar of your cream silk blouse, and walk down the dark hallway toward the double mahogany doors.

You don’t knock. You turn the brass handle and push the door open.

The suite is pitch black, save for the golden light spilling from the single desk lamp in the corner and the sweeping grid of city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Damien sits behind his mahogany desk. His suit jacket is gone, draped over the back of his chair. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. A crystal glass of scotch sits near his right hand, half-empty.

He doesn’t look surprised when the door clicks shut behind you. He slowly raises his head, his pale blue eyes tracking your approach as you walk across the dark rug.

You stop four feet from his desk, keeping your posture straight and your chin high.

“I’m here, Mr. Veyr,” you say, your voice smooth, quiet, and deliberate.

Damien doesn’t answer immediately. He sets his pen down on the wood with a quiet clink. He stands up from his chair, his tall, broad frame rising into the dim light. He moves around the edge of his desk with slow, heavy steps, stopping right in front of you.

“You came,” he says softly. His voice is raspy, deep, and thick with an unreadable weight.

“You gave me a command,” you reply, holding his intense gaze without flinching. “And I wanted to see if you were actually going to address the issue, or if you were just going to continue throwing corporate authority around because another man made me laugh.”

Damien’s jaw tightens. He steps an inch closer, his broad chest rising and falling in a deep, heavy breath.

“I don’t care about corporate authority right now, Serena,” he says quietly.

“Then what do you care about, Damien?” you ask, stepping directly into his personal space, refusing to let him intimidate you. “Because from where I stand, this is pure hypocrisy. You parade your marriage in front of the board. You stand next to Isolde in front of every camera in this city. Yet the second I have a five-minute conversation with a colleague, you corner me against a door and grip my wrist like you own me.”

Damien flinches, a sharp flicker of pain crossing his features before his face hardens back into stone.

“I don’t claim to own you,” he growls, his voice dropping an octave, rough and raw.

“Then stop acting like it,” you say, keeping your voice low, sharp, and steady. “You don’t get to set double standards for me. You wear a gold band on your finger. You go home to a wife. You have no right to question who I speak to, who I smile at, or who I spend my time with outside these four walls.”

“It isn’t a marriage, Serena,” Damien snaps, taking another half-step forward until his leather shoes brush the toes of your heels. “You saw us at the Sterling. You saw how we stand together. Isolde and I haven’t shared a bed in seven years. It is a legal contract to protect shares and assets. Nothing more.”

“That doesn’t change reality,” you whisper, looking straight up into his pale blue eyes. You can feel the intense heat radiating off his body, smelling the rich scent of cedar, scotch, and warm skin. “She is still your wife. And I am just an employee you hired two weeks ago.”

“You know you aren’t just an employee,” Damien says, his voice breaking slightly at the edge. “Don’t sit there and lie to my face.”

“Then what am I?” you challenge, tilting your head up, your pulse hammering violently against your throat. “Tell me, Damien. What am I to you?”

The question hangs in the dark room like an open flame.

Damien stares down at you, his breathing shallow and fast. The silence stretches between you, thick, suffocating, and heavy with years of unspoken isolation and a sudden, explosive desire that neither of you can control any longer.

Slowly, deliberately, Damien raises both of his hands.

He doesn’t grab your wrist this time. He doesn’t hold you with force.

He lifts his large, broad palms and gently cups your jawline in his hands.

His skin is hot, calloused at the edges, and heavy against your face. The sensation is so sudden, so intensely intimate, that a soft, quiet gasp escapes your lips. You freeze, your heart thudding wildly against your ribs as his broad hands cradle your head, his fingers resting gently behind your ears, tilting your face up toward his.

Damien steps completely into you. His broad chest brushes against yours, trapping you gently between his body and the stillness of the room. He looks down into your face with an intensity that burns through every layer of your defense.

Slowly, his broad right thumb moves.

He glides his thumb across your cheekbone, down the line of your jaw, and rests it directly over your bottom lip.

His thumb is warm, slightly rough, and presses lightly against the soft flesh of your mouth. He traces the curve of your bottom lip from left to right, slowly, agonizingly, pulling it down just enough to expose the small, white edge of your teeth.

Your breath stutters against his thumb. A dizzying, liquid heat pools deep in your stomach, making your knees feel weak. You reach out with a steadying hand, resting your palm flat against his chest right over his heart. Beneath the thin white cotton of his shirt, his heart is hammering as fast and hard as yours.

Damien doesn’t pull his hands away. He holds your jaw firm, his thumbs continuing their agonizing, slow stroke over your lips. His gaze drops to your mouth, dark, heavy, and completely consumed by desire.

“You drive me out of my mind,” he whispers, his voice barely a rasp against the silence of the office.

He leans down slowly, his face coming so close that his forehead almost rests against yours. You can feel his hot breath washing over your skin, smelling the faint, sweet trace of scotch.

You tilt your head up higher, your fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his shirt, waiting for him to close the final fraction of an inch between your mouths.

Damien stops. His lips hover less than a hairsbreadth from yours. You can feel the tremble in his hands as he holds your face, his entire body tight with a brutal, agonizing effort to stay in control.

His pale blue eyes lift from your mouth, locking straight into yours.

“I have spent the entire evening,” Damien whispers, his voice thick, rough, and completely broken, “trying not to kiss you.”