Page 11 of Trapped By the Cartel

"Excess is merely a state of mind," Damon replied, his eyes sweeping over the room with an air of detached amusement. "We simply appreciate the finer things in life." He paused, then added with a playful grin, "And we have the resources to indulge them."

I rolled my eyes. "Right. And what exactly does Nightshade do to acquire those resources?" I pressed, determined to get some real answers.

But even though I asked that question, I knew they did things that were in a legal gray area.

He led me down a long hallway, pausing before a massive oak door. "As I said, we provide services," he repeated, echoing his earlier response. "Let's just say we have a talent for resolving delicate situations and ensuring stability."

"And what kind of 'delicate situations' are we talking about?" I persisted, feeling like I was chasing a ghost.

Before he could answer, he opened the door and ushered me into a lavish study, filled with leather-bound books, antique maps, and a massive mahogany desk. The room radiated an air of quiet power, a sanctuary from the chaos of the rest of the house.

It was his office. I was in his dominion now even more than I was before. It was a chilling thought.

"We'll discuss that later," he said, turning his attention to a nearby wardrobe. "For now, let's focus on something more pressing—my attire."

And then, the agonizing process began.

Damon started with a slow, deliberate grace, unbuttoning a hidden shirt with an almost theatrical flourish. He savored each movement, each pause, drawing out the anticipation like a conductor prolonging a dramatic crescendo. Each piece of clothing was carefully selected, examined, and then slowly, meticulously put on. A black silk undershirt first, clinging to his sculpted chest. Then, tailored trousers, the fabric rustling as he eased them over his legs.

"Are you serious?" I asked, struggling to contain my exasperation. "You're going to take an hour to get dressed?"

And somehow, I already knew the answer to that question.

He chuckled, not even bothering to look up. "Patience, Elliot. It's a lost art." He paused, admiring the way the trousers draped over his form. "Besides," he added with a wink, "a man must present himself properly."

Present himself properly.Fucking motherfucker. He was doing that just to keep toying with me, and the worst thing about it was that it was working. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't ignore it.

The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. I paced the room, fidgeting and muttering under my breath. I watched him pull out a crisp white shirt, slowly buttoning it up with meticulous care. Then came a black tie, knotted with practiced ease. The final touch was a flawlessly tailored black suit, which he slipped on with a flourish, transforming his appearance into something sleek and undeniably powerful.

Was he going to a formal meeting? I had no idea, and I didn't want to ask.

"Finally," I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. "You're done! It took you longer to get dressed than it would take to negotiate a peace treaty that stops World War III!"

He turned to face me, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. His ice-blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed me, taking in my growing frustration.

"Did you enjoy the show?" He asked, tugging the right corner of his mouth and showing me his perfect teeth. "It's a performance, Elliot. Everything is a performance." Then, he tilted his head and added: "And you, my dear, are my audience."

Meanwhile, I couldn't deny it anymore. No matter how much I tried to hide it, Damon knew. Knew that my dick was rock-hard beneath my clothes, tenting my pants embarrassingly. I could feel the sticky precum leaking from the tip, dampening my boxers, and it was driving me crazy.

I hated myself for feeling this way. Really, really hated myself.

Fuck, why did he have to be so damn sexy? So confident and dominating? It was infuriating and arousing all at the same time.

Damon sauntered over to me, a smirk playing on his lips. He knew exactly what effect he was having on me, and he loved it. Loved toying with me, making me squirm.

"You seem… uncomfortable, Elliot," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. He leaned in, bringing his face inches from mine, and I could smell the faint, tantalizing scent of his sweat mixed with his natural musk. It was intoxicating, and I struggled to suppress a groan.

"I'm fine," I muttered, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. "Just eager to get this over with."

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, a dark timbre that echoed deep within me. "Over with? Oh, darling, we're justgetting started." He paused, his gaze flicking down to my crotch, and I swore I could feel the heat of his stare like a physical touch. "In fact, I'd say you're very… eager indeed."

I blushed crimson, cursing my traitorous body. Damn omega hormones. I was supposed to be a rational adult, not a hormonal teenager ready to jump his bones at the slightest provocation.

Damon's gaze lingered, his smirk growing wider. "Tell me, Elliot," he breathed, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. "Do you usually react this strongly to alphas? Or is it just me?"

Should I even answer that question? Part of me was telling me that I shouldn't.

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened at his proximity. "It's not you," I insisted, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. "I just… I'm horny, okay? It's been a while."

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