Page 135 of The Contract

His smirk deepens. “You were jealous.”

I scoff, my lips parting in an incredulous laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Damien tilts his head, his gaze flickering over my face like he’s cataloging every detail, every subtle reaction I don’t want him to see.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you bristled when she called me Damien?”

His voice drops lower, smooth as silk, coaxing me into his game.

“Admit it, Trouble.” He reaches out, the back of his fingers skimming over my forearm, barely a touch at all. “You didn’t like her thinking she could have me.”

The way he says it—low and deliberate—makes something flicker hot inside me.

I hold my ground, refusing to let him see how much I’m still irritated, how much I hated the sound of her voice wrapped around his name.

I should leave it. I should brush it off, let him think he’s wrong, keep my dignity intact.

Instead, I step toward him.

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t move back.

Another step.

He shifts just enough to press against the edge of the desk, giving me space—but not much.

Another step, and I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that his scent—his cologne—is all I can breathe in.

“During this contract, Mr. Wolfe,” I murmur, my voice steady, smooth. “You are as much mine as I am yours.”

His jaw tightens, that flicker in his blue eyes turning molten, burning beneath his careful control.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s considering something dangerous. “That almost sounds like a promise.”

I lift a hand, let my nails drag lightly down the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, down the center of his chest. “Think of it as an expectation.”

His muscles tense under my touch, his control tightening like a coiled spring.

“So you want to own me now?” His smirk is lazy, but his breathing isn’t.

I let my fingers toy with the first button of his shirt, slipping it free. “Just reminding you where you stand.”

Another button undone. My nails rake gently over his skin, dragging down to his abdomen, his breath growing heavier. The muscles in his forearm shift as his grip on the desk turns lethal.

I lean in just enough that my lips nearly brush his ear. “Reminding you of the rules.”

He exhales sharply, his knuckles nearly white as he keeps his restraint.

“Your rules,” he corrects, his voice dark. “Aren’t as firm as you pretend they are.”

He’s right, and we both know it.

My fingers move lower, undoing another button, feeling the flex of muscle beneath my touch.

I barely brush against his belt, letting my fingertips trail just along the hem of his slacks.

His breath hitches, his restraint pulled so tight it’s a wonder he’s still standing still.

I smirk. “That was a mis?—”

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