Page 92 of The CEO

“Beautiful,” he whispers against my collarbone. “Every inch of you.”

His hands map my body with deliberate slowness, as if committing every curve to memory. When his fingers graze the underside of my breast, I arch into his touch, silently demanding more.

“Patience,” he admonishes, a smirk playing at his lips. “I’ve waited years for you. I intend to savor every moment.”

“Damien,” I breathe, my voice carrying a plea I don’t bother hiding.

“Yes?” He looks up, feigning innocence even as his hand slides tantalizingly close to where I need him most.

“Touch me. Please.”

“Where?” His eyes hold mine, demanding specificity. “Tell me what you want, Eve.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I refuse to look away. “Everywhere. I want your hands, your mouth. I want all of you.”

A satisfied smile spreads across his face. “Good girl.”

He rewards my honesty by lowering his head to my breast, taking my nipple into his mouth. The sensation sends electricity shooting through me, my back arching off the bed. His tongue circles the sensitive peak before drawing it deeper—the perfect balance of pleasure and pain making me cry out.

His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready for him. “This is what I do to you,” he says against my skin, his voice holding wonder and satisfaction in equal measure. “So responsive. So perfect.”

He circles my clit with practiced precision, building pleasure with each stroke. My hips move instinctively against his hand, seeking more.

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m begging for anymore.

He seems to understand nonetheless. In one fluid motion, he positions himself between my legs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Our eyes lock as he pushes forward, filling me inch by delicious inch until I’m stretched completely around him.

“Like you were made for me.”

I reach up, pulling his face down to mine, kissing him with everything I have as he begins to move. Each thrust is deliberate, deep, hitting spots inside me that make stars explode behind my eyes.

“I love you,” I whisper against his lips, the truth finally breaking free. His rhythm falters for a moment, the confession clearly affecting him. Then he redoubles his efforts, his movements becoming more intense, more focused.

“Say it again,” he demands, his hand sliding beneath me to lift my hips, changing the angle until I gasp.

“I love you,” I repeat, the words easier now that they’ve broken free. “I love you, Damien.”

He groans, burying his face in my neck as his pace increases. One hand slips between us, finding my clit and circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation pushes me rapidly toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he commands against my ear. “Let me feel you.”

My body obeys instantly, pleasure crashing through me in waves that leave me gasping his name. The pulses of my climax trigger his own, his movements becoming erratic as he spills himself inside me with a groan that sounds almost like reverence.

He remains inside me, our breathing gradually slowing, his weight a comforting pressure above me. I’m stretched impossibly wide—my body singing with pain—but I don’t mind. When he finally shifts to lie beside me, he pulls me against his chest, and his arms wrap around me protectively.

“Sleep now,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Tomorrow is the beginning of everything.”

As exhaustion finally claims me, I realize I really have crossed a threshold from which there’s no return. I’ve chosen this man, this darkness, this life—not despite knowing the truth, but because of it.

And in this moment, nothing has ever felt more right.

* * *

Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the massive bed where I lie watching Damien sleep. At last, his face loses the calculated control he maintains while awake. The hard lines of his jaw soften, and the perpetual vigilance eases from his brow. He looks younger, almost innocent—though I know better than anyone how deceptive that appearance is.

My eyes trace the curve of his shoulder, the lean muscle of his arm thrown casually across my waist, the rise and fall of his chest where my name is permanently etched in black ink. The tattoo fascinates me still—this physical manifestation of his eight-year obsession. I reach out, lightly running my fingertip over the elegant script.

Eve. My name on his skin. A mark of regret, of fixation, of something that began as guilt but evolved into something far more complex.

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