Aria stepped into her Tribeca penthouse, the door clicking shut like a judgment. The space was too quiet... marble floors echoing her heels, floor-to-ceiling windows throwing back the glittering Financial District skyline. She kicked off her Louboutins, toes curling against cool stone. Between her thighs, Damien still lingered: sticky warmth, faint ache, the ghost of his thrusts in the conference room. Her blouse hung half-buttoned, throat marked with the faint imprint of his fingers.
She peeled off the ruined silk, let it drop. Naked except for the black lace thong (torn at one side), she padded to the bathroom mirror. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen. Eyes too bright, too haunted. She pressed fingertips to the bruise on her neck... shivered at the memory of his choke, the way pleasure had knifed through tears.
Phone buzzed on the vanity.
Damien:Door's open. Don't make me come find you.
She stared at the screen. Part of her wanted to power it off, crawl under silk sheets, and pretend the day hadn't ended with her bent over her father's old war table, screaming his name.
Another part... the dangerous part... whispered: Maybe tonight you talk. Really talk. About the estate deal. About needing more than his cock to feel seen.
She typed before she could overthink.
Aria: I'll come. But only if we do dinner at La Lumière. The new partners from Singapore are there tonight. We need to close the waterfront parcel before Victor sinks it.
Three dots. Then:
Damien: Fine. Car in twenty. Wear the black dress. No panties.
Her stomach flipped... equal parts dread and liquid heat.
She showered fast, scalding water sluicing away evidence, but not the craving. Slipped into the black wrap dress... silk clinging to damp skin, neckline plunging just enough to draw eyes, hem high on thigh. No panties, as ordered. The cool air kissed bare folds with every step. Already slick.
The black Escalade waited curbside. Damien lounged in the back, legs spread, charcoal suit impeccable, gray eyes tracking her like prey the moment she slid in.
"Punctual," he murmured. "Good girl."
She ignored the praise, crossed her legs. "We need to prep. The Singapore group wants projected ROI, zoning assurances, timeline. If we fumble..."
He cut her off by tugging her across the seat until her hip pressed his. Fingers slid up her inner thigh, found her bare. One digit traced her slit...slow, deliberate.
"Damien..."
"Talk," he said, voice velvet threat. "I'm listening."
She tried. Stammered numbers... 22% growth, tax incentives, waterfront value in five years. His finger circled her clit once, twice. She gasped, hips jerking.
"Keep going," he ordered. Pushed one finger inside... slow, deep. Curled. "Tell me why they should trust us."
She clenched around him, words fracturing. "Because… because Reginald's legacy... fuck... still carries weight. They want stability."
Another finger. Thrusting now... lazy, punishing rhythm. Thumb on her clit. "Stability," he echoed mockingly. "Like the kind you get when I'm balls-deep and you're crying?"
"Stop." Half plea, half moan.
He didn't. Added pressure, fucked her with his hand until the car rocked gently with her helpless bucks. She came silently... teeth in her lip, nails in his wrist... walls fluttering, soaking his palm.
He withdrew, licked his fingers clean while holding her gaze. "Now you're focused."
La Lumière glowed ahead... candlelit, velvet booths, the murmur of power deals. The Singapore partners waited: two sharp-suited men, mid-forties, polite smiles masking calculation.
They slid into the booth. Damien beside her, thigh pressed to hers under the tablecloth.
Conversation began smoothly. Waterfront synergies. Projected cash flow. Aria spoke clearly at first... charts on her tablet, voice steady.
Then Damien's hand returned.
Under the table, palm sliding up her thigh, fingers parting her. Two plunged in without warning. She jolted... cut mid-sentence.
"...and with the rezoning approval expected Q2..."
His thumb pressed her clit, circling. Slow. Insistent.
One partner frowned. "Ms. Voss? You were saying?"
She forced a smile. "Q2… yes. We expect…" Words dissolved as he curled inside her, hitting that spot. Heat coiled tight again. Too soon. Too public.
Damien's face stayed neutral... charming, even... as he added, "Aria means the regulatory tailwinds are strong. We've secured key council support."
But his fingers never stopped. Fucking her in shallow, relentless strokes. Her thighs trembled. She gripped the table edge, knuckles white.
The partners exchanged glances. "We're concerned about execution risk," one said. "Your presentation feels… distracted."
Aria opened her mouth... tried to salvage. Damien's thumb flicked hard. She choked on a whimper, disguised it as a cough.
"Apologies," she managed. "Long day."
Damien leaned in, voice low for her alone. "You're dripping on my hand, baby. Focus."
She couldn't. Orgasm hit like a slap... silent, shattering. She bit her tongue to stay quiet, body locking, walls pulsing around his fingers.
The partners stood shortly after. Polite refusals. "We'll need more clarity. Perhaps next quarter."
Handshake. Exit.
Booth empty except for them.
Aria rounded on him the second they were alone. "You fucking ruined it. That parcel was ours... Victor's going to have a field day."
Damien wiped his fingers on a napkin, calm. "You came twice. Hard. Looked beautiful doing it."
"Fuck you." Tears burned. She shoved out of the booth, heels clicking toward the exit.
He caught her wrist in the dim hallway near the restrooms. Spun her. Crushed his mouth to hers... brutal, tasting of wine and possession. She tasted herself on his tongue.
She pushed. Hard. "Don't."
He released her lips, but not her body. Hand cracked across her ass... sharp, stinging through silk. Pain bloomed hot; she froze, breath catching, thighs clenching on fresh arousal.
"Walk away if you want," he said softly. "But we both know you'll crawl back."
She swallowed the whimper, straightened her spine, and left... ass burning, his cum and her own wetness slick on her thighs, heart hammering.
Back at Voss Tower the next morning.
The interview panel was small: Aria, two senior strategists, Ethan Hale waiting in the glass conference room.
He rose when she entered... warm brown eyes, kind smile, suit crisp but not intimidating. "Ms. Voss. Pleasure to meet you in person."
Handshake firm, lingering just a second too long. Safe. Steady.
They sat. Questions flowed... his experience in growth strategy, fintech trends, why Voss. He answered thoughtfully, gaze attentive, never once stripping her bare with a look.
She relaxed. Smiled. Real one. "We need people who listen, Ethan. Who see the full picture."
He nodded. "I want to help build that here. With you."
Handshake at the end... warm again. "Thank you. We'll be in touch soon."
As he gathered his portfolio, the door opened.
Damien.
Charcoal suit, sleeves rolled, tattoos peeking. Gray eyes locked not on her... but on Ethan. Face carved from stone, jaw ticking, violence barely leashed.
Ethan offered a polite nod. "Mr. Blackwood."
Damien didn't return it. Just stared... slow, predatory... until Ethan shifted uncomfortably and excused himself.
The door clicked shut.
Aria's pulse kicked. "What the hell was that?"
Damien stepped closer. Voice low, lethal. "He looked at you like you could be his."
She lifted her chin. "Maybe I could."
His smile was slow. Deadly.
"Then let's see how long that lasts."
He turned, walked out... leaving her alone in the glass room, skin still tingling from last night's spanking, the ghost of his fingers inside her, and the promise of worse to come.
Her phone buzzed.
It was email, a reminder of the Gala holding at the hall tomorrow, that's when she realized. all her haunted monsters will be there.
***