Chapter 4 Possession is a disease

Chapter Four: Possession Is a Disease

Damian hadn't slept.

Not because of work. Not because of the markets in Shanghai or the IPO team in Berlin.

Because of her.

Elsie Hart.

He'd touched her for the first time last night. Made her come against his fingers, back arched against his penthouse wall. And now, every part of him screamed for more.

More of her voice, low and breathy.

More of her thighs, trembling and slick.

More of her submission.

It wasn't enough.

Not nearly.

---

She arrived at work in that same modest skirt. Lips bare. Eyes lowered.

But he could still see the flush on her throat. The twitch of her hands. The way her gaze darted to his office door like it might devour her.

She was thinking about it. About him.

Good.

He wanted her distracted. Ruined for anyone else.

He buzzed her in without speaking.

She entered, clutching a tablet to her chest. Avoiding his eyes.

"Coffee," he said simply.

"I brought you-"

"Hot. Black. Two sugars. Go."

She hesitated.

God, she was beautiful when she hated being ordered.

She left.

He adjusted his slacks, still hard from the memory of her whimpering against his hand.

---

When she returned, he took the coffee, sipped once, and then-without warning-pulled her down into his lap.

"Damian-!"

"I didn't tell you to speak."

She froze.

He ran a hand up her spine, threading his fingers into her hair, tugging her head back just enough to expose her throat.

"You think I touched you last night and just... let it go?" His voice rasped against her ear. "I can still smell you on my fingers."

Her breathing quickened.

"Tell me to stop."

She didn't.

He unbuttoned her blouse. Just two buttons. Enough to see lace. Enough to make her squirm.

"You wore this for me."

"N-No," she whispered, but it was a lie.

His palm closed over her breast.

"You want to be used, sweetheart," he murmured. "Don't lie to yourself. You want to be told when to sit. When to open your legs. When to come."

She moaned.

He pressed her back against his desk, bending her over with ease.

Lifted her skirt.

No panties.

His breath hitched.

"You filthy little thing."

"I forgot," she whispered, trembling.

"No, you didn't."

---

He took her like that-fast, rough, claiming.

Fingers in her mouth to muffle the scream as he drove into her, again and again, hips slamming into her soaked center. Her hands clawed the desk, her hair a wild halo.

"Say my name."

She gasped. "Damian-!"

He came with a groan, biting her shoulder as they both fell apart, messy and raw and perfect.

---

Afterward, she adjusted her blouse silently. He watched her from behind his desk, legs spread, cock still twitching.

"You'll never wear panties in my office again."

She stared at him.

"I own this skirt," he added. "And everything under it."

She flushed. Didn't argue.

He smirked.

It wasn't love. Not yet.

But it was obsession.

And it was starting to spread.