I Am Yours Billionaire CEO

The invitation was contained in a black envelope that was thick, luxurious, and sealed with a blood-red wax stamp pressed into the initials DB. Savannah Hart turned it over in her fingers, eyebrows lifting as she took in the elegant cursive that spelled her name in silvery ink. It wasn't every day that a billionaire summoned her by name.

The note inside was short and to the point,

Ms. Hart,

Your reputation, you. I would like to commission your curatorial expertise for a private collection display at Blackwood Manor. I expect your presence there at precisely seven o'clock this Friday evening.

Come prepared. You'll be compensated rather generously.

Damien Blackwood.

Savannah exhaled noisily, fingers tightening around the letter. Damien Blackwood. Even his name sounded wicked. She knew the rumors he was the kind of man the tabloids worshiped and whispered about in the same breath. Billionaire, art collector, philanthropist by day. By night, an enigma, possibly dangerous, and endlessly seductive.

She had never thought he would seek her out. She was in the process of establishing her name in the art world as one with an unconventional eye and brilliant exhibitions, but Blackwood... he had had a chance to find anyone.

Perhaps that was his reason for saying yes.

Blackwood Manor was much like a secret carved into stone. It was wide and ancient, situated on a lot of cliffs just outside the city. As Savannah's car reached the soaring iron gates, she was seized with the odd feeling that something ancient and alive had swallowed her whole.

The driver, silent and functionally detached, offered to open her door. Savannah stepped out of the car, heels clicking softly on the gravel, adjusting the dark emerald dress that hugged her curves with unapologetic grace. She had taken her time with her appearance-deep red lipstick, a smoky eye, hair twisted into an elegant bun.

She was walking into the lion's den, after all.

And before she'd reached the entry point of the manor, the door opened for her.

He was already waiting.

Damien Blackwood stood a shadow of the flesh itself, all tall, broad-shouldered, and perfectly tailored in an expensive black three-piece suit. His tie was undone; the top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a sliver of sculpted chest and a hint of tattoo ink curling up his collarbone.

But it was his eyes that froze her in midstep. Icy gray, cutting eyes, unreadable. They didn't just look at her; they assessed her, like a predator measuring prey.

Ms. "Hart," he said, in a low, smooth, and rasping voice sending ripples down her spine. "You are right on time."

Savannah managed a smile, her heart leaping in her chest. "Mr. Blackwood. Thank you for the invitation."

"I do not extend them lightly."

He stepped aside, his hand brushing lightly against her lower back as she passed. It was barely a touch, just the ghost of a graze through silk, but it lit a fire in her blood. Heat curled low in her belly, completely uninvited.

Tension snapped taut between them instantly. He didn't look away as she turned to face him inside the dimly lit foyer. Instead, he studied her like she was an object in a gallery-valuable, rare, and already his.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

Savannah tilted her chin. "Neither are you."

He smirked, and the curve of his mouth was sinful. "I've had my share of curators. All of them were predictable. Safe. You..." His gaze dipped slowly down her body, unapologetically bold. "You're not."

"And you like that?"

"I wouldn't have asked you here if I didn't."

He led her deeper into the manor, through arched hallways lined with rich oil paintings and sculptures that likely cost more than her entire apartment building. The air smelled like cedarwood and something darker, masculine and expensive.

The gallery room they entered had breathtaking floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, moody lighting, and rows of covered easels and crates waiting to be opened. Savannah's fingers itched to unwrap them.

"This is the collection?" she asked, stepping forward.

"Yes. Some are my acquisitions. Others... are mine."

She glanced over her shoulder. "Yours? You're an artist?"

"Once," he replied. "Before business became my muse."

His words were lined with amusement, but something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Pain? Savannah wanted to press, but she held back. She didn't know him. Not yet.

"I want you to put a show here, one night only. Invitation only, no press, no public. The vision is yours, but I expect it to be bold."

"Why me?" she asked, then turned her body to face him fully.

He stepped closer. "Because you aren't afraid of taking risks. You somehow see what is beyond the canvas."

"I don't sleep with my clients," she suddenly retorted.

His eyes were dark. "Good. I don't pay for sex."

There was a jagged and sultry tension in the air between them.

"Though if I did," he continued, lowering his voice, "you'd be worth every goddamn cent."

Savannah's breath caught.

Then, he reached out, brushing aside a stray curl from her cheek. The pad of his thumb lingered just the tiniest bit too long. That barely-there touch of his was electric and scorching all at once.

"You're playing with fire, Mr. Blackwood."

"I like the burn," he said softly.

She should have turned around and walked off. Told him it was unprofessional. Instead, her body betrayed her, thumping with a pulse, with thighs pressed together, lips parted in invitation for his next move.

He didn't kiss her. No, that would be too easy.

Leaning rather, I could certainly say, whispering against her ear, "I'll give you full access to the manor for as long as you need; however, make no mistake, Savannah: I chose you for being interesting to me."

Savannah turned just enough so that their mouths would be practically touching. "This is business," she said, although at a lower tone than she had meant.

Damien replied, "For now."

He stepped back, savoring her with his eyes one last time, his gaze gliding over her body like a lover's caress, only to say, "A room will be prepared for you. Dinner starts at nine, should you choose to stay."

Then he left, leaving behind only the lingering heat of him where he once stood like an echo.

Savannah stood stone-still, her fingers tingling where he'd touched her. Her body felt alive; every nerve alert, every shallow breath a quick dash toward the exit. She had walked into Blackwood Manor, thinking she was firmly in control.

But Damien Blackwood was a different kind of storm.

And she was already being sucked into his pull.

Savannah hadn't intended to hold much.

She literally collapsed into the sauna that was their encounter and scurried back into the city. It was the space she wanted. Time to think. But as she gazed out of the enormous arched-windowed guest room at the moon dancing across the waves below, she realized one truth.

Damien Blackwood had unwound her.

This terrifies her.

The knock was the quietest knock imaginable, yet it commanded attention.

She turned and skipped a heartbeat.

"Come in," she said, wavering a little under the fluttering but trying to be steady.

Damien came in holding a glass of wine in each hand, no longer in his jacket, sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms dusted with dark hair, and veins hinting at control and power. His shirt hugged the broad chest and from the open collar revealed more of the tattoo creeping over his heart.

"Thought you might want this," he extended a glass of dark red wine. "Something to calm your thoughts."

Savannah took it, fingers brushing his. A tremor shot down her spine.

"Is that what this is?" she asked, lifting the glass to her lips. "A way to lower my defenses?"

He smirked. "Are they up?"

"Do I seem like the kind of woman who lets them down easily?"

Damien stepped closer. Not touching, just... invading. Heat from a fire wrapped around her.

"No," he murmured. You seem like the kind of woman who needs to be seduced slowly. Thoroughly. Until she forgets where the lines are.

Her breath caught on the rim of the glass.

"Assumptions," she said, "too many."

"I observe," he replied. "It's what I do." I study people. "I like to find the cracks." "The soft places they try to hide."

He took himself a gulp from his glass, never again leaving her gaze.

"Are you studying me right now?"

"Every second."

The silence between them thickened, weighed with unspoken things. He needed not touch her to make her feel undone with his voice-it was low, glorifying, and wickedly promising.

"Your flirting doesn't resemble that of most men," she said, moving toward the sideboard to set her glass down. "You circle, provoke, and wait for the prey to come to you."

He followed, but slowly, "That is because I don't chase what's not worth catching."

"And am I?"

"More than worth it," he said simply.

Savannah turned to him. "Then why haven't you kissed me yet?"

He was directly in front of her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body, the slight rise and fall of his chest, as he reached out slowly, tracing one finger from her collarbone to the bare skin just above the swell of her breasts.

Her breath stuttered.

"Because I want you to crave it," Damien whispered. "I want it to haunt you."

She stared up at him, pulse hammering. "You're playing with fire."

He leaned in, nose brushing hers, lips just an inch away. "No, Savannah. I am the fire."

Then he backed her against the wall without warning.

Her back hit the cold stone with a soft thud, and he planted one hand beside her head.

Savannah was stunned and panting, still with her wrists held high, somehow carrying the heavy feeling of his touch in the air. Her chest rose and fell desperately; sensations were running up and down her lips, and her lower body was alive with a strong ache of desire.

He walked toward the door, stopping only to say, "Dinner is still on the table, if you care to join me."

Then he was gone.

And Savannah slid down the wall, her legs weak, lips parted that completely ruined her without ever being touched.

She'd come to curate a collection.

But she was being undone piece by piece.

And Damien Blackwood wasn't finished with her yet.

Chapter 3: No More Pretenses

The thick smell of varnish filled the studio air, but something else, too-something more primal.

Savannah followed Damien further into the space, the soft clicking of her heels against the polished concrete. Moonlight poured inside from the high glass panels above, bathing the whole place with silver light.

Brushes were strewn on the floor, nearly-finished canvases leaned against the walls, but it was one big canvas draped with a black silk cloth in the middle that seemed to suck the air out of the room.

Damien stood next to it in silence.

"You made something?" Savannah asked.

His dark gaze flickered toward her, stormy and inscrutable. "For you."

Heat rushed down her spine at the statement. "You're not the type who lets anyone see his work."

"Not usually," he said. "But tonight... no more pretenses."

He threw back the cloth in one brutal motion.

Savannah walked forward.

And forgot how to breathe.

The canvas was large, almost door-sized. Black and crimson bled into each other in sweeping strokes, fierce and violent. In the center, a female figure, bare and ethereal, arched her back in surrender, her head thrown back, lips parted. The details were not exact, but the likeness was unmistakable.

It was her.

Rendered in oil and desire.

Trapped in a moment of exquisite abandonment.

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "Damien..."

"What I see when I look at you," he said in a low voice. A woman is poised on the edge of breaking. Fighting herself. Daring me to push.

She turned toward him, heart hammering. "You painted this after just meeting me a single time."

"I need no time to see the truth in someone."

Savannah studied the painting again; the expression of the woman was a desperate, almost painful, incredible glory in her release and all felt strangely intimate.

"It's intense," she said. "But raw, like you're trying to grapple with something bigger than you."

His mouth twitched. "Is that a criticism?"

She met his gaze there. "It's an observation." "You're a man obsessed with control." "But this?" she gestured to the canvas. This is chaos, emotion. You can't tame it."

Damien crossed the empty space between them in two strides, "Neither can you."

His mouth crashed down on hers before she could answer.

No warning, no soft beginning, only fire, savagely overwhelming.

His lips mated with hers, as if by right. His tongue slipped past the seamed lips, it demanded, tasted, explored. He knew how to take her kiss like a man starving, like he had waited far too long and wouldn't wait a second anymore.

Savannah moaned into his mouth and grabbed at his shirt, twisting the fabric around her fists.

He grumbled and lifted her, one arm below her thighs, the other pressed against her back, carrying her toward the heavy studio table, with a thud she landed cold onto it, scattering sketchbooks and jars with brushes.

Her dress rode up to her hips, and the silk slipped along her skin like a second breath.

Damien wasted no time. His hands roamed up her thighs, rough and sure fingers parting them without asking. He pulled her panties aside in one smooth stroke, knuckles grazing the heat that made her gasp.

"You're so wet," he growled against her neck, "You've been aching since the gallery, haven't you?"

Savannah bit down on her lip and threw her head back. She hated how right he was.

"Say it," he commanded, his fingers ghosting her entrance.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling. I wanted this. I want you."

"Good," he said, and then his mouth was on her again, kissing, biting, dragging pleasure down her throat as he thrust two fingers inside her.

She arched off the table, gasping.

His fingers were pumping deep, curling and hitting that sweet, devastating spot over and over again. With maddening precision, he circled her clit with his thumb as his hot breath brushed against her ear.

She was unraveling too quickly.

"Not yet," Damien rasped as he withdrew just before she went over the edge. "I want to feel you fall apart around me."

His strength was shocking as he turned her over and threw her across the table so that her bare thighs were pressed into the wood. His dress bunched around her waist, and cool air kissed her slick skin.

Then, she heard the sound of a belt being unfastened.

Her heart leapt.

She looked over her shoulder just in time to see Damien stroking himself thick and hard, glistening with precum. The sight alone had the effect of making her legs tremble.

"You don't get sweet with me, Savannah," he said, positioning himself behind her. "You get real."

Then he thrust into her with one brutal stroke.

She cried out as the pleasure seared through her.

He was thick. Hard. Stretching her to the breaking point.

No pause. No entry ease. Claim.

Each thrust was a proclamation; each slap of skin on skin was louder than words. She clung to the table, knuckling white as he hammered into her, both brutal and tender.

He held her hips as if daring everyone to argue with him, one hand sliding up her back, the other in her hair, pulling her head back so he could whisper filthy words in her ear.

"You feel like sin," he growled. "Like heaven I wasn't meant to touch."

Savannah moaned, eyes rolling back, her body tightening around him.

"Yes, Damien, please."

"Please what?"

"I want to come. Please."

"You will come," he promised, darkness in his voice. "But not until I say so."

He reached around, found her clit again, and rubbed it tight while driving fast circles on it in time with the pounding thrusts she was getting.

She shattered.

Her body convulsed around him, the orgasm washing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed his name, arching backwards, legs shaking.

Damien groaned as she pulsed around him, losing his rhythm briefly before tightening his grip on her and finishing hard with one last deep thrust. His growl turned feral as he spilled inside her, hips jerking, body taut with release.

The studio stood silent for a moment.

The only thing occupying that space was their breath, heavy and broken.

He slowly pulled out, gently turned her to face him.

She slumped against his chest, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

And then, just like that, he stepped back.

Composed and calm. Ice after the fire.

"No strings," he said, pulling up his trousers. "Just pleasure." That's the rule."

Savannah blinked at him.

And then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

"Then let's see how long you last before you break it."

Savannah was not meant to be here.

Not according to the impeccably printed itinerary Damien's assistant slipped under her door that day. Not according to the security panel whose code she knew she should not have. And certainly not according to the hushed warnings she had overheard from household staff: he does not like snooping. Especially not in the penthouse.

Which, of course, only made her want to do it more.

She padded barefoot across the warm tiles, the rooftop exploding in seductive opulence and shadow. Everything about this place was glass and steel and seduction. The moonlight shimmered over the edge of an infinity pool, melting into the black velvet of the sky.

A low jazz melody curled from hidden speakers, lazy and intimate.

Savannah stepped to the edge of the pool.

And then she saw him.

Damien.