When I arrived at work Monday morning, the air felt different.
I wasn’t sure if it was the scent of Damien’s cologne still clinging to my skin, or the echo of his voice in my head commanding me to “say it again” while I trembled around him on that desk.
Maybe it was the bruises on my hips—delicious reminders of how he claimed me.
Or maybe it was the way the elevator doors opened, and there he was, standing inside, staring at me like he hadn’t stopped thinking about me either.
“Miss Vale,” he said in that deep, unreadable voice, cold and professional.
So we were back to that.
I stepped in. “Mr. Holt.”
We rode in silence. But I could feel it. The heat between us hadn’t dimmed. It had just… gotten smarter. Quieter. Hungrier.
When we reached our floor, he didn’t look back. Just walked
