USED UNTIL BROKEN

Name: USED UNTIL BROKEN
Availability: InStock
Author: ELIYYON

ELIYYON

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Dark Office Relationship 18+BDSM Billionaire

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Introduction

Clara Monroe had once been the woman Damien Holt trusted with everything—his meetings, his secrets, even his bed. But the moment she whispered, “I love you,” everything between them cracked. And Damien, the cold, unreachable billionaire who never let anyone too close, did what he did best. He shut down. He shut her out. And then, without warning, he fired her. Clara was left to pick through the wreckage of a life she had once believed might finally bloom into something real. And Damien, for all his brilliance and control, discovered that losing her didn’t quiet the feelings. It made them louder. Louder than power. Louder than pride. Louder than fear. But the woman he shattered wasn’t the same one he now wanted back. Clara had changed. And this time, she wasn’t breaking for anyone. --- Clara Monroe was twenty-seven and capable in ways most women her age only dreamed of. Raised in survival mode, she knew how to keep her emotions buried beneath elegant efficiency. She was sharp, organized, beautiful in an effortless way, and driven by the belief that she had to work twice as hard for half the recognition. Emotionally neglected most of her life, she carried the ache of being unseen—but she wore it like armor. Damien Holt was thirty-five, a self-made billionaire who built an empire with ice in his veins. He didn’t believe in love. He believed in leverage. In control. In keeping people at arm’s length because nothing ruined a man faster than softness. But Clara... Clara with her clever smile and disarming warmth—became the one person who slipped past his defenses without even trying. And he let her. Until he couldn’t anymore. It hadn’t started with love. Clara never expected to fall for him. In fact, she hadn’t even liked him at first. Damien was everything she avoided: emotionally unavailable, intimidating, cold with a gaze that sliced straight through people. But he noticed her. Promoted her. Pulled her into his circle, his penthouse, and eventually his bed. It was supposed to be nothing. Just convenience. Late nights. Locked doors. Bodies that forgot the world and minds that didn’t dare think beyond the next morning. She told herself she was in control. That it didn’t mean anything. But no one stays in control for long when silence starts to feel like intimacy, and when falling asleep tangled in sheets starts to feel like safety. They kept it hidden. No office whispers. No public glances. He never kissed her in front of others. Never called her Clara when they weren’t alone. But she still hoped. And slowly, she started to believe it meant something. She imagined a future. Not one with a diamond ring or a wedding aisle—just him. Still guarded, still flawed, but there. Choosing her. Needing her, even if he never said it out loud. Then came the night she whispered the words that had been clawing at her throat for weeks. “I think I love you.” Damien didn’t speak. Didn’t soften. Just stared. Then he got up. Dressed in silence. By the next morning, her keycard didn’t work. Security escorted her out of the building. No explanation. No goodbye. Just erasure. Her emails were wiped. Her name removed from projects. The industry whispered, and somehow, the blame shifted to her. She was the woman who got too close. The assistant who slept her way up. A silent warning rippled beneath every HR desk: Don’t hire her. Clara didn’t cry. Not at first. She moved in with her sister. Sold what she didn’t need. Took freelance admin work from her laptop. She disappeared. But piece by piece, she found herself again. The silence made space for something new. Something she built herself. Clara launched a consultancy for young women navigating toxic corporate spaces—quiet mentorship that grew into bold advocacy. Her work was scrappy, personal, honest. And people started to notice. Meanwhile, Damien tried to convince himself he had done the right thing. Love was weakness. Clara had become a distraction. The moment she said she loved him, she became dangerous—to her career, to his power, to the delicate balance he kept with the board. But she didn’t leave his mind. If anything, her absence made her louder. He saw her in articles. Smiling at charity events. Heard rumors about another man. Damien started watching from afar. He sent anonymous donations to her business. She returned every one. He showed up at one of her workshops, hidden in the back. She never looked his way—but he could tell she felt him. Other women didn’t help. He tried. He slept with them. They were beautiful. Polished. But they all felt like static. What he wanted—what he ached for—was her. Her voice. Her softness. Her fire. He didn’t realize he loved her until he was choking on the void she left behind. Desperate for control over something, he began therapy. He tried to change—but some wounds only respond to presence, not practice. And presence was the one thing Clara no longer allowed. Then the attack came. Clara’s office was broken into.

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Chapter 1

CLARA

“I need you in my office. Now. – Damien.”

I stared at the message, my fingers still clutching my keys, bag already zipped, coat in hand. I was done for the day.

But Damien wasn’t.

My stomach clenched. Heat coiled between my thighs like it always did when he summoned me with those four clipped words. I hated that I reacted this way, like a goddamn Pavlovian experiment.

But I was soaked before I even made it to the bathroom.

My heels clicked sharp against the tile as I stepped into the mirror-lit space.

I looked like every other exhausted assistant clocking out for the day, except for the fire in my eyes and the throb between my legs.

My hair was still up in a tight ponytail... he liked that. The red lipstick in my bag was already halfway open before I knew what I was doing.

I painted it on slow, imagining the mess he’d make of it. Of me.

When I reached his office, the door was cracked just enough to let light spill into the hall. Everyone else was gone. I didn’t knock. He never liked when I knocked.

He was on the couch, lounging like a man who ruled the world, and me. Legs spread, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up like he’d just finished devouring a meeting and now wanted dessert.

His eyes found mine instantly, dark and cutting and hungry.

He didn’t speak.

Just sat there, relaxed but charged, like a lion watching prey crawl closer.

I stepped inside and shut the door quietly.

“You wanted to see me?” My voice came out lower than I intended. Too breathy.

He tilted his head like I was amusing. “You’re late.”

“It’s after hours.”

“You close when I say you close.”

The words hit lower than my stomach. I could’ve played coy. Should’ve. But I didn’t. I moved toward him like I was on autopilot, pulled forward by the power he wore like a second skin.

When I dropped to my knees between his legs, there was no hesitation.

I wasn’t confused about what he wanted.

His thigh was warm beneath my hand. I felt the tension in him even though he hadn’t moved—hadn’t touched me.

He just watched.

Watched as I undid his belt with trembling fingers. As I pulled his zipper down, dragging it slow just to hear that sound. As I reached inside and pulled him out, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip.

“Fuck, Clara…” he muttered, voice rough, jaw tight.

His cock twitched in my hand. I didn’t wait. I licked him slow, from base to tip, letting my tongue linger at the top to collect the slick taste of him.

He groaned. His hand tangled in my ponytail a second later.

Then I took him into my mouth.

He pushed deeper with one hard tug of my hair, until my lips were stretched around him and my throat clenched from the burn. I gagged softly, blinked up at him, eyes wide and watering—and his control snapped.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Choke on it.”

I moaned around him, gagging again when he thrust harder.

My lipstick smeared, staining him in messy red as spit dripped from the corner of my mouth, down my chin, onto my blouse. I was a mess—his mess.

He watched it happen with that brutal hunger in his eyes, mouth parted, breath ragged.

“You love being used like this,” he hissed.

I whimpered. Nodded.

I loved when he broke me like this. When I stopped being a person and just became his.

He pulled my head back to make me look at him, then shoved forward again—deep enough I choked hard this time.

“Take it,” he barked. “Take all of me.”

And I did.

My throat clenched around him, and he groaned loud. He started fucking my mouth—no rhythm, just raw need. My nose brushed the base with each thrust, spit coating his cock, my chin, my chest. My nails dug into his thighs as I fought to breathe.

But I didn’t want to stop.

I loved every second of it.

“You fucking ruin me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Look at you. On your knees. My cock in your throat. Fucking perfect.”

I looked up, ruined. Mascara streaked. Red-stained. Desperate.

And he still didn’t stop.

He grabbed the back of my head and held me there, buried deep.

I gagged. My throat spasmed. My eyes watered.

He didn’t let go.

Just grunted. “Stay right there.”

I couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. I could feel how close he was. The way his thighs tensed. The way he trembled.

Just when I felt him start to pulse in my throat—right on the edge—he ripped me off him with a sharp, wet gasp that left my lips swollen and my chin shiny with spit.

“Not in your mouth,” Damien panted, voice low, commanding, wrecked. “You know better.”

His cock was flushed, veined, dripping with need. My lipstick was all over it... a messy red ring at the base, spit sliding down the shaft, thick and glistening.

I was still gasping when he grabbed me. No tenderness. Just urgency and complete control.

He spun me like a doll, shoved me down onto the desk. My body hit the wood with a dull thud, papers scattering. A photo frame tipped over and clattered to the floor.

I barely had time to catch myself on my elbows before he pushed my skirt up around my waist. I felt his stare on me—felt it like a touch, like heat rolling down my spine. My panties were soaked. Clinging. A humiliatingly obvious dark patch right where I burned for him.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and yanked them down to my knees.

I felt the cool air hit my thighs, then his hand—hot and rough—slide between them. He groaned.

“Fuck, Clara… you’re dripping.”

I was. Embarrassingly wet. My thighs were slick, inner lips already shining with need. I could barely think. My breath came in short, desperate pants.

He crouched behind me, spreading me open with two fingers.

Then he just stared.

I was so exposed. So filthy. And he loved it.

“So wet for me,” he murmured. “You were thinking about this all day, weren’t you?”

I moaned, barely managing, “Yes, sir.”

He didn’t wait. He pushed two fingers inside—fast, deep.

I cried out, hands gripping the desk.

His fingers weren’t soft. They were relentless, curling and thrusting hard, filling me, stretching me, pulling wet, obscene sounds out of me with every pump.

The desk started to shake beneath me. My hips bucked. I was gasping his name, over and over like a broken record.

His palm slapped against me each time he bottomed out with his fingers, sending shockwaves through my stomach.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. You can take more.”

I was right on the edge again. Shaking. Clenching. About to fall apart.

And then he stopped.

Just… pulled his fingers out.

I whimpered, aching, drenched, hollow. Desperate.

And then I felt it—him.

The swollen, hot head of his cock nudged right at my entrance, not pushing, just sitting there, teasing me with the threat of fullness.

I moved my hips back, trying to take him in.

He slapped my ass, hard.

I gasped. My eyes fluttered shut. That sharp sting echoed straight to my clit.

“I said,” he hissed, “I’ll move when I’m ready.”

I stopped moving.

My whole body burned. I was trembling. Slickness smeared my thighs.

Then, without warning, he slammed into me.

I screamed. The stretch knocked the breath out of me.

He filled me completely, all at once, until I could feel him pressing against the deepest part of me. There was no pause. No kindness. Just the brutal slide of him owning every inch.

“Fucking tight,” he groaned, voice sharp with restraint.

Then he pulled back and drove into me again—harder.

And again.

He gripped my hips, using them like handles, each thrust pounding into me so deep I swore he hit my soul.

My moans were uncontrollable. They poured out of me—loud, messy, cracked. My cheek was pressed to the wood, my hands clawing for something solid as my body rocked against the desk with every snap of his hips.

“Take it,” he growled. “Take every fucking inch.”

The desk scraped across the floor. My legs threatened to give out. My mind went blank.

I shattered.

My orgasm tore through me like fire. My body spasmed, clenched, everything pulsing around him, milking his cock like I was trying to hold him inside me forever.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked me through it. Fucked me past it.

I was sobbing—raw, overstimulated. My tears hit the desk. I was shaking, boneless, but he kept going.

“That’s right,” he panted. “Come again.”

I didn’t even have time to protest before he hit that spot again—hard—and I came a second time. Harder. So hard my vision blurred, my knees buckled, my breath shattered in my throat.

I was limp. Gone. My body nothing but a vessel for his pleasure now.

“Such a perfect girl,” he rasped. “My sweet little mess.”

Then I felt him change.

His thrusts turned erratic. Rougher. He went deeper, grinding into me with everything he had.

“I’m gonna fill you,” he growled. “You want that?”

I nodded frantically, crying out, “Yes—God—please—inside....”

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Damien—please come inside me—mark me—fill me up—I want it—I need it..."

With a growl torn from the base of his throat, he shoved in deep and held. His cock pulsed, and I felt him explode inside me—hot, thick, endless.

He stayed there, cock buried in me, breathing hard, hands shaking as he emptied everything into me.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the sound of our breathing. The slick sound of him still inside me.

Then he pulled out, slow, wet, and I whimpered.

His cum slid down my thighs.

He bent, pulled my panties up with practiced ease, sealing the mess inside me.

Then one last slap on my ass—this one softer. Possessive.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I couldn’t speak. I just stayed slumped over the desk, used, stuffed, shaking.

He adjusted his tie, buttoned his shirt, and grabbed his jacket like he hadn’t just ruined me.

At the door, he paused.

“Lock my office when you’re strong enough to leave.”

And then he was gone.