FOUR

CLARA

“Do you know what happens to employees who disappoint me?”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It settled into my skin like heat, slow and dangerous.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

My mouth was too dry, my thoughts too loud. But my body—my body responded before logic could interfere. The rush of warmth low in my stomach. The tightening behind my knees.

“Do you believe you deserve to be punished?”

My breath hitched.

I nodded. Slow. Small. Humiliated by how fast the word yes pulsed through me.

Damien’s eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.

He looked down at the report I was still clutching in my hands like it might save me.

“Drop it.”

I let it fall. It hit the floor with a sound that felt final.

He tipped his head toward the couch. “Go sit.”

My legs moved before my brain did. I walked across the room, every step dragging something deeper out of me.

I could feel his gaze on my back—hot, heavy, possessive.

“Back flat. Legs up.”

My cheeks flamed. Still, I obeyed. I sat down, stiffly at first. Pressed my spine to the back of the couch. Drew my knees up, unsure how far he meant. Unsure if I could breathe properly like this.

What was I doing?

No—what was he doing?

“Relax,” Damien said. Still standing behind his desk. Still unmoving. “Let me watch.

The silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

I sat back on the cold leather couch, my spine pressed flat just as he instructed, legs drawn up, parted wider than decency should allow.

It should’ve felt ridiculous. It should’ve made me run. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Because Damien Holt told me to sit.

And my body was already obeying before my mind caught up.

He hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to.

“Touch yourself.”

Two words. Flat. Clinical. Final.

The shame hit me first. Then came the heat.

My fingers hesitated as I lowered them. I felt exposed, obscene—and more alive than I had all week. My skin tingled. My breath shuddered out of me. My thighs trembled.

He didn’t blink.

I let my fingers drag lower, slow and shaky. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be watched or wanted to disappear. But I kept going.

I gasped—quietly. My back arched. Just the barest touch and my body was already pulsing, aching.

His stare pinned me in place, devouring without mercy.

There was no smirk. No hint of a smile. Just cold curiosity. Like he was studying me. Like I was some thing he’d already broken down into parts.

And I was letting him.

My breath caught as I moved again. My hips lifted slightly, seeking more. My fingers—wet, frantic, desperate—worked against me, even as my mind screamed this was wrong.

It was wrong. It was dangerous. It was insane.

But it felt like the only thing that made sense.

A moan slipped from my throat before I could swallow it. Damien’s eyes darkened, but he still didn’t move. Still didn’t speak.

The silence wrecked me more than any sound could have.

I picked up pace, driven by that unbearable stillness. My thighs burned from the tension. My teeth dug into my bottom lip. My body felt possessed—by need, by shame, by him.

And he never touched me.

That was the part that made me dizzy. He wasn’t even close. And yet, it felt like he was under my skin.

His gaze was a hand. His silence, a command. His control, complete.

The pressure was building too fast. I was losing it. I gripped the couch with one hand, grounding myself, the other still between my legs, slick and frantic.

God, what was wrong with me?

I was undone. Unraveling. Heaving, flushed, raw.

My head rolled back. My eyes fluttered shut. All I could feel was the heat between my thighs and the weight of his gaze.

But I couldn’t finish.

Something about his silence kept me dangling on the edge. Like he was holding me there with nothing but willpower.

I opened my eyes again, panting. Met his gaze. It burned into me.

I whispered, breathless, broken, "Please..."

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

He just stood there, watching me—his good little employee, undone on his office couch, fingers soaked, thighs shaking, begging with her eyes.

And I kept going.

Chasing something he wouldn’t give me.

Something he’d never let me have until he decided I’d earned it.

And God help me... I didn’t want to stop.

Just when I was on the edge—trembling, back arched, barely breathing...

“Stop.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It slid across the room and into my chest like a blade.

I froze. Fingers still between my thighs, mouth parted, pulse screaming.

I hated how quickly I obeyed.

“Take it all off,” Damien said. “I want you completely naked for me.”

My skin flushed so fast it felt like heat was leaking out of me. Embarrassment. Desire. A sick kind of thrill.

I stood on shaky legs, removing each layer like a girl unraveling. I didn’t even look at him. I couldn’t.

But I felt his eyes. Devouring. Cold. Curious.

When I was bare, I dared to meet his gaze.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stared.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Now, continue.”

I dropped back to the couch like I was under a spell. Every inch of my skin burned from exposure. I shouldn’t have felt beautiful—but I did. In that brutal, messy, ruined kind of way.

My fingers returned between my thighs. And it was worse now. Or better. Or both. There was no hiding.

My knees trembled. My breath caught. My body ached for something he refused to give.

I touched myself because he said so.

I moaned for him.

And he just stood there. Watching. Hands in his pockets. Jaw clenched like he felt nothing at all.

I was about to come.

So close, it hurt.

“Stop.”

The command hit me like cold water. I choked on a gasp, chest heaving.

A sound left me—raw, strangled. Not quite a sob. Not quite a protest.

I didn’t understand. Why was he—

Damien moved.

Slow steps. Heavy. Measured. The sound of his shoes on the floor was deafening.

He stopped in front of me.

I didn’t dare lift my eyes.

Then—smack.

His hand struck the inside of my thigh. Not hard. Just enough.

Another tap—lower. Bolder. Against my folds.

I gasped.

My whole body jerked.

He knelt.

I still couldn’t look at him.

And then—his mouth.

Heat. Wet. A slow, deliberate lick that made my knees lock and my hand clamp over my mouth.

He did it again.

Unhurried. Devastating. Like he was writing his name in me.

I whimpered. I think I whispered his name, maybe begged. I couldn’t tell.

Then—his fingers.

Two.

They slid in without warning. Rough. Deep.

I cried out, my spine lifting off the couch. My hips moved on their own, desperate and wild.

He curled them inside me like he’d done it a thousand times. Like my body was just a map he memorized for fun.

Fast. Precise. No mercy.

I was unraveling, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. My wrists dug into the couch as I clung to reality.

“Please,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “Damien… please.”

He stilled.

Then pulled away.

No warning. No softness. No explanation.

He stood slowly. Licked his fingers clean like it meant nothing.

“Get dressed.”

I blinked, dazed. Still shaking. “What…?”

“Now.”

My hands scrambled for my clothes, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated. I pulled on my underwear inside out, tugged my dress over my head with a broken sob caught in my throat.

I felt humiliated. Hungry. Abandoned.

My whole body still pulsed, still begged.

When I was clothed again, I faced him. I had no idea why. Maybe I wanted answers. Maybe I just wanted to hurt.

“What the hell was that?” I asked, voice hollow.

He didn’t respond at first.

Didn’t even look at me.

Then:

“Get out.”

Two words.

Sharp. Final.

My throat closed. My heart cracked in a way that felt too familiar.

“Damien…”

He grabbed a file from his desk like I wasn’t still standing there—like he hadn’t just broken me open.

“I said get out, Clara.”

So I left.