Chapter 27

Elena’s POV

I stumbled into my room like I’d been running for miles, slamming the door shut and locking it with trembling hands. My chest heaved, my gown clung damp to my skin, and my knees still ached from the tiles.

I pressed my back to the door, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, face buried in my hands.

Shame.

Humiliation.

Heat.

I couldn’t breathe around it.

My nipples still throbbed beneath the soaked fabric, tight, aching. Between my thighs, a deep pulsing ache had built, so sharp it almost hurt. I pressed my legs together, rocking slightly, as though that alone could put out the fire. But it only made it worse.

A broken sound escaped me.

“No,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head. “I won’t… I can’t…”

But I was already moving, crawling toward the bed like something dragged me by invisible strings. I collapsed onto it, face buried in the pillow, teeth sinking into the fabric to muffle the sob tearing through me.

And then my hand slipped beneath the hem of the gown.

I gasped at the first touch. I was soaked. Shame flooded me, but it wasn’t enough to stop my fingers from finding that throbbing place between my legs.

“God,” I whimpered, pressing harder, circling. My hips bucked up against my hand, desperate, hungry, betraying every ounce of dignity I thought I had left.

His face burned behind my closed lids. His voice. The way he’d looked at me, stroked himself for me, spilled himself before my eyes.

A sob caught in my throat as my fingers moved faster. “Damian…” The name slipped free before I could stop it.

The sound of my own moan frightened me. It was needy, broken, raw. I bit the pillow harder, rocking into my hand like a woman possessed, chasing the release my body craved.

When it came, it tore me open. A hot wave of ecstasy rolled through me, my body trembling violently as muffled cries spilled into the pillow. My back arched, thighs clamped tight, breath coming in ragged gasps until I collapsed back against the sheets.

Tears slid down my face as I lay there, shaking, chest heaving.

What have I become? Am I really a whore?

I haven't even known a man!!!

This is torture.

Damian’s POV

The whiskey burned a trail down my throat, bitter enough to remind me I was still in control—or at least I told myself I was. The glass was heavy in my hand, but my chest was heavier.

I leaned back into the leather of my chair, the office still reeking faintly of cigar smoke and damp night air from the open window. The house was quiet now. Too quiet. It gave me no peace.

My eyes dragged toward the panel on the wall my private feed. Cameras running through every inch of this house. My men thought I used them only for security, but they didn’t know about the hidden channels. The ones wired directly to me.

I told myself it was about power. About never letting anyone blindside me. About seeing every weakness before it saw me.

But tonight, something made my chest tighten as I pushed the panel open and typed the code.

Her room.

Elena.

The screen flickered to life, shadows painting her walls, the faint light catching her as she stumbled into the room. Her hair stuck to her damp face, her eyes swollen and red. Even from behind the camera’s angle, I could tell she’d been crying for hours.

Good, I thought. I like your suffering. It feeds me.

But the words rang hollow even in my own skull.

I sipped the whiskey and watched, telling myself it was routine surveillance. Nothing more. Yet I didn’t change the feed. My hand hovered, but didn’t switch away.

She slid down against the door, curled small, almost childlike, palms covering her face. Her shoulders shook. For a moment I thought she’d cry herself to sleep right there, and part of me wanted her to.

Then she moved. Crawling slow, trembling toward the bed.

My grip on the glass tightened.

She collapsed onto the sheets, burying her face in the pillow like she could smother every broken sound trying to escape her.

And then her hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown.

I froze.

Every muscle in me went taut, every vein thrumming with a violence that had nothing to do with rage.

Her breath caught, sharp, shuddering, before a moan spilled out, muffled into the pillow. My cock stirred in an instant.

“No…” I whispered to myself, setting the glass down with a hard thud. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

She spread her thighs, desperate, needy, moving her hand against herself with a rhythm that made my throat go dry. Her body arched into her own touch, her hips rolling against her fingers like a lover.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

I adjusted myself roughly, and my hand didn’t leave. I was already hard again, iron stiff, throbbing painfully. I’d just spilled minutes ago, but watching her undo herself erased every trace of satisfaction I’d had.

Her voice carried through the small speaker beside the monitor ragged, breaking, gasping.

And then I heard it.

“Damian…”

His name. My name. Whispered in desperation as she worked herself faster, body straining toward release.

I lost the fight.

With a curse, I dragged my zipper down, freeing myself. My hand wrapped around my length, already slick from need, and I stroked, slow at first, then faster, matching her rhythm. My eyes locked on the screen, on her writhing, flushed face, her mouth parted in a cry that didn’t belong to her but to me.

Her moans grew louder, her body shuddering violently as she climaxed, face buried into the pillow, thighs squeezing around her hand. Tears streaked her cheeks as she lay trembling, broken, undone.

And I came with her.

A savage groan ripped out of me as my release spilled hot over my hand, over the edge of my desk, staining the wood. My body jerked with it, my breath tearing through my lungs as I doubled over, still staring at the screen, unable to look away.

Silence followed.

She collapsed into her sheets, chest heaving, lips still trembling with leftover sobs. I collapsed back into my chair, hand slick, cock still twitching, cursing at the madness that had taken hold of me.

I dragged a hand down my face, teeth grinding.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Damian?” I muttered, but even as I said it, my eyes betrayed me.

But no matter how many steps I took, my eyes kept dragging back to the screen.

To her.

Her ruined innocence. Her broken whimpers. Her body begging for what only I could give.

And God help me, I couldn’t look away.

This girl would be the end of me.

I'm sure of that.