If you make me wait long, I’ll assume you’re doing it on purpose.
And I’ll punish you accordingly.
Heat rushed up the back of my neck, my fingers flying across the screen.
I wouldn’t dream of being late. I’ve heard your punishments come in the form lectures on the formatting of contracts.
His reply came instantly.
Don’t tempt me. I can turn formatting into foreplay if I try hard enough.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the burn behind them. He was not talking to me. Hewas, but he didn’t know that.
If he did—if he realized the woman texting him from across the city was the one who sat fifteen feet outside his office door—would he still want me?
Would he still touch me the way he did?
Would he still whisper “good girl” into my hair like it meant something?
I shook off the thought and typed out a response.
But tempting you is so fun ;)
Without waiting for his response, I quietly slipped on my heels, clutching my purse tight enough to make my knuckles white. Damien’s door creaked open before I could sneak past it.
He leaned against the frame, still half-dressed in his oversized hoodie and sweatpants, his tail swaying behind him,eyes gleaming with that mix of amusement and brotherly concern.
“Heading out,” he said casually.
I nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Last minute session.”
He smirked. “How’s the app working out?”
“Better than I’d expected,” I said, sliding on the second heel. “He’s… different.”
Damien stepped closer and ruffled my hair. “Good. Just keep your guard up, okay? Even if it is a pheromone thing, don’t let them take advantage of you.”
“I will. I’ll text you when I’m back.”
He shook his head, grinning. “You’re sleeping on my couch, Harp. I’ll hear you.”
I laughed, pulling the door open. “Fair point.”
I swallowed as I walked toward the sound of heavy panting—ragged, sharp, almost painful.
Each click of my heels echoed across the marble floor, counting the steps that led me to him.
Ambrose writhed in the chair as he bared his fangs, a sickly-sweet scent filling the large bedroom. His blindfold was tied in a tight knot behind his head, his muscles coiling as he fought against the iron cuffs that kept his hands bound behind his back.
“I know you are there,” he bit out, voice rough with need. A growl curled from his throat. “I can smell your desire, Flower.”
My fingertips brushed over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of muscle up the side of his neck. He shuddered beneath my touch.
When I raked my nails gently beneath his chin, tilting his face up toward me, a low sound escaped him—half warning, half plea.
“I know you are there,” he bit out past the growl that was rumbling through his sweat-beaded throat. “I can smell your desire, Flower.”
Sneaking up beside him, my fingers dancing along his shoulder, the tips of my nails traced up his neck, coaxing a shiver from his body before raking under his chin, tilting his head up to meet me.
