Taming the Storm

The city lights flickered like distant stars, but Damien barely noticed. His penthouse was a fortress of solitude, the hum of the metropolis outside a faint echo of the storm raging within him. The whiskey glass on the table remained untouched, its amber liquid mocking his restraint. He didn't need alcohol to numb this ache. He needed *her*.

Damien leaned back against the leather couch, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. The cool air against his skin was a meager relief, but it did nothing to quell the heat pooling in his gut. His mind was a relentless loop of Serena Bennett—her shy smiles, her nervous licks of her lips, the way her blouse clung to her curves when she leaned over the desk. He could still see the faint outline of her waist, the way her body moved with a grace that was both innocent and intoxicating.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice rough with frustration. He raked a hand through his hair, but the motion only served to heighten his awareness of his own body's demands. His cock was hard, pressing insistently against the fabric of his trousers, a relentless reminder of how thoroughly she had unraveled him.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Serena, standing before him, her cheeks flushed with a mix of fear and desire. Her blouse was unbuttoned just enough to tease, the fabric slipping off her shoulders to reveal the smooth slope of her collarbone. His fingers itched to trace the delicate curve, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his touch.

"Say my name," he growled, his voice low and commanding, even in his fantasy.

"Damien," she whispered, her voice trembling, her lips parting as if she were about to speak again. But he didn't let her. He closed the distance between them, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. She gasped, her breath warm against his palm, and he felt the sound resonate deep in his chest.

His other hand slid down her side, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her waist. She was so small, so delicate, but her body was alive with tension, with need. He could feel it in the way her breath hitched, in the way her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

"You're mine," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. His lips descended on hers, claiming them with a ferocity that left no room for doubt. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his, and he felt the last vestiges of control slip away.

In his mind, he was already inside her, his cock pressing against her entrance, her heat enveloping him. He thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cried out, her nails digging into his back. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he lost himself in the rhythm of her body, in the way she moved with him, her moans growing louder, more desperate.

Damien's hand moved to his own cock, his fingers wrapping around the thick length, stroking in time with the phantom thrusts in his mind. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body taut with the need to release. He imagined her hands on him, her lips whispering his name, her body trembling beneath his.

"Serena," he growled, his voice breaking as he came, his seed spilling onto his hand, onto the leather couch beneath him.

For a moment, there was only silence, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound in the room. Damien sat there, his chest heaving, his hand still resting on his lap. The reality of what he'd done—