First Night

DAMIAN.

The contract still burned between us, a tether that bound Selene to me in ways far more powerful than paper and ink could ever claim.

I could feel the subtle tremble in her fingers as she slid the pen across the table, and I savored it—not for cruelty, but because it was the first honest emotion she had allowed me to see.

She was mine now, at least for three months, and every step she took inside my suite was a step deeper into my world, a world that she hadn’t yet realized could consume her entirely.

I led her deeper into the penthouse, my hand brushing the small of her back, guiding her without words. The city lights spilled across the velvet and glass, painting the room in golden streaks that made her hair glow and her eyes catch like fragile jewels.

Each step she took was hesitant, measured, but deliberate—she knew she had crossed a line she could not uncross. Her pulse raced, visible in the flush of her cheeks and the way her lips parted just slightly, as if trying to control her own breath.

“Relax,” I murmured, though the words were for her more than for myself. She stiffened but didn’t move away. Good. I wanted that tension, that fight in her bones. “You look like you’re about to bolt. Just relax.”

She laughed nervously, and I could hear the edge of panic beneath it. The sound was delicate, fragile, but it made the air between us pulse.

“And what if I do?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder, defiance flickering in her gaze. “What if I do bolt out of here? Are you going to chase me back? Or stalk the life out of me?"

I stopped and turned, letting her see me fully. “If you run, then I’ll catch you. Besides, stalking is beneath me, but trust me, your punishment for running would be pleasurable pain,” I said softly, but with a smirk that made her shiver.

I wasn’t threatening. Not exactly. I was making her understand that in this game, I set the rules. And that she was already playing.

We moved toward the sitting area, the lights low and warm, a muted glow reflecting on polished surfaces and soft rugs. I didn’t touch her again—at least not yet—but the brush of my hand against her arm as she passed sent a shock straight through her.

I watched every micro-expression, the subtle intake of breath, the way she pressed her thighs together as if bracing herself. It thrilled me. Not in a cruel way—but in a way that made me realize how alive she made me feel.

Something about her drew me in and for that to happen to the almighty Damian Cross? That counted for something.

“You’re tense,” I noted, casually leaning against the back of the sofa, crossing my arms. My eyes never left hers. “Loosen up a bit."

“I’m… not,” she said, though the slight twitch of her jaw betrayed her.

“Selene,” I said, voice dropping a fraction, darker now, “you’re trembling.”

Her eyes flicked toward me, uncertain. “Am I?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping closer. Just close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from me, not enough to invade her space. Not yet. I wanted this to be a dance. Every step measured, every reaction noted. “And I like it.”

Her flush deepened, and I could see her fighting the combination of fear and something else—something I was beginning to savor almost as much as the control.

“You’re… unbelievable,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said, voice soft, amused, dangerous. “But it suits me. And no matter how much you try to deny it, I know you are dying out of curiosity.”

She sat on the edge of the sofa, fingers clutching the fabric, as if she were trying to anchor herself. I circled her slowly, predator and observer, studying the way she reacted to my proximity, my breath, my gaze.

Every flicker of emotion, every heartbeat, every shallow intake of air was a note in a symphony I was composing, and she was my audience, my instrument, and my temptation all at once.

Fuck!

I stopped behind her, close enough for her to feel my presence without me touching her. My breath fanned her ear, warm and teasing.

“You look… fragile,” I murmured. My lips barely moved; the sound was soft, intimate, and meant to unbalance her.

Her body stiffened. “I’m not fragile,” she whispered back, though her voice betrayed her.

“No?” I challenged. “You look like someone on the edge. Like someone who wants to resist, but is… intrigued. Afraid, but curious.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, probably trying to steady the rapid rise and fall of her heartbeat. “I… I’m just not sure what you want from me,” she admitted.

I circled to face her, still just out of reach, my smirk teasing. “I want to see what you’re capable of. How much you can take before you break. And how much you’ll enjoy it when you realize you’re not breaking at all.”

She blinked, caught between indignation and something hotter, deeper, more dangerous. “This… this is insane,” she breathed.

“I prefer it that way,” I said.

Her jaw tightened, but her eyes betrayed her, flicking to my lips, then my eyes, then away, only to return. She was analyzing me, just as I analyzed her, just as she had been trying to analyze this entire arrangement. But the difference was, I knew her now. She didn’t know me at all yet.

I stepped closer, deliberately slow, letting her feel the heat, the tension, the promise in every movement. My hand brushed her arm—light, teasing, almost accidental—but not enough for comfort. Enough to make her shiver.

“Stop it,” she said, her voice low but strained. “Don’t…”

I tilted my head, enjoying the fragile edge in her tone. “Don’t what, hmmm?”

She exhaled sharply, frustrated, flustered. “Don’t… play games with me.”

I smirked. “Games are what we’re in, Selene. And you’re already losing.”

She looked at me like she might argue, but didn’t. Instead, she pressed her back slightly against the sofa, as if to make herself smaller.

I leaned forward, close enough for her to feel the heat from my chest, close enough for her pulse to spike under my gaze.

Her breath hitched. “Damien…”

“Yes?” I whispered, letting the word hang, teasing, heavy with unspoken promise.

She tried to steady herself. Tried to regain composure. Tried to push me away with the sheer force of her will. But every time she did, my smirk deepened. I could see it in her eyes—the tiny flickers of surrender she refused to acknowledge, the way her lips parted when she inhaled, the way her fingers curled slightly against the sofa cushions.

She was definitely a goner. Or more like an innocent seductress.

I could have kissed her right then. Could have taken the moment, claimed it, but I didn’t. Instead, I pressed her gently but firmly against the wall, the cool surface stark against the warmth of her body. Her pulse slammed beneath my fingertips.

Her eyes widened, lips parted, and I let her feel the full weight of my presence. The air between us thickened. Her breaths came faster. I wanted her to melt, to unravel, to question everything she thought she knew about control and desire.

But instead of leaning in, instead of claiming what I could have, I held back, watching every flicker of reaction, every shiver, every quick intake of breath.

“Prove to me you can handle what I want,” I whispered, close enough for her to feel my breath, the challenge curling in my tone like smoke.

Her lips parted slightly, a sharp inhale betraying the shock, fear, and thrill tangled in one. Her eyes flickered between indignation and fascination. “Handle… what you want?” she echoed, voice trembling slightly.

“Yes,” I murmured, stepping back, giving her just enough space to reel from my words. “Because this isn’t about me taking. It’s about you giving… in your own way. On your own terms. But only if you’re willing to meet the challenge.”

She swallowed, trembling slightly, eyes locked on mine, trying to read the unspoken rules etched in my expression. Her hands pressed to her sides, fingers brushing the wall as if to steady herself. And in that moment, I realized how alive she made me feel—the tension, the anticipation, the battle of wills—it was exquisite.

And all I could think to myself was, “Selene, Selene, Selene. Let's play a game of Rat race."

I circled her slowly, letting her catch the movement from the corner of her eye. Each glance, each pause, each subtle shift of my weight was meant to test her, to make her aware of the line she had already crossed.

Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Her lips quivered. And I saw the flicker of something I hadn’t expected: curiosity, defiance, and maybe even a small thrill of excitement.

“Selene,” I whispered again, softer this time, letting my hand hover near hers without touching. “Do you understand what you’ve stepped into?”

“Yes,” she whispered back, though the tremor betrayed her.

“Good,” I said, voice low and deliberate. “Because I intend to push you. To test you. To see how far you can go without breaking. And I promise you—if you’re clever, if you’re daring, if you’re willing to fight—this will be far more than three months of servitude. It will be an awakening. Something you've never experienced before.”

Her breath caught. Her lips parted, her eyes widened. And I knew she understood, just as I wanted her to.

I took a final step back, letting her feel the space I had created, the tension left to simmer in the air. “Now,” I said, smirk curling the edge of my lips, “show me what you’re capable of.”

She pressed herself slightly against the wall, trembling, caught between fear, defiance, and anticipation. Her pulse raced under my gaze, quickened by every subtle movement I had orchestrated.

And I knew this night was only the beginning.

Because the game had only just begun, and right now? She was losing.