1

Elena's Point of View

I was having sex with my boss.

A moan left my lips as I felt him go deep inside me.

What the hell was I thinking? He was Damian Cross, the man who yelled at everyone and treated people like dirt.

But here I was, and God, it felt good.

The music from the club downstairs shook the floor of the private suite. The bass pounded through the walls, loud and heavy, matching every hard thrust. Somewhere below us, people were screaming and laughing and dancing like nothing was wrong in the world.

Everything was wrong in mine.

Because eleven hours ago, I had wanted to kill this man.

It started at nine that morning.

I walked into the meeting room with the quarterly report in my hands. I had stayed up until two in the morning finishing it. I had checked every number three times. I was proud of it.

Damian sat at the head of the table, his jaw tight, his dark eyes already cold.

"You're late," he said.

"It's 8:59, Mr. Cross."

"Then you're not early." He didn't even look up from his phone. "Sit."

I sat. Ten people were in that room. Department heads. Two board members. And three junior staff who had only started that month.

I passed him the report. He flipped through it for maybe ten seconds, then dropped it on the table like it was garbage.

"What is this?"

"The Q3 report, sir."

"I know what it is. I'm asking what it's doing in my hands looking like it was written by a child." His voice rose. "Page four has the wrong projection. Page six doesn't match page two. Did you even read this, Elena?"

"I did. I checked it three times—"

"Clearly not well enough!" He slammed his palm on the table.

Everyone jumped.

I felt my face burn. My eyes went to the junior staff, and one of them, a young girl in a blue blouse, looked down at her lap like she felt sorry for me. That was the worst part. The pity.

"Do you know how much money this company loses when someone like you makes mistakes?" he said. "Maybe I should hire an intern. At least they would be cheap."

My throat went tight. My hands shook under the table.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the report in his perfect face. I wanted to tell him that the projection on page four was the number he had given me yesterday, and that he had changed it without telling anyone.

But I didn't say a word.

I just sat there, red-faced, swallowing my anger like poison, while he moved on to the next person like I was nothing.

All day, I kept hearing his voice in my head. Someone like you.

By evening, I was so angry I could barely breathe. My friend Tessa dragged me to the club to cheer me up. I only came because I needed to drink and forget I had a job.

I didn't expect to see him in the VIP section, alone, a glass of whiskey in his hand, still wearing that stupid black suit like he owned the whole building.

I didn't expect him to look at me.

I really didn't expect to walk over.

"Come to apologize?" I said, my voice sharp from two drinks.

He looked me up and down slowly. "For what?"

"For this morning. For humiliating me in front of the whole team."

"I was right about your report."

"You were wrong, and you know it." I stepped closer. "You changed the numbers and blamed me."

Something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt. Something darker.

"You talk a lot for someone who didn't say a word this morning."

"Because you're my boss, you arrogant bastard."

He put his glass down. "I'm not your boss tonight."

And then his hand was on my waist, and his mouth was on mine, and I hated how fast I kissed him back.

Now I was pressed against the glass wall of his suite, my dress pushed up around my hips, his hands gripping my thighs. He turned me around, and for the first time I saw us in the tall mirror on the wall.

My hair was a mess. My lips were swollen. My eyes were half closed, wild, like I was someone else.

And behind me was him.

Damian Cross, the cold, cruel man everyone feared. His shirt was open. His chest was rising and falling hard. His jaw was clenched, and his brows were pulled together in a deep frown, like he was fighting himself. Like he hated that he wanted me this badly.

Our eyes met in the mirror.

"Don't look away," he growled.

He pushed into me again, slow and deep, and my knees almost gave out.

"Fuck," I gasped.

"Watch yourself," he said low in my ear. "Watch what I do to you."

I couldn't stop watching. I saw how his frown got deeper with every thrust, how his grip got tighter, how his breath broke against my neck. He looked angry. He looked like he wanted to punish me for making him lose control.

And God help me, I loved it.

"Damian," I moaned. My voice didn't even sound like mine. "Don't stop."

"Say it again."

"Damian."

"Louder."

"Damian, please—"

He cursed under his breath and moved faster, harder, one hand sliding up to grip my hair, the other holding my hip so tight I knew it would leave a mark. The pleasure built and built until my whole body was shaking. I was a moaning mess, pressed against the glass, begging this man I hated for more.

The music pounded below us. My heartbeat pounded louder.

Then it hit me all at once. I cried out, my nails scraping the glass, my vision going white. Behind me, he groaned my name, rough and broken, and held me against him as he followed.

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

We just breathed.

Later, I lay in his bed, the sheets tangled around us. His arm was heavy across my waist, his chest warm against my back. He had fallen asleep first. In sleep, his face looked different. The frown was gone. He looked almost gentle.

It was a lie, of course.

I stared at the dark ceiling and listened to the faint music still thumping from the club below.

Tomorrow he would be Mr. Cross again. Cold. Cruel. Yelling at me in front of everyone as if none of this had happened.

And I would sit in that meeting room, my face burning, knowing exactly how his hands felt on my skin.

I closed my eyes, wrapped in the arms of the man I hated most in the world.

I was going to regret this in the morning.

But right now, God forgive me, I didn't want to leave.