Chapter Eleven

Her lips taste like sin and defiance.

The kind of temptation I’ve spent years mastering the discipline to ignore. And yet here I am, shattering every line I swore I’d never cross.

I hadn’t planned this.

Hell, I hadn’t even planned to follow her. But when she didn’t come back after excusing herself, something inside me shifted. Possessiveness, jealousy. Whatever it was, it dragged me straight through those doors and right to her.

Now, my hand is buried in her hair, my mouth on hers, and for the first time in years, control feels like a foreign concept.

She clings to me like she hates herself for wanting me, but she wants me all the same. I can feel it in the way her fingers curl into my suit, in the way she parts her lips just enough to let me deepen the kiss.

Dangerous.

Reckless.

Addictive.

I pull back, but only just. Our foreheads touch, our breaths mingling. I should walk away. I should put the mask back on and pretend this never happened.

Instead, I whisper, low and rough, “You drive me insane, little flame.”

Her eyes flutter open, wide and conflicted, and for the first time all night, I realize, she’s not the only one burning.

Her breath fans against my lips, unsteady, uneven. I should step back, but the thought of distance feels unbearable.

“You shouldn’t have come in here,” she whispers, her voice shaky

I smirk faintly, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “And leave you to brood in a powder room just because Cara chose to be a bitch, and run her mouth? Not a chance.”

Her lips tremble, not from fear but from the war she’s fighting inside herself. I know it, because I’m fighting it too.

The reasonable part of me screams to let go. To walk out, straighten my tie, and pretend I never tasted her. But the darker part, the part I keep buried, demands more.

It demands that I rip the dress apart and fuck her right here in this powder room. Make her scream so all in the hall can hear that she's mine.

But I don't. Rather, I claim another kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. I take my time, savoring the sweetness and fire tangled in her. She melts into me, her body softening, surrendering despite the fight raging in her eyes.

When I finally tear myself away, her lipstick smudges my mouth. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

“Damien…” She breathes my name like a confession, like a sin.

I press my forehead to hers again, forcing control back into my voice. “We can’t stay here any longer. If we do, I won’t let you walk out at all.”

Her eyes widen, and for a moment, the air between us crackles with the weight of everything unsaid.

I straighten, fixing my tie, forcing steel back into my posture. She bites her lip, smooths her dress, and steps back. The distance aches, but it’s necessary.

I open the door, gesturing. “After you, little flame.”

She nods and walks ahead of me, back to the party.

The reception hums with music and clinking glasses as we step back into the glittering chaos. I force my focus away from the warmth of her hand, the ghost of her lips still burning against mine. This isn’t the place to lose myself in her, not with so many watchful eyes.

A group of men wave me over, near the champagne bar. Titans of New York’s business world, men I’ve crushed in negotiations, men who would pay fortunes to see me stumble.

“Mr. Moretti,” one of them says smoothly, offering his hand. “We were just discussing the Russo deal. Word is you’ve secured the last shares. That true?”

I clasp his hand firmly. “It is. Russo Industries is now under Moretti control.”

A ripple of grudging respect circles the group. One mutters something about “Moretti always coming out on top.” Another chuckles, “Well, when you’ve got that kind of firepower, who can compete?”

The talk drifts from mergers to contracts, from profits to power plays. I nod at the right times, keep my answers sharp but clipped. My mind, however, keeps pulling back to her, standing just across the room, a glass of wine in hand, her poise radiating like she owns the place.

She is chatting with Natalie and a redhead, smiling and laughing from time to time.

Then an asshole chooses to ruin my moment.

One of the men at the table lean in, his voice low but laced with venom. “You’d think someone like Natalie would keep her wedding clean. But instead, she lets that tramp Ashford waltz in, dressed like she belongs. Three years gone and she still carries the stench of disgrace.”

My jaw locks. Every muscle in me screams to break his nose, to make him choke on his smug laughter.

My fingers curl around my glass until the stem threatens to snap

“Can you imagine the nerve she has, showing up after her father disowned her publicly,” another man chimes in.

Laughter arises from the table. The first man who spoke stands up, and this time his voice is audible enough.

“Leina Ashford is nothing but damaged goods.”