Lines crossed

I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the stiff black maid dress like it might magically grow longer. It doesn’t.

It hugs all the wrong places, or maybe all the right ones, depending on who’s looking. My hips. My chest. My throat. I look like I’m auditioning for something filthy, and I hate how aware of my body I suddenly am.

I’m not doing this for him.

Not for Damien Wolfe.

But the memory of his voice curls around my neck like smoke. That look in his eyes yesterday. Possessive. Curious. Like he was already imagining what I’d sound like begging.

God help me.

I grab my cleaning bag and leave before I can second-guess it. At the top of the penthouse floor, I punch in the code and step into the lion’s den.

The air is cool and heavy with espresso and something darker—cologne and sin, maybe. My shoes barely make a sound as I move across the marble.

He’s there.

Shirtless. Again.

Sitting on a stool by the kitchen island, coffee mug in hand, tattoos curling over his collarbones like secrets inked on skin. His eyes lift to meet mine, and I swear they darken.

“Evening, sir,” I say too quickly.

“Hey, hottie,” he murmurs. “Was just thinking about you.”

My stomach tightens.

I duck my head and reach for the vacuum, trying to focus on anything but how the waistband of his joggers sits low—too low. I begin cleaning with extra noise, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t.

“I saw you yesterday,” he says lazily. “When you peeked in on my little… afternoon entertainment.”

My hand freezes on the vacuum. I keep my back turned, forcing calm into my voice. “I was cleaning. Not spying.”

“You ran like you saw a ghost. Or maybe like you saw something you liked.”

I grit my teeth. The vacuum hums louder in the silence.

He laughs—low and amused. “Do all the maids blush when they hear me fuck someone?”

I turn off the vacuum and pivot to face him. “Do all your maids last a full day before you chase them out?”

His smile grows. “Touché.”

He rises slowly, coffee forgotten, and walks toward me. I back up instinctively—until my spine brushes against the counter.

“Tell me, Zara,” he says. “Did it turn you on?”

I glare at him. “No.”

His gaze dips to my throat, watching it flutter as I lie.

He steps even closer. “Because I think it did.”

The tension stretches between us, taut and electric. I can smell him—coffee and something masculine that shouldn’t be legal. My heart slams against my ribs.

Then, his eyes shift. Darker. Calculating.

“You’re too proud,” he murmurs. “I like that.”

“Don’t,” I say tightly.

“Don’t what?” His voice is a whisper now. “Don’t make this harder for you or harder for me?”

I shove past him and grab a rag from the floor. I bend to pick it up—and that’s when I feel his cock through his joggers, Pressed against me.

Hard.

Large.

Unapologetic.

I jolt upright and whirl around. “Back off.”

His smirk is maddening. “You’ve got a mouth, Zara. But you bend like every other girl.”

I slap the rag down onto the counter with more force than necessary. “I’m not every other girl.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping close again. “You’re the girl I can’t figure out yet.”

I hate that my pulse flutters.

“I could fire you,” he says. “But I won’t. Not yet.”

“What do you want from me?”

He leans in until his lips are nearly at my ear. “You.”

Then, just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving the taste of danger in the air.

I let out a shaky breath.

But before I can even relax, his voice echoes from down the hall.

“Oh—and bring the bleach to my room later. I made a mess.”

What kind of mess? I almost ask.

But I already know.

And it’s not something bleach will ever fix.