Page 14 of The Billionaire's Obsession

I unzip my pants, freeing myself with an impatient gesture. The first stroke sends electricity up my spine, and I brace my free hand against the wall. I rarely indulge in this kind of weakness, this loss of control. But she's made it necessary. Made it impossible for me to function without purging her from my system.

I see her as clearly as if she stands before me. That first day I saw her balancing trays at the gala—wearing that blouse and navy skirt that somehow revealed everything while showing nothing.

My hand moves faster as I recall how her skirt clung to the curve of her ass, the way she bit her lip in concentration as she navigated the crowded room. No one else noticed her. No one but me.

I'm close now, my breath coming in short, controlled pants. I picture her beneath me, those defiant eyes finally surrendering, her body arching as I claim what I've known is mine since the moment I saw her.

My strokes become more deliberate as I remember how she looked at me when I offered her the position. Suspicion. Not gratitude. Not the simpering acceptance most would offer. Her eyes had narrowed, those impossibly clear eyes, and she'd asked, "Why?" in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.

"Lucy," I whisper to the empty room, her name falling from my lips like a confession, a prayer, a curse.

The sound of it tightens something in my chest, and my hand moves faster. I've had supermodels, heiresses, actresses—any woman I wanted. Power and money ensure that. But none of them haunt me. None of them matter once the transaction is complete.

Lucy isn't for sale. And that makes her invaluable.

I recall her in the break room yesterday, pointedly ignoring me as I entered. The way she stirred her coffee with maddening precision, the spoon clinking against the ceramic in a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. She wore a simple white blouse, the collar buttoned to her throat as if in defense against my gaze. As if cloth could stop me from seeing her.

My breathing becomes ragged, the sound obscene in the pristine bathroom. I've imagined taking her there, in that break room, clearing the table with one sweep of my arm and laying her down among the scattered paper cups and sweetener packets. Making her see that resistance is futile. Making her admit that she feels this too—this insane, electric current that arcs between us whenever we occupy the same space.

"Fuck," I hiss, the word ripped from my throat as my fantasy shifts.

Now I'm remembering the curve of her neck when she bends over her desk, the tendril of hair that always escapes her practical ponytail. How I've stood in the doorway of the open-plan office, ostensibly reviewing reports, actually watching that loose curl brush against her cheek. How I've imagined wrapping it around my finger, using it to tug her head back, exposing her throat to my mouth.

My hand tightens its grip, the pleasure building at the base of my spine. One release won't be enough. It never is. How many times have I done this since she started working here six weeks ago? Locked myself away like a teenager, seeking momentary relief from the constant, gnawing hunger?

I'm Damon Blackwell. I don't beg. I don't need. I take.

But I can't take Lucy. Not yet. Not until she admits this pull between us isn't one-sided. I've seen the dilation of her pupils when I stand too close. Heard the slight catch in her breath when my hand brushes hers during the exchange of documents. Noticed how she avoids being alone with me, as if she doesn't trust herself.

Smart girl. She shouldn't trust herself around me. I'll consume her whole.

The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through me so intense I have to brace both hands against the counter. I'm close now. So close. My hips move of their own accord, thrusting into my fist as I imagine her beneath me, around me, her stubborn mouth finally yielding to mine.

Would she fight the pleasure I could give her? Try to deny it? Or would she surrender, those clear eyes clouding with desire as she gives herself over to the inevitable?

I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white with strain. The marble is cold beneath my fingers, but I'm burning, consumed by an inferno with Lucy at its center. I imagine her voice saying my name—not "Mr. Blackwell" as she does in the office, but "Damon," breathless and broken with need.

"Lucy," I groan again, the sound torn from somewhere deep inside me.

My reflection is a stranger—face flushed, eyes wild, control shattered. This isn't me. I don't lose myself like this. I don't obsess. I don't want what I can't have, because there's nothing I can't have.

Except her. Except Lucy, with her quiet strength and her wary eyes that see too much. With her careful distance and her unmistakable intelligence. With her stubborn refusal to be charmed by my wealth or intimidated by my power.

I reach for a tissue with my free hand, my movements jerky, uncoordinated. The pressure is building, unstoppable now. In my mind, Lucy is looking at me with those clear eyes, seeing me—really seeing me—and not running away. In my mind, she wants this as much as I do, this consuming, destructive force that threatens to incinerate us both.

My strokes become erratic as the fantasy takes over. Lucy's reluctant smile. The curve of her cheek. The way she bites her lower lip when concentrating. The slight flush that creeps up her neck when I stand too close.

Mine. She should bemine.

The thought pushes me to the edge. One more stroke, and I'll fall. One more second, and I'll have relief. Temporary, insufficient relief from this maddening hunger that gnaws at my insides day and night.

My breathing comes in harsh pants, the sound filling the confined space, bouncing off the stark white tiles. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Like it's trying to reach her.

I close my eyes, surrendering to the fantasy, to the temporary insanity that is my obsession with Lucy. In this moment, I am not Damon Blackwell, CEO of Blackwell Industries. I am just a man, desperate and undone by desire for a woman who refuses to be possessed.

The heat in my chest isn't guilt. It's something worse. Something dangerous. Something I've never felt before and have no name for. But it burns through me as surely as fever, this uncomfortable heat that I can neither control nor extinguish.

Then I hear the bathroom door open.

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