Page 15 of The Billionaire's Obsession

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Lucy

I pushopen the bathroom door, exhausted from my double shift of classes and office work. Normally I wouldn’t dare to enter the executive bathroom, but it's after hours and the regular restrooms are being cleaned. Just a quick splash of cold water on my face to wake me up before I finish those expense reports for Mr. Blackwell. The door swings open with barely a sound, and I freeze.

The world starts spinning. My boss—the intimidating, impossible Damon Blackwell—stands at the sink with his back partially to me, his hand moving rhythmically, his reflection in the mirror showing an expression I've never seen on his usually controlled face. And he's saying my name.

Myname.

My lungs forget how to work. My brain short-circuits, unable to process what I'm seeing. What I'm hearing. I should back away. I should close the door. I should pretend this never happened. But my feet are rooted to the gleaming tile floor, and my eyes refuse to look away.

Damon Blackwell—CEO, billionaire, the man who terrifies board members with a single raised eyebrow—is touching himself while whispering my name like it's something precious. Something necessary. Something he can't live without.

A strangled sound escapes me, too quiet to be a gasp but too loud to go unnoticed. His eyes snap to mine in the mirror. Dark gray, almost black with dilated pupils. For a heartbeat, time suspends. We stare at each other, connected by shock and something else—something electric and dangerous that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.

He doesn't stop.

That's what short-circuits my brain completely. He doesn't stop touching himself. If anything, his movements become more intense, more focused, his gaze locked on mine with an expression I can only describe as hunger. Raw, unfiltered hunger that makes my stomach drop like I'm plummeting from a great height.

His lips part. My name forms on them again, but this time it's not a whisper. It's a groan, deep and primal.

"Lucy."

The sound travels through me like a physical touch, leaving fire in its wake. My cheeks burn. My fingers tremble. There's an answering heat between my legs that I refuse to acknowledge.

I watch, unable to tear my eyes away, as Damon Blackwell—the man who's tormented me with his cold perfection for six endless weeks—comes undone. His body tenses, the expensive fabric of his shirt stretching across broad shoulders. His jaw tightens, tendons standing out on his neck. But his eyes—those eyes that have pierced through my carefully constructed defenses since day one—never leave mine.

He's beautiful in this moment of absolute surrender. I hate that I notice. I hate that my body responds with a clench of desire so powerful it nearly doubles me over.

He's my boss. He's arrogant, controlling, impossible to please. He's everything I despise about the corporate world I'm forced to navigate to pay my tuition. He's the man who watches me constantly, critiques everything I do, stands too close when we review documents together.

And he's pleasuring himself while saying my name.

The reality of what's happening finally penetrates my shock. I stumble backward, my hip colliding painfully with the doorframe. The sharp sting breaks the spell. I turn and run, my practical flats slapping against the marble flooring of the corridor. Each step sends jolts up my legs, but I don't slow down. Can't slow down. Behind me, I hear a curse—rough, frustrated, threatening.

My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the echo of my name on his lips. I reach the end of the hallway and turn blindly, not caring where I go as long as it's away from him. Away from what I've seen. Away from how it made me feel.

Because that's the worst part. Not the shock or the embarrassment or the inappropriate intimacy of the moment. The worst part is how my body responded. How for a fraction of a second, I imagined being the cause of that pleasure. Being the one to break Damon Blackwell's legendary control.

I'm halfway down another corridor when I realize I have nowhere to go. My purse, my phone, my coat—they're all back at my desk in the open-plan office. I can't leave without them. I can't stay here in this sterile hallway. I'm caught in limbo, trapped between flight and confrontation.

My reflection in a glass door shows a woman I barely recognize. My cheeks are flushed, eyes too wide, hair escaping its practical ponytail. I look hunted. I look aroused. I press a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to steady my breathing.

What just happened?

I've spent weeks convincing myself that Damon Blackwell's intense focus on me was criticism. That his lingering looks were judgmental. That the way he always seems to find reasons to be near me was to intimidate me. I told myself his offer of a paid position instead of the unpaid internship I'd applied for was because he recognized my skills, not because he wanted...this. Wanted me.

But he does. He wants me with an intensity that has him locked in a bathroom in his own building, seeking release from the torture of proximity without possession. The realization makes me dizzy.

I lean against the cold glass wall of what I now recognize as the atrium, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. I need to leave. I need to quit. I need to forget what I've seen.

But the image is burned into my retinas—Damon Blackwell, composed, controlled Damon Blackwell, coming apart at the sight of me. The power of it is intoxicating. Terrifying.

I've never been wanted like that. Never been the object of such raw, undisguised need. Men have desired me before, but it was always manageable, contained, something I could accept or reject without consequence. This is different. This is a force of nature. This is destruction wrapped in the finely tailored suit of a man who takes what he wants and doesn't apologize for it.

A soft ding from a distant elevator makes me flinch. He'll be looking for me. I need to move. I need to think. I need to?—

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