Page 16 of The Billionaire's Obsession

"Lucy."

His voice slides down my spine like ice water, freezing me in place. I don't turn. I can't. If I look at him, I'll see it again—that unguarded moment of complete vulnerability—and I don't know what I'll do.

"Look at me." The command in his tone is absolute.

I shake my head, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. My fingers press against the glass, seeking escape wherethere is none. I hear his approaching footsteps, measured and unhurried. He knows I have nowhere to go.

"You weren't supposed to see that." His voice is closer now, just behind me. Not apologetic. Not embarrassed. Matter-of-fact.

"I need to go," I whisper, but the words lack conviction. My body betrays me, refusing to move.

"Do you?" The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning. "Do you really want to leave, Lucy?"

I force myself to turn around, to face him. It's a mistake. He's put himself back together—suit impeccable, tie straight, hair perfectly styled—but his eyes still burn with the same intensity I saw in the bathroom. He's not finished. Not satisfied. The realization makes my knees weak.

"You were..." I can't finish the sentence. The words stick in my throat.

"Yes." He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend. "I was. And I'm not sorry you saw it."

His honesty disarms me more effectively than any excuse could have. I swallow hard, trying to find some semblance of composure. "Mr. Blackwell?—"

"Damon." The correction is soft but unyielding. "You just watched me come while saying your name. I think we're past formalities, don't you?"

Heat floods my face. I want to slap him. I want to run. I want things I shouldn't want from a man like him.

"This is inappropriate," I manage, clinging to the word like a lifeline. "You're my boss."

"Is that your only objection?" He takes a step closer, and I press back against the glass. "That I sign your paycheck? Because that's easily remedied."

"Don't you dare fire me," I snap, anger finally cutting through the confusion. "I need this job."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Respect. "I wasn't suggesting termination, Lucy. I was suggesting a transfer. To remove the professional conflict."

The casual way he discusses rearranging his company structure just to pursue me leaves me breathless. The practicality of it. The determination. "You can't just?—"

"I can," he interrupts. "I will. If that's what it takes to have you look at me the way you did in that bathroom."

And there it is. The truth I've been avoiding since I fled. I didn't just see him—I responded. My pupils dilated. My lips parted. My body recognized his need and answered with its own.

"I was shocked," I whisper, a last, feeble defense.

"Yes," he agrees, moving closer still. I can smell his cologne now, something expensive and subtle that makes my head swim. "But that's not all you were."

He's right, and we both know it. The glass is cold against my back, his presence hot before me. I'm caught between extremes with nowhere to hide.

"What do you want from me?" The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended, revealing too much.

His eyes darken further, if that's possible. "Everything," he says simply.

He takes a step closer, slow, calculated, his smoldering gaze never leaving mine. “Do you want me to stop?”

It should be easy. A simple lie to escape an impossible situation. But the words won't come. Because while Damon Blackwell might be arrogant, controlling, and absolutely wrong for me, he's not wrong about this. About us. About the current that runs between us, disturbing the air whenever we're near each other.

My silence is answer enough. His expression shifts, satisfaction replacing uncertainty. He moves forward again, eliminating the last of the space between us. His hand comesup, not touching me, hovering just above my cheek as if asking permission.

And God help me, I tilt my face into his palm.

His fingers are warm against my skin, slightly rough. The simple contact sends sparks through my nervous system, making my breath hitch. His thumb traces my lower lip, a reverent gesture that belies the intensity in his eyes.

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