7. Damien
7
DAMIEN
I should be sleeping.
Instead, I’m sitting in my dimly lit bedroom, phone in hand, texting a woman whose name I don’t even know.
And for some reason, I can’t fucking stop.
She’s funny. Quick-witted. Sharp in a way that makes me want to push her, see how far she’ll go before she breaks.
But more than that—she’s bold.
And I like that. It’s been a while since someone intrigued me like this.
Since someone had me waiting for their next text, wondering what they’ll say, how they’ll react.
I smirk as I type.
Me: You’re alone, aren’t you?
Her reply comes quickly.
Unknown Number: Maybe.
Me: That’s not a yes.
Unknown Number: That’s not a no, either.
I chuckle, dragging my hand down my face.
Me: Tell me what you’re wearing.
A pause. Then?—
Unknown Number: Why? You planning on picturing it?
Me: I’d rather see it.
A long beat. Then my phone buzzes.
An image attachment.
I click it open.
And fuck.
She’s in a dark bra, lacy and delicate, barely covering the soft curves of her breasts. No face—just her body, the angle taunting, like she’s daring me to react.
My cock twitches, heat surging through me as I grip the phone tighter.
I shouldn’t be this affected.
But I fucking am.
Me: You really are a naughty girl, aren’t you?
Unknown Number: I can be. Depends on who’s asking.
I exhale sharply, the ache between my legs turning unbearable.
I don’t think. I just act.
I shift, leaning back against the headboard, phone in one hand, the other slipping lower, unbuckling my belt.
Then I take a picture.
A filthy one.
My cock, hard and thick in my grip, straining against my palm.
I send it.
Her reply takes longer this time, but when it comes?—
Unknown Number: Jesus.
I smirk, stroking myself slowly, the anticipation a sick kind of thrill.
Me: You like what you see?
Unknown Number: Like is an understatement.
My breathing is heavier now, each slow pull of my fist making my muscles tighten.
Me: Touch yourself for me.
Unknown Number: I already am.
A growl rumbles in my throat.
I picture her—legs spread, fingers teasing her swollen clit, panting, desperate.
Me: Good girl. How wet are you?
Unknown Number: Soaked. You did this to me.
Fuck.
I move faster, hips tensing, my body wound so tight it’s almost unbearable.
Me: Show me.
She sends another picture.
Her panties are pushed to the side, her fingers slick with her own arousal, teasing over her folds.
I nearly lose it.
Me: I’d spread those pretty legs wider. Get between them, taste you. Make you beg before I let you come.
The dots appear, pause, disappear.
I can imagine her, her thighs trembling, her breath coming out in little gasps as she touches herself faster.
Then—
Unknown Number: I’d pull your head down, grind against your mouth. Fuck, I’d make such a mess on your tongue.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My hand moves faster, pre-cum leaking from the tip as I groan low, imagining the way she’d arch beneath me, the taste of her on my tongue, slick and hot.
Me: You’d ride my tongue like that, wouldn’t you?
Unknown Number: Yes. And when I come, I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me hard.
A rough curse rips from my throat, my cock throbbing in my palm.
Me: I’d flip you over, drag you onto my cock. Make you take every inch until you’re crying for me.
Unknown Number: I’d take it. Every inch. Stretch me open, ruin me.
I groan, hips jerking up into my hand.
Me: Fuck, I’d ruin you. Have you dripping down my balls, crying from how deep I am.
Unknown Number: Yes. I’m so close, please, please?—
My jaw clenches. I can hear her in my head, those little whimpers, her body trembling as she fucks herself to my words.
Me: Rub that pretty clit for me. Make yourself come.
Unknown Number: Only if you do too.
My grip tightens.
Me: Together.
I hear my breath hitch, feel the familiar heat racing up my spine.
I groan, hips jerking, pleasure shattering through me just as my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: Fuck. I’m coming.
I exhale, chest heaving.
Pleasure slams through me, my cock pulsing as I come, hot and thick, my groan low and wrecked as I spill over my stomach.
For a second, I just breathe, chest heaving, the tension in my body slowly dissolving. I wipe my hand across my abdomen, shaking my head, a smirk tugging at my lips.
Me: That was fucking filthy.
Unknown Number: That was amazing.
I huff out a low chuckle, leaning back against the headboard, still catching my breath.
I expect her to disappear after the sexting. It’s mindless, it’s fun, but it’s all there is.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, by mid-morning, my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: Is there a reason why corporate life feels like actual hell? Or is this just a personal experience?
I smirk, leaning back in my chair, already intrigued.
Me: That depends. What fresh torture have they unleashed on you today?
Unknown Number: I just sat through a 45-minute meeting that could have been an email. And now, I have to make edits to a report I already finished because someone suddenly had a vision at 2 a.m. and decided they need five extra slides.
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head.
Me: Sounds like you work with idiots.
Unknown Number: Oh, I do. And they get paid way more than me to be idiots, which is the real crime here.
I glance at the stack of contracts on my desk, a multi-million dollar deal sitting in front of me. Yet somehow, I find myself far more interested in whatever bullshit she’s dealing with.
Unknown Number: Do you ever sit at work and wonder if anyone would notice if you just left? Like, walked out and never came back?
I glance at the screen, smirking as I take a sip of my coffee.
Me: No. But I assume you do, since you’re texting me instead of working.
Unknown Number: Oh, I finished my work. I just refuse to look productive until the exact moment someone important walks by. It’s an art.
Me: Sounds like you hate your job.
Unknown Number: Hate is a strong word. Deep, soul-crushing resentment feels more accurate.
I huff out a laugh, rolling my shoulders as I lean back in my chair.
This is a mistake. I should keep this strictly to what it was last night.
But I find myself texting back anyway.
Me: What do you even do?
Unknown Number: Ugh, where do I begin? Data. Reports. Spreadsheets. You ever stare at an Excel file for so long that you start questioning the meaning of life?
Me: No.
Unknown Number: Okay, well, imagine you’re drowning. But instead of water, it’s numbers. And instead of dying, you just keep getting emails asking why you aren’t drowning faster.
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head.
Me: That sounds miserable.
Unknown Number: Thank you. It is. In fact, I’m convinced this job was designed to slowly kill me so they don’t have to pay severance. Death by boredom should be covered under workers’ comp.
Me: Have you considered getting a new job?
Unknown Number: Have you considered carrying me away from my desk like a damsel in distress and setting me up with a life of luxury?
I smirk, my fingers hovering over the keys.
Me: I don’t do charity.
Unknown Number: Cold.
Me: Honest.
A pause, then?—
Unknown Number: Okay, so, no sugar daddy arrangement. What about vigilante justice? Like, if my boss goes missing, and you happen to not have an alibi, I won’t ask questions.
I laugh, running a hand down my face.
Me: As tempting as that is, I’m not getting rid of your boss just so you can be unemployed and broke.
Unknown Number: Rude. I’d make an excellent housewife.
I grin at the screen, feeling something I shouldn’t be feeling.
Something comfortable.
I tell myself this will fade out.
That it’s just a distraction, something to fill the dull moments between meetings, between calls, between the obligations that keep my life running in controlled, predictable order.
But it doesn’t fade.
Because she keeps texting.
And I keep answering.
Unknown Number: You can’t just deflect forever. I tell you all about my corporate suffering, but you never say anything about your job.
I smirk, stretching back in my chair.
Me: There’s not much to say.
Unknown Number: Bullshit. What do you do? Besides dodging the IRS, obviously.
Me: I run a business.
Unknown Number: Ooooh, vague. Suspicious. Very “I have bodies buried in my backyard” energy.
I huff out a low chuckle, shaking my head.
Me: No bodies. Yet.
Unknown Number: Oh, so you’re a CEO? A big, intimidating boss man?
Me: Something like that.
Unknown Number: I knew it. I can hear the overpriced suit through your texts.
I glance down at my very much overpriced Tom Ford jacket.
She’s not wrong.
Me: And what exactly does an overpriced suit sound like?
Unknown Number: Like a man who doesn’t wait in line for coffee. Who probably owns more watches than pairs of jeans. And who could single-handedly fund my escape from capitalism but chooses not to.
I smirk.
Me: Tragic for you.
Unknown Number: Truly. If only you were a man of the people.
I should cut this off. I should let her wonder instead of feeding her curiosity. But something about her texts—the ease, the sharp humor, the ridiculousness of it all—keeps me playing along.
Me: If it helps, I started at the bottom once.
Unknown Number: Oh? Did you suffer in the trenches of entry-level hell like the rest of us?
Me: Something like that.
I don’t tell her how far back my “bottom” really was. That my first job wasn’t behind a desk, but learning how to make a man disappear without leaving a trail.
Some things are better left unsaid.
Unknown Number: So, what kind of boss are you? Power-tripping tyrant or the mysterious, brooding, impossible to read type?
I smirk.
Me: What do you think?
Unknown Number: Oh, definitely brooding. Probably terrifying. I bet when you call someone to your office, they have to do a prayer circle before knocking.
I pause, exhaling a quiet laugh.
She’s not entirely wrong.
Me: I expect competence. That tends to intimidate people.
Unknown Number: Yeah, yeah, you have high standards, blah blah. But do you ever screw up?
Me: No.
Unknown Number: Liar.
My grin widens.
Me: If I did, no one would dare point it out.
Unknown Number: Ah, true power. I dream of a life where my mistakes just magically don’t exist.
Me: You complain a lot for someone who still chooses to show up every day.
Unknown Number: You say that like I have a choice. My rent is atrocious. If I didn’t have this job, I’d be selling feet pics online and praying for the best.
Me: And where is this soulless corporation that’s slowly draining your will to live?
Unknown Number: Oh, you wouldn’t know it. Just another faceless empire run by men in suits who probably never have to fill out their own paperwork.
I smirk.
Me: Try me.
Unknown Number: Zaitsev Industries.
Everything stops.
I blink. Read it twice.
A slow, steady pulse of realization spreads through my chest.
She works for me.
Of all the faceless strangers in this city—of all the people I could have fallen into this with—she works at my company.
I exhale, tapping my fingers against the desk.
Me: Small world.
Unknown Number: Yeah? You heard of it?
I smirk, though my mind is already spinning.
Me: You could say that.
Because now?
Now, I need to know who the hell she is.