Chapter 8
T he limo ride back to the Blackstone is quiet.
I reflect on the evening—every question asked, every answer I gave—making sure my stories remain consistent with the write-up prepared for our contract.
Things went perfectly with Mrs. Calloway, and securing a tennis outing in two days was unexpected. Something that bodes well.
Inside the penthouse, Damien moves toward his room without hesitation, his jacket draped over his arm, his bow tie undone at the collar. He looks composed. Unbothered.
But I caught the way his jaw clenched when Mrs. Calloway praised our match.
The flicker of something unreadable when I recited the engagement story.
And now, he keeps his back to me, offering nothing.
I should let it go.
Instead, I take a step forward. “Wait.”
He stops but doesn’t turn right away. When he does, his expression is unreadable, a single brow lifting in question.
Smoothing my hands over the silk of my dress, I keep my voice even. Professional.
“I just wanted your impression on how things went. Anything you’d like me to adjust going forward?”
His jaw tightens. So faint I might have missed it if I weren’t looking .
A second passes before he answers. “Things went well.” His tone is clipped. Final.
That should be the end of it.
But I hesitate, and he notices .
His attention sharpens, waiting, sensing there’s something else I want to say.
“It’s just…” I pause. “You made a face. After the engagement story.”
The words settle between us, quiet but not unnoticed.
Damien doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, his voice is unreadable. “You’re a very good liar.”
A statement, not a compliment.
His eyes stay on mine, searching, as if trying to find something beneath the surface. But I hold his gaze, steady, unwilling to give him anything more than what I already have.
After a long moment, I reply, “Everything about these next two weeks will be a lie.”
The space between us shifts .
Charged with something neither of us is willing to acknowledge.
“It’s important you remember that.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, his exhale slow and controlled, as if resetting.
“Noted.”
He sets his jacket on the kitchen counter. “Any— adjustments —for me?”
I take in a breath, releasing it carefully.
“Well…”
My eyes lower, weighing how to phrase this. With any other contract, it would be clinical . But not with Damien.
“It’s fine, Elena. I can take criticism.” His tone is calmer now. More patient.
“You should be more affectionate with me when we’re out in public.”
I try to keep my tone neutral, but I feel my cheeks heat because we both know what his affections look like.
What they feel like.
He looks out at the city, swallowing hard before turning back to me.
“I touched you plenty tonight.”
“Not like a fiancé would.”
He takes a deep breath, releasing it hard and slow. “Anything specific ?”
The tension in the room shifts .
I step toward the living room, glancing back just enough to let him know I expect him to follow.
Damien hesitates, watching me for a beat longer than necessary, then moves. The quiet sound of his footfalls behind me is unnerving in a way I can’t quite name.
I sink onto the couch, smoothing my dress over my thighs before patting the cushion beside me.
His brows lift slightly. Surprise. Amusement.
But he doesn’t argue.
He moves, slow and deliberate, taking the seat beside me.
And suddenly, the penthouse feels too small.
He’s close , the heat of him bleeding into my skin, the scent of his cologne lingering from the long evening. His thigh brushes against mine as he settles, and I keep my expression composed, even as the awareness between us sparks hotter .
Stay professional. Stay in control.
“It’s not just a touch—it’s the feeling that needs to be sold along with it.”
Not just holding hands, but stroking mine.
Like this.
I trail my fingers lightly over his skin, demonstrating the motion.
The first touch of my skin on his is electric .
“Your hand on my back as we move through a space was perfect.”
“Well, thank you for the good marks, teacher .” His lips curve, the ghost of a smirk teasing the edge of his mouth.
I ignore it.
“When we sit close together, your arm should be around the back of my chair.”
I move his arm around my shoulders.
“Or on my knee. The thoughtless caress as we enjoy the evening.”
He doesn’t need instruction here.
His fingers trail gently along my arm as I speak, and my stomach flips in response.
I reach for his other hand, holding his gaze as I guide it down, pressing his palm against my thigh, covered in the rich silk gown.
His fingers flex slightly—the only indication that he feels this just as much as I do.
Good.
I move his hand slightly higher.
“This,” I murmur, smoothing his palm over my skin, encouraging the motion. “A casual touch. Comfortable. Familiar.”
We’re too close.
I should move away.
Damien hums low in his throat, watching me carefully, his fingers moving in slow, measured strokes.
My voice is quieter when I speak again, the atmosphere shifting , darkening.
“And if I tell you a secret…”
I lean in slightly, my breath warm against his jaw, watching the way his own deepens—slow and measured.
His hand slides higher up my thigh.
His touch is firmer . More confident.
I exhale, dragging my fingertips along his jawline, the stubble sharp beneath my touch.
“It should be the most captivating secret you’ve ever heard.”
Damien turns into me as if we’re sharing a sacred moment. His cologne is an overload I’m already struggling to temper.
His dark gaze locks onto mine. Searching. Challenging.
“People notice the small things.”
I don’t look away.
Neither does he.
A slow, unbearable beat passes between us.
We’re still too close.
With a deep breath, I pull back, putting inches between us that feel like miles before standing.
“And when dancing?—”
I hold my arms out expectantly.
Waiting for my dance partner.
Waiting for the controlled, practiced steps of our arrangement.
Damien stands, smooth and deliberate, but there’s something different now.
Something in the way his features sharpen.
The faintest shift in his expression.
A glimpse of the man people call the Wolfe of Fifth Avenue.
I don’t expect him to take control.
I don’t expect him to pull me into his body like he owns me.
Like he knows my body.
Even though he does.
His hand settles low against my back, pressing me flush against him, his grip firm but unhurried. The other closes over mine, his thumb brushing the inside of my palm, his touch sending a slow pulse of heat up my arm.
My breath hitches as he moves.
His steps are precise. Dominant.
A push and pull . Effortless. Seamless.
Except it isn’t a lesson anymore.
Before I can register it, he dips me back, the world tilting , his body molded to mine.
His breath warms my skin as his nose drags along my collarbone, then up my neck.
Slow. Unhurried.
Like he’s memorizing me.
His voice is a whisper, dark and rough.
"I didn’t need a map of your body two nights ago, Trouble."
The nickname rolls off his tongue effortlessly .
Like he’s been saying it for years .
Like he didn’t mean to say it at all.
My breath catches. His does too.
For a fraction of a second, something passes between us.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with it.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
The room is too quiet.
Or maybe it’s just us .
Trapped in this moment, in this tension that coils so tight I can feel it like a tangible thing between us.
Damien’s grip on my waist is firm, his fingers pressing into the silk of my gown like he’s considering something .
Like he’s debating whether to let go.
Or to hold on tighter.
He doesn’t blink.
Neither do I.
I feel his breath, warm against my skin. His body, impossibly close.
I should step back.
I need to step back.
But I don’t.
And neither does he.
Not until his gaze drops—to my mouth.
A slow, calculated flick of his eyes.
A single second.
But I feel it.
Like a brand.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
I open my mouth—to say something, to force distance, to fix this?—
But his fingers tighten, just slightly, his grip shifting at my waist.
His thumb brushes against my ribs, the contact featherlight but devastating.
My stomach clenches.
A warning flares in my brain, sharp and insistent.
This is too close.
Too dangerous.
I should break away.
But his hold is anchoring , like he’s waiting for something.
Like he’s testing how long I’ll stay right here .
Too close. Too deep. Too much.
A sharp exhale leaves my lips, and that’s all it takes.
Damien blinks, then releases me.
Abrupt. Controlled.
Like the moment never happened at all.
I stumble a half step back, my breath uneven.
His expression is unreadable.
And then—he walks away.
Just turns, grabs his jacket, and leaves the room without another glance.
Without hesitation.
Without giving me a chance to catch up.
The only sign that something just happened—the tension still crackling in the air.
The way my body aches from the ghost of his touch.
I don’t move for a long time.
Not until I hear the door to his bedroom shut with a quiet click.
Not until I realize my fingers are still curled into the fabric of my dress, gripping it like an anchor.
Not until I exhale and force my shoulders back, schooling my expression into something smooth.
Something untouched.
Because that —whatever just happened—was nothing.
It had to be nothing.
And I refuse to let it become anything else.