Chapter 6
Chapter six
Damien
Frustration hummed beneath my skin.
Nathan had intercepted her. Slid in like oil through a crack the moment he saw her in that lobby. Or maybe he'd been waiting for her. Either way—Accounting on Fourth, my ass—and by the time I'd sorted the nonexistent issue, Emma was gone. Swallowed into the building without me.
I'd wanted to be there. Wanted to watch her face when she saw the office I'd arranged—the windows opening onto Central Park, the dark stretch of it cutting cleanly through the city. The furniture waiting in the corner like a secret only we shared.
My phone buzzed.
Emma's name glowed on the screen, and the knot behind my sternum loosened. I swiped it open, already picturing her reaction.
Emma: My office sucks. Lol.
I read them again.
My office sucks.
The relief calcified.
I typed back immediately.
Damien: What do you mean?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Emma: Gray walls. No window. The desk looks like it survived a government auction. It's fine, really. I've worked in worse.
No window.
No window?
The office I'd arranged had floor-to-ceiling glass. I remembered our first meeting at Elion, how she used to stare out at the city, how the skyline reminded her the world was bigger than whatever crisis was crushing her that week.
Damien: Where are you right now?
Emma: My office? Right across from Nathan's, near the back. Nathan showed me this morning.
Nathan.
The realization landed like frost. He hadn't just intercepted her. He'd rerouted her. Stuck her in a temp's old office across from his.
A power play. Subtle enough to pass as a clerical error if questioned.
But that wasn't what this was.
Damien: Stay there. I'm coming to you.
I found her near the back, exactly where she'd said. The door was open. Inside: an old oak desk, a chair with a tear in the fabric, and Emma picking at a scratch in the varnish.
She looked up when she heard my footsteps.
"Hey." A grin flickered across her face despite her disappointment. "You didn't have to come here."
"Yes. I did."
I stepped inside, cataloging every insult Nathan had engineered. The water-stained ceiling tile. The outlet dangling loose from the wall. A thermostat that looked like it hadn't worked since the Clinton administration.
"Emma." I kept my tone even, though anger scraped at the back of my throat. "This isn't your office."
She blinked. "What do you mean? Nathan brought me here himself. Said it was—"
"Nathan lied."
Her confusion cleared—all of it clicking into place behind her eyes.
"Come with me." I extended my hand. "Let me show you where you're actually supposed to be."
She took it, the warmth of her palm pressing into mine.
Insignificant. But also everything.
I reached for the door—
Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang. Muffled voices bled through the thin walls.
The reminder of where we were barely cut through the fury coiling at the base of my skull.
And then I was reaching for her instead.
I didn't decide to do it. One second I was pulling the door shut, the next she was pressed against the wall and my mouth was on hers, swallowing the small sound of surprise she made.
She tasted like coffee and chocolate, and the rational part of my brain—the part that knew where we were, who could walk by, what this could cost—went quiet.
"Damien—" she gasped against my lips. "We're at work."
"I know." The words came out rough, half-wrecked. I grabbed her hips, dragging her closer. Heat radiated where we touched, burning through fabric. "I know."
I didn't stop.
My mouth trailed down the column of her throat. Teeth grazing the spot where her pulse fluttered wild beneath skin. A moan slipped from her—soft, wrecked—and my cock stirred hard against my thigh.
Stop.
The word surfaced—slow, unwanted, but sharp enough to cut through the haze.
Not here.
I took a step back.
It took everything I had.
My forehead dropped to hers, both of us breathing hard in the silence. Her fingers were twisted in my lapels, knuckles white, like she'd been holding on for balance.
"That… That was—"
"A terrible idea," I finished, the words raw. "I know."
But I didn't let go of her. Not yet.
Not until she slapped my chest, mischief bright in her eyes. "Mr. Holt, are you trying to take advantage of me?"
"Absolutely," I said, reaching for her—but she slipped from my grip smooth as a cat.
"I'm going to have to report you to HR," she said, already backing toward the door.
Satisfaction curled through me.
"Emma." A warning. Another twitch in my pants. "You're playing with fire."
"No." She closed the distance between us, hips swaying, every step deliberate. "I'm playing with you."
The last word landed as a breathy whisper—right as her hand hovered for a fraction of a second, a tiny flicker of hesitation—courage or sanity—before she pressed her palm against me, stroking upward with agonizing slowness.
She glanced at the door—making sure.
My body reacted before my brain caught up.
"Now show me my office, Mr. Holt." She punctuated the order with a squeeze that made my vision blur at the edges.
Then she pulled away.
I willed my pulse to settle as she smoothed her dress—the one I'd chosen for her this morning. It hung off her frame like something I wanted to tear free and worry about later.
"You're going to pay for that," I muttered.
She glanced over her shoulder. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both," I answered, adjusting myself.
I took a moment. Straightened my jacket. Rebuilt the mask. The hallway stretched ahead, fluorescent and indifferent. Back to performance.
I opened the door, ushering her forward before following.
"It's further down the hall. Right next to Ms. Chen's," I instructed, sliding the composure of CEO back into place.
I watched her walk ahead, mind circling—her tease, the ache in my slacks, the way her hips moved like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
She probably did.
And that made it so much worse.
"Here it is," I announced, pulling the door wide.
Her face lit up immediately. A gasp. "Dam—" She cleared her throat. "Mr. Holt, this is wonderful."
She moved through the room like a fairy—if fairies moved like sin wrapped in silk.
Taking in the large lacquered desk in the center of the room. The one I wanted to tie her down to and take apart piece by piece.
The faint scent of leather and fresh flowers from the arrangement on the credenza.
The moody wallpaper I'd like to press her against, the way I had moments earlier.
The armchairs I'd like her to kneel on, ass and pussy bare, waiting for—
Jesus Christ.
I shook my head, trying to clear the images before they took root.
Then—
"You didn't!"
She ran toward the far wall, to the monstrosity she'd loved at the antique shop.
"Something we had lying around on one of the lower floors," I said, keeping my tone light. "I figured this room needed a bit more storage, so I had it brought up."
If storage was even what this thing was meant for.
She crouched beside it, fingers tracing the wood—then stopped at the leg. The one Garrett had splintered in his childlike rage.
I'd had it restored to its former... glory.
If you could call it that.
"Thank you," she whispered, gratitude shining in her eyes.
I dipped my head, adjusted myself one more time.
"Of course, Ms. Sinclair. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend."
Her attention dropped to the seam of my pants—and the appendage I'd tucked beneath my belt—before dragging back up with tantalizing slowness.
"I look forward to our partnership."
I waited a moment, let my intent settle over the room. Her lips parted slightly. We were finally on even ground.
Satisfied, I turned and left her.
She'd earned this space.
Now I had to figure out a way to keep Nathan away from it.
And as soon as my own door clicked shut, I was fucking pissed again.
I stormed down the hall, destination clear: across from the hole I'd pulled Emma out of.
I didn't bother knocking.
The door slammed open and Nathan jerked in his chair, startled—before settling back, that familiar smirk cutting across his features.
"Damien. Did you get everything figured out with Accounting?"
"There was no issue in Accounting," I bit out, closing the door behind me with all the restraint I had left.
His face twisted in mock consideration. "I could have sworn there was."
"Enough." I stepped closer. "What in god's name were you thinking, showing Ms. Sinclair to that office?"
He smiled. "Just a little bit of hazing."
My teeth clenched. "Did you haze Alex Ferguson? Or Chris Toll? Or Tyler—"
"I get it, Damien," he cut in. "I know the speech."
"Then why do you keep doing it?" I couldn't hide the incredulity.
He leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. "I think it's fun."
I blinked. "Fun?"
"Yes," he said, chair creaking as he leaned forward. "I love the look on their faces when they try to be so polite, but they're dying inside." A slow grin spread across his face. "There's nothing quite like watching someone squirm while they smile."
My vision narrowed. "What is wrong with you?"
That grin only widened. Fueling my anger.
I inhaled, slow and deliberate, unclenching my fists one finger at a time.
"Don't come near her again," I said, fury overriding my better judgment.
Nathan quirked a brow. "What makes this one so different? Why so protective?"
"She's not." The lie slipped through my teeth, painful to speak. "I'm just sick of your shit."
"You've been saying that for years," he drawled.
"Yes," I admitted. "But now—"
He rolled his eyes. "Now what, Holt?"
I leaned in close, pressing my palms flat on his desk. "Now I can finally do something about it."
He laughed again, shoulders shaking beneath his jacket. Wiped a fake tear from his eye.
"Careful, Nathan." My words dropped, quiet and cold. "Your time is running out."
"You don't have the authority." He scoffed. "Nor the votes."
A deadly grin spread across my face. "Now I do."
Nathan's face paled, realization dawning.
He didn't have majority. Not anymore. Not with Emma on the board.
Now the leverage had shifted.
"No."
"Yes," I said.
I let that land—watched the color drain from his face—then turned and left.
Let him sweat.