I never meant to stay the night.
But some part of me wanted to see what it would feel like. Not just to be in his house. But to exist in his world—quiet, rich, sophisticated. It was the first time I felt the pull between right and wrong blur into something more dangerous. And that night, standing barefoot in Damon Westwood's kitchen, wearing only the silk robe from the guest room, I knew there was no turning back.
The air was thick with the scent of dark whiskey and cedarwood. He stood by the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shirt still tucked into dress pants from the charity gala earlier that evening. Even with the hour slipping past midnight, he didn't look tired. He looked sharper, quieter… like the night brought out another side of him. A darker one. The one I shouldn't be curious about.
I leaned slightly against the island counter, trying to control the fluttering in my chest. The silk robe clung to my body, falling just below mid-thigh, and with every movement, it revealed more of my skin than I was used to showing. But I didn't fix it. I let it slide off one shoulder. I let the neckline dip just enough.
I let him see me.
He looked up, meeting my gaze with those dark, unreadable eyes that always seemed to know more than I wanted him to. He didn't speak at first. Just watched. Silent. Still. Powerful in a way that made me feel both bare and bold.
"You couldn't sleep?" His voice was low, steady, the kind of tone that feels like a secret in the dark.
I shook my head slowly, every movement deliberate. "Too many thoughts."
His eyes didn't move from mine. "About what?"
I paused. Then answered without breaking his gaze. "You."
It was reckless. It was real. And it was the first time I'd said it out loud.
He didn't react the way I thought he would. He didn't look away. He didn't scold me, didn't say it was inappropriate. Instead, he stepped away from the counter and walked toward me, his bare feet soft against the marble, his movements unhurried. The closer he came, the louder my heartbeat became. I felt it in my throat, in my wrists, between my thighs.
He stopped just a breath away.
"You don't play safe," he said, eyes dipping down to the edge of my robe where it threatened to open with one more inhale.
"Not tonight," I whispered.
I could feel the tension vibrating between us—coiled, sharp, waiting to snap. He didn't touch me, not at first. He only reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed the curve of my cheek, warm and unhurried. And still, that single touch burned more than any kiss ever had.
The space between us collapsed with a silence more intimate than words. I tilted my chin up, my breath trembling on my lips. His hand moved from my cheek to my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip like he was thinking about kissing me—but also like he wanted me to beg for it first.
Our bodies weren't touching, but we might as well have been. The heat between us was alive. It wrapped around my spine, tangled in my breath, pulsed low in my belly.
"Serena," he said my name like it was something forbidden.
"I know," I whispered. "It's wrong."
"Yes." His hand dropped slowly from my face. "But that hasn't stopped either of us."
I should have walked away. I should have gone back upstairs. But I didn't. I stepped closer until my body brushed his, chest to chest. My fingers grazed his wrist. The heat of his skin was magnetic. He didn't move, didn't stop me. I pressed myself fully against him, and for the first time, I felt the restraint leave his body.
His arm circled my waist.
And he kissed me.
Not the kind of kiss you give a girl you're trying to forget.
This kiss was slow, deep, consuming. It felt like he'd waited too long for it and now had to memorize every second. His lips moved over mine with hunger laced in restraint, the kind of control that made my skin hum. I gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned softly into my mouth, a sound that made my knees weak.
When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine. His breath was heavy, his hand splayed on the small of my back.
"I shouldn't have," he murmured.
"But you did," I whispered. "And I let you."
A pause stretched between us. And then he said something I'll never forget.
"You don't even know what you're doing to me."
That's when I knew this wasn't just a mistake. It was a beginning.
And I didn't want it to end.
---
Flashback – Earlier That Evening
At the gala, I had watched him all night. Watched how he moved through a room, how people shifted around him. Damon didn't chase power. Power came to him. His aura was pure dominance wrapped in tailored suits and cool detachment.
I wore red. Bold, scandalous. It was a statement and a challenge. I caught him looking more than once. But it was during one slow dance with another man that our eyes locked across the room—and something unspoken passed between us. I felt it in my core.
Afterward, as I passed him on my way to the restroom, he leaned in and said lowly, "That dress is dangerous."
I smiled and whispered, "Then don't stand so close."
That was all it took.
The air between us changed.
Later that night, when everyone left and my best friend had gone to sleep, I was alone in his house.
And I chose not to leave.
---
Back in the Kitchen
"I should take you upstairs," Damon said.
"Then take me."
He didn't ask again.
He lifted me, strong hands gripping my thighs as I wrapped around him, and carried me up the stairs like I weighed nothing. Our lips met again—harder, deeper. He set me down on his bed, standing above me, his eyes dragging over every inch of my body as the robe fell open.
I wasn't shy anymore.
I wanted him to see.
I wanted to be remembered.
And I wanted to remember every moment of what was about to happen.