Sunlight spilled across Damien Kane's penthouse like it owned the place. Bold, unapologetic, golden. It stretched over the sleek furniture, the floor-to-ceiling glass, and finally, over the tangled mess of sheets that Elara Hart currently wanted to suffocate herself in.
Her head buried in the pillow, she let out a groan.
She'd done it. She'd actually done it.
She'd slept with her boss.
Correction: she'd slept with Damien Kane—the most infuriating, controlling, maddening man on the planet. The man who didn't just kiss like sin but consumed her like he'd been starving and she was his last meal.
Her body still buzzed with the aftershocks, her skin tingling where his hands had been. She wanted to curse herself and—God help her—maybe do it again.
But then his voice cut through her spiraling.
"You're awake."
She peeked up to see him, shirtless, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window with a cup of coffee in hand. Morning sunlight turned his skin into burnished bronze, his hair slightly mussed in a way that made him look less like a CEO and more like… temptation incarnate.
"Don't look at me like that," she muttered, dragging the sheet higher.
He smirked over his shoulder. "Like what?"
"Like you already know you won."
"Did I?" His voice was soft, teasing, but dangerous in its certainty.
Elara pushed herself up, heart racing. "Listen—we need rules."
"Rules?" He turned, raising a brow.
"Yes. Rules," she said firmly, ignoring the way her voice cracked on the word. "This—whatever happened last night—it doesn't happen again."
He took a slow sip of coffee, considering her like she was an amusing puzzle. "That's your first rule?"
"Yes. No repeats. Ever."
He set the mug down and started walking toward her.
She scrambled to add more. "Second—no touching at work. At all. No—no looking at me like you're thinking about—about…" Her cheeks flamed. "You know."
"Oh, I know," he murmured, climbing onto the bed with predatory ease.
Her eyes widened. "Rule three—personal space! At least three feet at all times unless it's strictly business."
Damien stopped mere inches away, his hand braced beside her head, caging her in. His mouth curved into that infuriating smirk. "Three feet?"
"Yes."
He leaned down, lips brushing hers. "Breakable."
Her pulse hammered. "Rule four—"
"Shh," he whispered, cutting her off with a kiss so gentle it disarmed every defense she tried to build.
When he pulled back, his gaze burned into her. "Elara, I don't do rules. I do results. And the result is that you're mine. Whether you admit it or not."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to throw every rulebook in the world at his arrogant face. But her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch, her lips parting for another kiss.
This was chaos. Pure, irresistible chaos.
And God help her, she was addicted.