I do, tossing it over the arm of my chair behind the desk.

“Now the skirt.”

There is a challenge in his voice, and I know that he expects me to protest. To tell him this is my office and that I have a receptionist just a few feet outside that door. I don’t. This is exactly what I want, too, so I reach behind me, tug down the zipper, and let the skirt fall to the floor, revealing the red thong panties.

He says nothing, but I can see the heat building in his eyes, and my body responds immediately, my sex quickening, my nipples getting tight and hard beneath the lace of my bra. “Well, Mr. Stark,” I say as I slowly walk toward him. “What do you want from me now?”

His answering smile is like a slow caress, and ripples of desire break through me like foam upon a sandy shore. “Stop,” he says, when I am about five feet from him.

I do, my heart pounding with anticipation.

He lifts a finger and makes a spinning motion. I roll my eyes, but take a step forward, do a runway-style turn, and then repeat the process, effectively rotating a full three-hundred-sixty degrees for him. I put my hand on a cocked hip and tilt my head. “Like what you see?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. He leans back in the chair, his casual posture belied by the tension I see in his face and shoulders, and by the firm slant of his mouth. His gaze flicks over me, and I swallow, hyperaware of my body’s reaction. Of how I react whenever I’m around this man. No wonder he always says that I glow. Damien is like a switch, and it is he who turns me on.

The thong is wet against my sex, and the pressure makes me even more needy. It’s not the thong I want touching me—it’s Damien. He, however, remains resolutely still, his hands resting on the arms of that uncomfortable chair as he examines every inch of me, his gaze lingering at that tiny triangle of material.

“Spread your legs—that’s my girl. Now stay still for just a moment.”

My skin prickles, as if my body is anticipating his touch and is protesting that his hands aren’t upon me and his cock isn’t deep inside me. Then his eyes drift lower still. I don’t move, even though I know what he is seeing. The scars. Not too long ago, I would have curled up on the floor and cried if someone looked at me so intently. Hell, that is exactly what I did when Damien did that very thing. Sometimes it amazes me how fast my world has changed with Damien in it. And not just my world, but me. He’s my anchor. Something to hold on to as I dig deep inside myself to find a strength I never even knew existed.

Somehow, though, Damien always knew that it was there. More, he trusted that I would find it, too.

He has always seen so much. Not just the beauty queen. Not just the scars. He’s seen all of me, and no matter whether I’m in panties and high heels or the most couture of evening gowns, I am always standing naked before him.

Once upon a time, I would have found that thought terrifying. Now, I take comfort in it.

But this is not a moment for deep reflection, nor do I want to think about scars or strength or the battles that we have fought. All I want is Damien. And I want him right now.

Boldly, I take a step toward him.

“No,” he says. “Stop.”

“Stop?”

He arches a brow.

I cock my head a bit to indicate I understand, then raise a brow. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now spread your legs, just a little. That’s right,” he says when I comply. “Stay like that.”

I am about two feet from him, and breathing hard. He is sitting in the chair, which puts him about eye level with the red swath of material that barely covers my sex.

Slowly, he lifts his eyes. “There’s something I want,” he says.

Shock waves cut through my body, because I want it, too. I want Damien inside me. I want his cock in my mouth, in my cunt. I want him to whisper to me, to make love with words in that extraordinary way that he has. I want him to fuck me so hard and so deep that I cry out from that singularly exquisite pleasure that is wrapped up in pain.

Most of all, I want him to touch me.

I start to take a step toward him, but he stops me with a single shake of his head. It is a miracle that I don’t weep with frustration.

“Not that,” he says.

I swallow, suddenly uncertain. “Then what?”

“I want to watch.”

“Damien . . . ” I have touched myself for him before, but not like this. Not like a show. I swallow, a little bit embarrassed, but undeniably excited, too.

“Close your eyes,” he orders.

“Why?”

“Because I said to.”

I close my eyes.

“Good girl. Now take off your top. Do it slowly. Take the hem, and hold it as you trail your fingers up. That’s it, just like that.”

I do as he says, trying to breathe steadily as I slowly peel the silk blouse off. It’s not easy, and I feel my stomach twitch with my breath, with the intimate touch of my own fingers.

“Imagine it’s me,” he says. “My hands easing your shirt off. My hands cupping your breasts, pulling the cup of your bra down so that you spill out over the top. That’s it,” he says, as I follow his lead and adjust the cups to expose my breasts and nipples. “Do you feel my touch? The way I’m tugging your nipples? The way I’m stroking my fingertip over your areolae?”

My breasts are full and heavy, my nipples puckered with desire. I pull gently on my nipples and the corresponding tug in my sex makes me gasp.

“Damien—”

“I know, baby. You can feel it, can’t you. The way your sex throbs. How hard your clit is.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve done this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I’d explode.”

I nod. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.

Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am. And even though this is Damien, who has seen me at my most wanton, my most needy, it has always been for him that I have opened myself. Now, it is my own touch that I am craving. My touch, and his words. I feel naughty. Reckless. And, so help me, I want him to take me all the way. I want to finger myself until I come in front of him—and when I do, I want to open my eyes and see my own passion reflected right there on his face.

“I didn’t have the pleasure of watching then. I intend to enjoy it now.”

“Yes. Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage. It’s the only word that fills my head.