HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

CHAPTER 4 DAMIEN'S POV: The office feels smaller tonight, the air thicker, charged with the kind of humidity that clings to skin even before anyone touches. Seventy second floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass framing Manhattan like a living painting cold blues and golds bleeding into black. I keep the lights at thirty percent. Just enough glow to catch sweat, to trace the curve of a hip, to make shadows do half the work. Shadows are honest. They don't lie about hunger. Clarissa arrived at 9:47 p.m. sharp. She always does when she's feeling neglected. Platinum hair already loose, blouse unbuttoned to the third pearl, skirt riding high enough that I could see the black lace thong when she crossed the room. She didn't speak, just walked straight to the desk, planted both palms on the glass, bent at the waist, and looked back at me over her shoulder with that practiced pout she thinks is seductive. I didn't smile, stepped behind her without a preamble. My left hand gathered her hair into a loose fist at the nape, enough tension to arch her neck, not enough to hurt yet. My right hand dragged the thong to the side, exposing her. She was already glistening, always is. I slid two fingers in without warning, straight to the knuckle, hot, slick, eager. She sucked in a sharp breath that turned into a long, throaty moan the second I curled them upward, hooking that swollen ridge inside her. "Fuck... Damien..." Her voice cracked on my name. I didn't answer. I added a third finger, stretching her wider, pumping slowly at first, letting her feel every ridge of my knuckles sliding in and out, then faster, deeper. The wet sounds were obscene, loud in the quiet room. She pushed back against my hand, hips rolling shamelessly, chasing the pressure. I let her have it for a minute, let her moan louder, let the sounds bounce off the glass, then I pressed my thumb firmly against her clit and rubbed tight, merciless circles. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on her elbows, forehead dropping to the desk. "Oh God, yes, right there, don't stop" I didn't. I fucked her with my fingers harder, faster, twisting my wrist so the pads dragged along her front wall on every withdrawal. Her moans turned ragged, high pitched, almost sobs. Sweat darkened the silk between her shoulder blades. Her thighs trembled. I could feel her pulsing around me close, so close. I pulled out right at the edge. She whined, actual frustration, raw and needy. "Damien, please" "Quiet." I hushed her. I unzipped. Shoved my trousers and briefs down just enough. My cock was already thick, heavy, leaking at the tip. I fisted the base once, twice, spreading the pre-cum, then lined up and thrust in, slow this time. One long, deliberate slide until I was buried to the hilt. She screamed, high, broken, echoing. Her walls clamped down like a fist. I didn't move for three heartbeats. Let her feel the stretch, the fullness, the way I throbbed inside her. Then I started, hard, deep, controlled. Each thrust drove her forward until her breasts flattened against the cold glass, nipples scraping with every snap of my hips. The desk groaned under the force. Papers slid. A fountain pen rolled off the edge and clattered somewhere on the carpet. I didn't care. Clarissa was loud, God! She was loud. Moaning my name like a prayer, begging for harder, faster, deeper. "Like that,fuck yes, don't stop please" Her voice fractured every time I bottomed out, hitting that spot that made her whole body jerk. I angled my hips deliberately, grinding against her cervix on the deepest strokes, then pulling back just enough to drag along her walls again. She sobbed with pleasure, thighs shaking, slick running down the inside of her legs. I leaned over her, chest to her back, one arm banding around her waist to keep her pinned. My free hand slid between her thighs again, found her swollen clit and pinched it lightly between thumb and forefinger, rolling it in time with my thrusts. She shattered. Her scream was primal, back arching violently, inner muscles spasming so hard I nearly lost control. I fucked her through it, relentless, drawing out every aftershock until she was whimpering, oversensitive, trembling. Only then did I let myself go. I buried deep, hips flush against her ass, and came with a low, guttural groan, hot, thick pulses that made her whimper again. I stayed seated inside her for long seconds, breathing hard, letting the last ripples move through both of us. Then I pulled out slowly. She slumped forward, panting, thighs slick and trembling. I tucked myself away, zipped up, adjusted my cufflinks. Business as usual. That was when I saw her. Raven Noir had been standing in the open doorway the entire time. Arms loosely crossed, expression blank, no widened eyes, no parted lips, no flush creeping up her neck. Just those storm eyes watching, cool, unreadable, clinical like she was observing a medical procedure instead of a man fucking his employee across a $40,000 desk. The rage hit first, sharp, irrational. How long? How much did she see? Then came the heat, darker, hungrier. She hadn't left. She hadn't averted her gaze. She had simply... watched. Clarissa finally noticed her. She startled upright, yanking her skirt down, clutching the torn edges of her blouse over her breasts. "Who the hell is.." "Out," I said. Voice flat. Final. Clarissa blinked, dazed, mascara smudged at the corners. She shot Raven a venomous look, pure female territoriality, then stumbled toward the private elevator on unsteady heels. The doors closed with a soft hiss. Silence. Thick enough to choke on. I walked toward Raven slowly, deliberate steps stopping when there was barely a foot between us. Close enough to catch the faint scent of leather from her jacket, the clean bite of soap on her skin, no perfume, no artifice. "You're early," I said. My voice still carried the roughness of sex. "Apparently." One word, no inflection. "You watched." "Yes." A long beat. "Did it bother you?" Her gaze flicked down once to the obvious outline still pressing against my trousers then lifted again. "It was... educational." I almost smiled. Almost. Instead I stepped closer. "You didn't flinch." "I don't flinch." Another beat. I tilted my head. "You always cover part of your face?" Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction. I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Half mask, full mask, hood, whatever. As long as the body fetches money for both of us, I don't give a damn what you hide." She let the silence stretch. Measured it. Weighed it. Then, quietly, "Why me?" I let my eyes drag over her, slow, deliberate. From the combat boots up the dark jeans hugging long legs, past the leather jacket zipped just high enough to hint at the curve beneath, to that severe ponytail and those unreadable eyes. "I'm a businessman, Raven. I venture into anything that turns a profit. And you..." I paused, letting the words settle. "...you look like you could turn a very large profit." She didn't react, not a blink, not a shift in weight. I continued. "Velvet Reservoir. My highest end club, private rooms only, Invite list clientele. The kind of men who drop six figures without blinking for the right performance. I need dancers who command attention, not just bodies on poles. Presence. Control. You walk like you already own the room before you step into it." Still nothing. "Pay starts at fifty thousand a night. Cash. No paper trail unless you want one. Tips can double it, triple it, on a good weekend. You keep eighty percent. I take twenty for the venue, security, and discretion. No questions asked. No strings beyond showing up, performing, and leaving with your cut." Her head tilted slightly, the first real movement since I started talking. "And if I say no?" "Then you walk out that door and I never see you again." I leaned in a fraction. "But you won't say no." "Why not?" "Because you watched me fuck her for fifteen straight minutes without blinking. Most women would have left. Or screamed. Or cried. You just... observed. Like you were a tiny little whore." Her lips curved, just the barest hint of something that wasn't quite a smile. "Maybe I am." I studied her. The way she held herself, relaxed but coiled. The way her eyes never wavered. The way she smelled faintly of rain and leather and something sharper underneath, maybe adrenaline, restraint, hunger, or anger. I didn't care which. "When do I start?" she asked. "Friday. Ten p.m. I'll have a car sent to wherever you want picked up. Black SUV. No markings. You'll be escorted straight to the private entrance." She nodded once, small, decisive. Then she turned toward the elevator. I spoke before the doors could open. "Raven." She paused. Didn't turn. "Next time you watch," I said, voice low, "I'll make sure it's worth your time." She didn't answer. The doors slid closed behind her. I stood there for a long moment, still hard, still buzzing with unfinished heat, staring at my own reflection in the glass. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't run. And that, more than anything, made me want to break her open just to see what was really underneath