Dirty and Sinful Collectionsteamiest

1

Sienna's POV

Being rich, powerful, and devastatingly attractive means one thing-I get away with murder.

Not literal murder, of course. Though I suppose if I did, my lawyers would find a way to make it disappear. That's the thing about being Sienna Laurent-I do whatever I want, whenever I want, and no one can stop me.

Not my employees. Not my competitors. And certainly not the hulking slab of muscle currently shadowing my every move like an overprotective guard dog.

Damian Cross.

My new bodyguard.

Six foot something of pure intimidation, carved from granite, with cold, unreadable eyes and a perpetual look of disapproval whenever he looks at me. Which, to be fair, is often-because it's his job.

And also with the way he thinks it's in his job description to tell me what and what not to do.

I HATE being told what to do.

It's a fundamental truth, as certain as the fact that champagne tastes better in a crystal flute and that men exist to be inconvenienced by me. The world revolves around me, as it should. And yet-

"You're not supposed to be here."

That voice. Low, cold, annoyed. A voice that belongs to someone who doesn't know his place.

I glance over my shoulder, already smiling before I meet his glare. Damian stands in the doorway of the rooftop lounge, looking like he wants to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of here like some damsel in distress.

Except I'm not in distress. I'm simply bored.

"Relax, darling," I purr, turning my attention back to the city skyline. Below, the charity gala continues in full swing-lights, music, the murmuring hum of the elite pretending to care about sick children. "I needed some air."

"You needed to disobey a direct order."

I roll my eyes and sip my champagne. "Oh, please. You act like I snuck into a war zone. It's a rooftop."

"A rooftop that's off-limits." His footsteps are slow, deliberate, controlled. Predatory. "I told you, no wandering off alone."

"And I told you," I sigh, tilting my head just enough to smirk at him, "that I don't take orders from hired help."

Something flickers in his eyes. A flash of something dangerous, something I can't quite name. It excites me.

Because Damian Cross is not like the other men in my life. He doesn't simper or fawn. He doesn't soften when I pout or let me get away with murder just because I bat my lashes.

No.

Damian sees me.

And he doesn't fucking care.

Which is why I keep pushing.

"You're crowding me," I say airily, lifting my glass to my lips. "Go loom somewhere else."

I expect him to step back. He doesn't.

Instead, he moves in closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the raw power in the way his body dwarfs mine. My breath catches, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of stepping away.

"You think this is a game?" His voice is pure gravel, scraping along my skin.

I hum, tilting my head. "Isn't it?"

His jaw tightens. "No."

The tension between us thickens, dark and electric.

I should be nervous. I should apologize, let him drag me back downstairs like a well-behaved little thing. But I don't do shoulds.

I do whatever I want.

I lift my glass-slowly and deliberately-and tip it.

Champagne spills, trickling over my fingers, down the stem of the flute, and then-onto his shirt.

A single drop lands on his chest.

The silence that follows is lethal.

Damian moves. Fast.

One second, I'm standing by the railing, and the next, I'm yanked back, spun around, and shoved against the nearest wall. The breath punches out of me.

My champagne flute shatters on the floor.

I don't care.

Because fuck.

His hand is on my throat. Not squeezing, just there, a firm, unspoken warning. His body pins me, his thigh wedged between mine, his grip on my hip bruising.

"You don't listen," he murmurs.

I swallow, heart hammering. "I wasn't aware that was a requirement."

He makes a sound. Low. Dark. Like he's done playing.

And then he's moving again, dragging me away from the broken glass, through the rooftop doors, down a dimly lit hallway.

I don't fight him.

I could.

But I don't.

Because something deep inside me thrums with anticipation.

I want to see what happens next.

When we reach an empty event room, he kicks the door shut behind us. The lock clicks.

I smile. "Oh, Damian. If you wanted me alone, you could have just asked-"

I don't finish.

Because he bends me over the table.

The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp as my stomach meets the cool, polished surface. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, pinning me there.

"Did you think I wouldn't do something about that little stunt?" His voice is dangerously calm.

I swallow, my pulse pounding. "What stunt?"

"The champagne."

Oh.

I did think he'd let it slide.

Apparently, I was wrong.

"You're a fucking brat," he mutters, lifting my dress with a sharp tug. The fabric slides up, pooling around my hips, baring my lace panties to the cold air.

Heat flares in my cheeks, but I don't squirm.

I want to see how far he'll go.

I want to see if he can break me.

A sharp smack lands across my ass.

I yelp, more from shock than pain.

The next one is harder.

A low whimper slips past my lips before I can stop it.

He hears it.

He knows.

"You act untouchable," he muses, dragging a rough palm over the sting. "Like nothing gets to you. But this?" He lands another smack, the impact sending a jolt of pleasure through me. "This tells me everything I need to know."

I bite my lip, hating how wet I am, how eager.

I refuse to give in.

So I taunt him. "That the great Damian Cross likes to hit women?"

Wrong move.

His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back just enough for his lips to graze my ear.

"No," he murmurs. "That you like being put in your fucking place."

Before I can respond, he tears my panties down my thighs.

The sound of ripping lace echoes in the room.

A rush of heat floods me.

And then his fingers are on me, spreading me open, finding me soaked.

He exhales a low, dark laugh. "What a surprise."

I should tell him to fuck off.

I should fight, should remind him that I'm the one in charge.

But my body betrays me.

I arch into his touch.

"Say it," he orders, rubbing his fingers against my aching clit. "Say you're just a brat who needs to be put in her place."

I shake my head, panting. "Go to hell."

He pulls his hand away.

No.

A frustrated whimper slips out before I can stop it.

He chuckles. "Oh? You didn't like that?"

I grit my teeth, refusing to answer.

Another smack. My body jolts.

"Use your words, Sienna."

I hate him.

I hate that he's winning.

But I hate being left like this even more.

My pride is a fragile, useless thing when my body is already his.

So I break.

"I'm just a brat," I whisper, barely audible.

His grip tightens. "Louder."

I clench my fists, humiliated. "I'm just a brat who needs to be put in her place."

"Good girl."

And then he slams into me.

The air leaves my lungs in a choked moan.

He's deep, stretching me wide, filling me in a way that feels like punishment.

And I love every fucking second of it.