A WALL BETWEEN THEM

The jet touched down smoothly on the private runway, the city stretching out in a golden haze beyond the glass. Even at midnight, Los Angeles pulsed with life—neon lights flickering in the distance, sleek black cars gliding through the streets, and the faint hum of sirens in the far-off background. The air was thick with warmth, a lingering heat from the day, carrying the scent of asphalt and luxury.

It had been two weeks since the whole kissing incident and cafe incident.

She still hadn’t gotten any feedback from Trisha.

Damian had informed her of a business trip they had to take for a business meeting in Los Angeles.

Damian barely spoke as they descended the steps of the aircraft, his phone in hand, thumb gliding over messages. His presence remained commanding even in silence, his tailored black shirt unbuttoned at the top, the fabric clinging to his broad frame effortlessly.

A private car awaited them. Lana slid into the leather seat beside him, her body still buzzing from exhaustion and tension—both from the long flight and from the weeks of unspoken friction between them.

As the car glided through the city streets, she found herself staring at him in the dim lighting. He looked unaffected, relaxed, yet there was a sharpness in his jaw, a tension in his grip on his phone. Always controlled.

She exhaled quietly, turning her gaze to the window, watching the city blur past.

The Astoria Luxe was an architectural marvel—its exterior a sleek combination of glass and warm marble, towering high above the streets. Golden chandeliers spilled soft light into the grand entrance, illuminating the polished floors and cascading water features in the lobby.

As they stepped inside, the scent of expensive cologne, fresh roses, and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe—hung in the air.

Lana adjusted the strap of her handbag, feeling the weight of lingering stares.

The receptionist at the front desk, a young woman with manicured nails and a too bright smile visibly faltered as Damian approached. Her gaze flickered over him, widening slightly before she quickly smoothed her expression, lips parting.

“Welcome to the Astoria Luxe, Mr. Wolfe,” she said, her voice carrying the practiced warmth of someone eager to please.

Lana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Predictable.

Damian, of course, barely acknowledged it, sliding a black card across the counter without sparing her a second glance.

“Your suite is prepared,” the receptionist continued, casting a brief, assessing glance at Lana almost as if wondering who she was. Or why she was here with him.

Lana simply lifted a brow in return.

Moments later, an attendant led them to the private elevator. As the doors slid shut, sealing them inside, Lana folded her arms.

“She was practically undressing you with her eyes,” she muttered, watching their reflections in the mirror-like walls.

Damian barely reacted, except for the slight quirk of his lips. “Jealous?”

Lana scoffed. “Hardly.”

The elevator chimed, and before she could say more, the doors opened to reveal their suite.

The suite was breathtaking.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one side, offering a dazzling view of the city’s skyline, where skyscrapers gleamed against the midnight sky. Soft golden lighting illuminated the space, bouncing off rich mahogany floors and crisp white bedding.

The master bedroom was separated from the second by a single conjoined door—closed, but very much there.

Lana exhaled as she dropped her bag onto the velvet ottoman at the foot of the bed.

It was too elegant. Too intimate.

And too close to him.

She caught Damian’s gaze as he stood by his own door, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow precision.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Big day tomorrow.”

Then he disappeared into his room, leaving Lana alone with her thoughts—and the unmistakable awareness of the door that separated them.

Lana woke with a start.

The room felt hot. Too warm, like the air had grown heavy, wrapping around her in thick waves. The silk sheets clung to her skin, and with a soft groan, she sat up, pushing her hair back.

She padded barefoot across the suite, the cool floor offering some relief as she reached for the air conditioning panel. The faint glow of the city lights spilled through the windows, casting shadows along the plush carpet.

Her white silk nightgown barely skimmed her thighs, the material so light it was practically weightless. Maybe I should’ve worn something else.

With the AC humming softly now, she turned toward the nightstand and grabbed a book, hoping it would lull her back to sleep.

She curled into the chaise lounge by the window, flipping a page and humming softly, the melody something old, something familiar.

Then—

A click.

A soft creak.

Lana stilled.

It wasn’t the main door.

It was the conjoined door.

Her heart thumped against her ribs as she slowly turned her head.

And there, standing in the doorway, was Damian.

He wasn’t dressed.

At least, not really.

He stood with one hand against the doorframe, wearing only loose pajama trousers that hung dangerously low on his hips. His biceps flexed slightly as he ran a hand through his already-messy dark hair.

His face was shadowed, unreadable.

But he looked… tired. Stressed. Unraveled in a way she wasn’t used to seeing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was rough, husky from the late hour.

Lana swallowed, gripping the book tighter. “No.”

He exhaled, stepping further into the room.

Her eyes couldn’t help but track the way the light played over his muscles, the sharp definition of his abs, the low dip of his waistband that threatened indecency.

God.

She suddenly felt exposed.

Her back pressed into the plush cushions, and that’s when she realized—

Her nightgown, delicate as it was, had shifted.

The soft silk clung to her breasts, sheer enough that her hardened nipples were visible beneath the fabric.

Damian noticed.

His gaze flickered lower, darkening.

Her throat went dry.

Shit.

She wished she had worn something else. Anything else.

He stepped closer, the distance between them vanishing.

A heavy silence stretched between them, thick, charged.

Then—he reached for her book.

Plucked it from her hands.

Tossed it onto the bed.

Lana’s breath hitched.

He was too close now, standing over her, his scent—clean, masculine, intoxicating—wrapping around her senses.

His fingers brushed her knee, barely a touch, but her whole body tensed.

“You shouldn’t sit here looking like that,” he murmured.

“Like what?” she whispered.

His thumb traced slow circles along her inner thigh.

“Like you’re waiting for me to fuck you.”

A shudder ran through her.

She should stop him.

She should.

But then—

His fingers traveled higher.

And all thoughts of stopping him disappeared.

Alright, continuing from where we left off, keeping the slow build-up, the intensity, and the deep descriptions to make it immersive.

Lana’s breath came shallow now, her pulse erratic as Damian’s fingers trailed higher, tracing an invisible path over the smooth skin of her thigh.

His touch wasn’t rushed.

No.

It was slow, deliberate—like he was taking his time savoring the moment, reveling in the way she tensed beneath him.

She should say something.

She should stop this.

But her mouth had gone dry, words trapped somewhere between her thoughts and the growing ache in her body.

The air between them was heavy.

Heat licked at her skin, a different kind of warmth than what had woken her earlier. This was internal, spreading in deep, molten waves.

“Damian,” she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper.

His gaze lifted, locking onto hers.

Dark. Intense.

Like he was holding back something dangerous.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard.

Because she couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

He smirked as if he already knew that.

And then—

His palm flattened against her thigh, pushing up ever so slightly.

A shiver ran through her, her skin pebbling at the sensation.

The silk of her nightgown had slipped higher, the hem barely covering her, teasing the air between them.

Her stomach tightened, anticipation coiling.

She should’ve known this would happen.

That this was inevitable.

She had spent weeks pushing back, pretending there wasn’t something electric between them. Pretending she didn’t see the way his gaze lingered too long when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

But right now, there was no pretending.

Only the undeniable pull.

Only the heat pooling between them.

Only him.

Lana let out a slow, shaky breath.

And that was all the permission he needed.

Seduced in the Dark

Damian moved fluidly, shifting onto the bed, caging her in.

His hands were braced on either side of her, his body impossibly close, the scent of him—spiced cologne, clean linen, something unmistakably masculine—invading her senses.

Her head tilted back against the pillow as he leaned in, his breath grazing her jaw, a ghost of a touch, a promise of something more.

She felt his lips, barely there, hovering over her skin.

Testing.

Teasing.

The silk of her nightgown whispered against her body as she shifted, the fabric brushing right where she was aching.

Her fingers curled into the sheets.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured against her throat.

She was.

Because this wasn’t just attraction.

This was something deeper.

Darker.

Dangerous.

Damian’s lips traced a slow path along her collarbone, warm, firm, unhurried.

She sucked in a breath as his hand finally met bare skin, sliding up over her waist, his fingertips skimming over her ribs before—

She gasped.

Because his thumb had just grazed the hardened peak of her breast through the sheer fabric.

The reaction was instant.

A rush of heat. A soft, almost involuntary arch of her body.

His lips curled slightly, like he had just confirmed something he already knew.

“You want this,” he said, voice rough with restraint.

Lana’s lashes fluttered.

She couldn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way she shuddered, the way her lips parted, the way her breath hitched—it was all the answer he needed.

Then—

His mouth closed over her nipple.

A low moan slipped past her lips, unbidden, as warmth enveloped her, as his tongue flicked, as he sucked lightly—

A sharp, wicked pleasure shot straight through her.

She felt it everywhere.

In her fingertips.

In the deep, pooling heat between her thighs.

His other hand gripped her hip, holding her still as he took his time, teasing, exploring, savoring.

It was torture.

Sweet, aching, slow torture.

Her fingers found his hair, gripping, nails pressing against his scalp, but it only spurred him on.

Another flick of his tongue.

Another sharp pull between her thighs.

She was burning now.

And Damian—

He wasn’t stopping.

Wasn’t rushing.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly what he was doing to her.