Protecting the Billionaire's Daughter

His hand cupped my breast, thumb circling the hardened tip, while his mouth claimed mine with bruising hunger. My back pressed against the leather seat, my legs tangled with his, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think-couldn't care.

The warmth of his tongue dragged over my nipple through silk, teasing, tasting, until I whimpered against his lips. One hand kneaded me slowly, deliberately, while the other squeezed my waist, anchoring me in place like I belonged to him.

I didn't push him away. I pulled him closer.

"Damon..." My voice broke on his name, shaky, pleading.

He groaned into my mouth, deep and guttural, like he'd been starving for me since the moment he saw me. His lips left a trail of fire down my throat. His teeth grazed my skin, and my thighs squeezed together helplessly.

I knew it was wrong.

I knew it could destroy us both.

But in the backseat of that car, with rain pelting the tinted glass and my father's empire only streets away, wrong had never felt so intoxicating.

This wasn't how a bodyguard should touch his boss's daughter.

This wasn't how Marcus Kingsley's perfect heiress should behave.

Yet Damon Cross didn't kiss me like an employee.

He kissed me like a man who had already decided I was his.

⸻

Six Weeks Earlier

I should have known trouble the moment I saw him.

The gala was suffocating. Champagne, chandeliers, a hundred false smiles. My father clamped his hand around my arm as he dragged me from one shareholder to the next, showing me off like I was another glittering asset in his collection.

And then, in the corner of the ballroom, I saw him.

Damon Cross.

He didn't mingle. He didn't smile. He didn't sip champagne. He stood at the edge of the light, tall and broad, his black suit stretched across a body built for war, not waltzes. His eyes swept the room with sharp calculation-until they landed on me.

And stayed.

Everyone else saw "Aria Kingsley, the billionaire's daughter."

Damon looked at me like he saw the girl beneath the diamonds.

And that was infinitely more dangerous.

⸻

The danger came quickly.

A crash outside. Shouts. The glittering crowd froze, panic rippling like a wave.

Before I could even gasp, Damon's arm locked around me, pulling me against his chest, shielding me completely.

"Down," he growled in my ear, his voice rough, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

I should have been terrified of the noise.

Instead, all I felt was the strength of his body caging mine.

When the chaos turned out to be nothing more than a drunken paparazzo, Damon still didn't let go right away. His hand lingered at my waist, strong, possessive, unyielding. Too long. Too deliberate.

And when he finally released me, I knew something irreversible had begun.

⸻

Now

Six weeks later, my body was proof of it.

His mouth was hot on my breast, his hand pushing the fabric aside now, tongue swirling over bare