The city lights blurred beneath the rain-slicked window, but Damian’s eyes never left Elena. She sat behind her massive desk, poised and perfect—too perfect, too controlled. He could see the steel beneath the silk, the fire she hid from the world. Without warning, he crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until the heat radiating off his body wrapped her like a vise. His hand slid under the edge of her blouse, fingertips grazing bare skin with a touch that burned. “Elena,” he whispered, voice low and commanding, “you don’t know what it means to let go.”