Dirty and Sinful Collection (erotica)

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.

I love the brutality, the way he takes without asking, like he has every right.

Like I belong to him.

"You're mine to ruin," he growls, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.

And I know. I already am.

His grip tightens on my hips, holding me in place, forcing me to take every relentless inch. My nails scrape against the polished surface of the table, useless against the brutal way he claims me.

I should hate this. Hate the way he's handling me like I'm nothing but a plaything, hate the way he's punishing me for my defiance.

But my body betrays me.

It welcomes the ruin.

"You feel that?" Damian growls, dragging himself out only to slam back in, splitting me open on his cock. "This is what happens when you act like a fucking brat, Sienna. You get used."

A whimper rips from my throat.

I want to fight back, to tell him to fuck off, but all that comes out are broken, gasping moans as he pounds into me, ruthless, punishing.

He's too big, too deep. My legs shake beneath me, and when I try to push up on my elbows, his hand presses between my shoulder blades again, forcing me back down.

"Stay down," he commands.

I bite my lip, trying to hold back the helpless sounds bubbling in my throat.

Another sharp smack lands on my ass.

My breath shudders. "F-fuck you."

He chuckles, dark and dangerous. "You're already doing that, sweetheart."

I hate him.

I hate him for knowing exactly what I want.

For making me crave this.

His other hand slides into my hair, twisting it around his fist, pulling my head back just enough to force my spine into a perfect arch. My back burns from the stretch, my body caught between the hard table and the even harder press of his body.

And then he does something worse.

He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he slows his thrusts, dragging himself out inch by inch, making me feel every second of his thick cock stretching me open before slamming back in.

"You were so fucking mouthy before," he murmurs. "Where'd all that arrogance go, hmm?"

I clench my jaw, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Another spank. My body jerks.

"Answer me, Sienna."

"I-" My voice breaks on a moan. I feel pathetic, weak, my usual confidence stripped away with every brutal thrust.

"That's what I thought," he taunts, his fingers digging into my hips. "Just a spoiled little brat who needed to be put in her place."

His pace increases, fucking me harder, driving me to the edge so fast it makes my head spin.

I can't hold back anymore.

My body tightens around him, my legs trembling, pleasure coiling in my stomach, hot and humiliating.

"Damian-" I gasp, nails digging into the table.

He chuckles, smug. Knowing.

"You gonna come, brat?" He yanks my head back, forcing me to meet his gaze in the reflection of the glass window in front of us.

The sight sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.

I look wrecked.

Face flushed, lips parted, mascara slightly smudged, my dress bunched around my waist while Damian is behind me, his shirt still on, his expression dark and possessive.

I look like I've been ruined.

His grip tightens in my hair, his other hand moving to my clit, rubbing circles that send me into free fall.

I come hard, a shattered cry tearing from my lips as my body collapses against the table. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, my thighs quivering as Damian fucks me through it.

"Fuck," he grits out, thrusting once, twice-

And then he buries himself deep, groaning low in his throat as he fills me.

The aftershocks leave me boneless, my breathing ragged, my body still pinned under his.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then he finally pulls out, adjusting his belt like he didn't just fuck me senseless in an event room at a charity gala.

I should feel ashamed.

But all I feel is satisfaction.

I turn my head, resting my cheek against the table as I smirk up at him.

"That all you got, Cross?"

His dark gaze flickers.

And then he smirks right back.

"Be careful what you wish for, princess."

I barely have time to adjust my dress before Damian grabs my wrist, tugging me toward the door with brutal efficiency.

"Where the hell are we going?" I mutter, my legs still shaky, my body aching from the way he just used me against that table.

He doesn't answer.

He just guides me through the back halls, past unsuspecting servers and event staff, until we reach the private exit. A black car is already waiting, the driver standing by the door.

Damian barely acknowledges him as he helps me inside, sliding in next to me, his body heat searing against mine.

I should fight. Argue. Taunt him.

Instead, I slide into the back seat, crossing my legs, feigning boredom despite the way my skin burns.

The ride to my hotel is silent.

His fingers tap against his thigh, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Like he's restraining himself. Like if I so much as breathe wrong, he'll snap.

I want him to.

By the time we reach the hotel, I'm buzzing with anticipation.

I take my time unlocking the door to my penthouse suite, stepping inside, waiting for him to follow.

He does.

The door clicks shut behind him and don't get a chance to turn around because he's on me.

One second, I'm standing near the couch-the next, my back is pressed against the wall, Damian's mouth crashing into mine, his hands pinning me still.

His kiss is brutal, claiming, teeth and dominance, punishing me for every defiant word I've ever spoken.

I moan against his lips, arching into him, clawing at his shirt.

"You just don't fucking learn," he mutters, dragging my dress down my shoulders, baring my breasts to the cool air.

I shiver. Not from the temperature-from him.

He cups one breast, squeezing, his thumb flicking over my already sensitive nipple.

"I should make you beg this time," he murmurs, his lips trailing hot kisses down my neck. "Should make you work for it."

I scoff. There is no way in hell I am going to beg for him.

But when his hand slips between my thighs, and his fingers slide through how wet I still am, I let out a whimper.

"Pathetic," he smirks, shoving my dress down completely. "You get used like a whore and still want more?"

My face heats, but I lift my chin, meeting his dark gaze.

"I can take more," I taunt. "Can you?"

His eyes flash.

Wrong move.

He grabs me, spins me around, and shoves me against the penthouse window.

I catch my own reflection in the glass. I look wrecked and I'm sure I'm about to look worse.

Damian yanks my panties down my thighs, spreads me open, and drags his cock through my slick folds, teasing me, tormenting me.

"Beg," he orders.

I bite my lip and shake my head. A smack lands across my ass.

I gasp, my body jolting against the glass.

"Try again," he murmurs, rubbing the sting, pressing himself against me.

I clench my fists and force the words out.

"Please."

"That's not begging."

Another spank.

I whimper, my thighs clenching and my body desperate.

"Please, Damian," I gasp. "Fuck me."

His low chuckle makes my stomach flip.

And then he slams into me, stretching me open, burying himself to the hilt.

The breath punches out of me.

I brace against the window as he starts moving, each thrust deep, brutal, shoving me against the glass.

I can see us in the reflection-his hands gripping my waist, his body dominating mine with his expression dark and possessive.

I look owned.

His.

He fucks me mercilessly, his hand wrapping around my throat, tilting my head back against his shoulder.

"You take it so fucking well," he growls, biting my neck and leaving marks. "Like you were made for this."

I can't speak. Can barely breathe.

All I can do is feel.

Pleasure builds, climbing higher, higher-

Until I come so hard my vision blurs, my body shattering against the window, my scream muffled by his hand on my throat.

Damian follows with a low, guttural groan, thrusting deep and shooting his seed inside of me.

By the time he pulls out, I'm boneless, my legs refusing to hold me up.

He catches me before I collapse and carries me to the bed.

I don't even argue because the second my head hits the pillow, my body gives out.

The last thing I feel is Damian pulling the covers over me.

The last thing I hear is his low, amused voice. "Sleep, brat. You're gonna need it."