Chapter 171: Devil’s Woman Can’t Stop (R18+)

Ana held his obsidian gaze in the gilded mirror, refusing to drop her chin even as his heavy warmth seeped through the ivory knit. A slow, sharp smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, masking the flutter of her pulse beneath his grip.

​"Are you sure you aren’t the one obsessed with me, Damian?" She challenged, her voice smooth and teasing, cutting right through his dark aura. "Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like Damian Sterling gets surprisingly romantic when he’s jealous."

​Damian didn’t flinch. Instead, his fingers tightened into the swell of her hip, hauling her back until there wasn’t a millimeter of air left between them. A low, wicked rumble vibrated against her spine.

​"If locking you inside my house, marking every inch of your skin, and taking you whenever and however I want makes me romantic, then I’ll gladly wear the title, Ms. Vance," he rasped against the shell of her ear, his gravelly tone dripping with unapologetic authority. "Because that is the only love language you are ever going to get from me."

He doesn’t wait for a response. He steps in close, the heat of his body radiating through his suit. His hand slides down with a sudden, possessive urgency, dipping beneath the fabric of your clothes. His fingers find her inner folds, discovering that she is already slick, her body betraying her defiance.

He begins to work his fingers with a slow, agonizing precision, each stroke designed to drive her toward the edge. She moaned, her breath hitching as she try to maintain some semblance of control.​"I have to go, Damian," she whispered, though the slight hitch in her breath completely betrayed the command.

He lets out a low, dangerous chuckle, increasing the pace of his fingers. He presses his chest against your back, forcing you to lean back into him completely, anchoring you to his strength.

​"Then go," Damian murmured, a dark chuckle scraping down her neck. His hand shifted, his thumb hooking beneath the hem of her knit dress, sliding high enough over bare, fevered skin to make her shiver. "I dare you to go, Anastasia. Let’s see if you can actually resist leaving without finishing."

She try to protest, but the words die in her throat, replaced by broken gasps. Damian looks into the mirror, watching her reflection... her eyes clouded, her lips parted in pleasure. He smirks, teasing her by slowly pulling his hand away from her heat, threatening to leave her unfinished.

Panic flares in her chest. Her hand shoots out, grabbing him, pulling him back into you with a desperate strength.​ Ana’s lips parted, her vision swimming as his touch sent a jolt of liquid heat straight down her spine. "I... I should..."

​The words died in her throat.

​Damian looked up, catching her unfocused, flushed reflection in the glass. He deliberately loosened his grip, starting to pull his hand away as if to let her step forward.

​Before her mind could stop her, Ana’s hand shot down, her fingers locking tightly around his wrist to keep him anchored against her hip.

​"Don’t," she breathed, a helpless tremor running through her frame. "Don’t you dare."

​A triumphant smirk pulled at Damian’s mouth. "That’s what I thought."

Damian lets out a dark laugh against the sensitive skin of her neck before he plunges back in, his pace becoming relentless. He drives her over the edge, making her see stars as she come violently against his fingers, her body shuddering in his arms.

As she pant heavily, still trembling from the peak, he spins her around to face him. Her eyes are unfocused, drifting in the afterglow, but he doesn’t give Ana a moment to recover.

He grips her waist with a bruising intensity, pulling you flush against his hardness, and claims her lips in a slow, punishing kiss that tastes of ownership and obsession.

​Click.

​The door to the walk-in closet slid open with a sharp, echoing rattle.

​"Ana, if you don’t pick a pair of shoes in the next two minutes, the valet is going to..."

​Valerie froze in the doorway.

​Her sunglasses slid down the bridge of her nose, her eyes darting between Damian holding Ana suspended against his chest and Ana’s thoroughly flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

​Valerie threw her hands up toward the ceiling with theatrical, exasperated despair.

​"Are you serious? In the closet? Right now?" Valerie groaned loudly, marching two steps forward, grabbing Damian firmly by the elbow, and attempting to physically haul his massive frame toward the doorway. "Out. Absolutely not. You have had her all night, you territorial brute. She is mine until four o’clock. Go brood in your office and let the woman put on a pair of heels!"

******************

The car pulled up to the gated perimeter of Julian Thorne’s limestone estate in the Upper East Side. Security cleared them instantly, the heavy iron gates swinging inward to reveal a courtyard lined with three black SUVs... Julian’s detail on full tactical standby.

​Inside the grand foyer, the scene felt like an exact mirror of the Sterling penthouse.

​Clara stood by the marble console table, dressed in a sleek charcoal pantsuit, slipping a pair of dark sunglasses onto her nose.

Towering over her was Julian, looking impeccably sharp yet thoroughly infuriated, running a hand through his dark hair as he physically blocked her path to the front doors.

​"You are not setting one foot outside this house, Clara," Julian said, his deep voice carrying the unyielding chill of a man accustomed to commanding private military contractors. "Vivian Stark escaped federal custody weeks ago. You were held at gunpoint three weeks ago... have you lost your mind?"

​"I haven’t lost anything, Julian," Clara shot back, folding her arms over her chest and glaring right up into his face without backing down an inch. "What I have gained is an absolute hatred for being treated like a piece of antique porcelain you keep locked in a display case."

​"It’s called tactical security, not a display case..."

​"It’s called house arrest, and you don’t have the legal authority or the right to impose it on me," she snapped, her chin tilting high, cutting right through his overbearing presence. "Julian... You are not my warden, and you certainly don’t get to dictate my life. I am leaving with Valerie and Ana, and if your men try to touch my car door, I will punch every single one of them before lunch."

​Valerie leaned against the arched double doors, clearing her throat with a loud, theatrical sigh that echoed through the marble hallway.

​"God, is overbearing paranoia a mandatory trait for men with nine-figure bank accounts, or do you two take classes together?" Valerie asked, strolling in with Ana close behind.

​Julian’s sharp gray eyes snapped to them, narrowing with dark irritation. "Valerie. Anastasia. Don’t tell me you two are actually enabling this death wish."

​"It’s called living, Julian," Ana said smoothly, stepping forward with pristine, unbothered poise, her high-collared knit dress pristine and her heels clicking softly against the marble. "Vivian and Dante want us trembling behind locked doors. If we vanish from public view, we hand them the psychological advantage. The press is outside Le Cirque right now waiting to see if Sterling and Thorne are bleeding. We are giving them the opposite."

​Clara smirked, reaching over to pick up her Birkin bag from the console and neatly sidestepping Julian’s frozen, towering frame.

​"See? The adults have spoken," Clara said, brushing past his shoulder without looking back. "Stay here, look over your threat assessments, and try not to give yourself an headache before we get to dessert."

​Julian stood in the center of his grand foyer, his jaw ticking in furious, helpless disbelief as the three women breezed out into the morning sun, leaving him with the exact same frustrated defeat Damian was currently nursing across town.

*******************

For the first time in months, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of high-stakes corporate warfare dissolved into the background. Flanked by a discreet perimeter of plainclothes security detail, the three women took over the city.

​Their first stop was a tucked-away Parisian bistro near Madison Avenue. Instead of the delicate, picture-perfect salads typical of their social circle, Valerie took absolute control of the menu. She ordered truffled frites, duck confit, rich lobster bisque, and warm brioche, laughing as Clara shook her head in disbelief.

Valerie even seized the opportunity to lean across the polished zinc bar, shamelessly trading sharp, flirtatious banter with a handsome French sommelier who couldn’t stop sending complimentary reserve vintages to their corner booth.

​From there, they moved into a private luxury salon. Dressing room doors swung open and shut in a blur of silk, cashmere, and high-fashion tailoring.

Clara swapped her rigid corporate suits for an effortless backless slip dress, while Valerie strutted out in an extravagant crimson coat, posing dramatically until both Ana and Clara dissolved into genuine, unburdened laughter.

​By late afternoon, wanting to escape the flashing cameras entirely, Valerie secured a private screening room in a vintage cinema downtown. With gourmet popcorn and champagne, the three of them sank into velvet recliners to watch a classic black-and-white romantic drama.

​Clara was completely absorbed in the dialogue, and Valerie was quietly nodding off against a plush pillow. But as the projector flickered in the dark, Ana found her gaze drifting from the screen.

​On the silver canvas, the male lead held the woman with tender, reverent care. His touch was gentle, his words filled with soft confessions, sacrificial devotion, and an open, unguarded vulnerability. It was the kind of love built on peace... a love that offered a sanctuary rather than a battlefield.

​A cold, familiar ache twisted deep in Ana’s chest.

​She leaned back into the shadows of the velvet seat, her fingers unconsciously drifting to the high collar of her dress, feeling the faint, lingering sting of the dark bruises beneath the fabric.

​Her life would never look like that.