*Isabella's POV*
Damien held me still, his grip like iron, his body a hard, unyielding wall behind me. Then, his hand moved, tangling in my hair, grabbing a handful and pulling my head to the side, exposing the sensitive line of my neck. He brought my ear closer to his mouth, his breath hot against my skin.
"Did I or did I not tell you to stop calling me 'sir'?" he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble that caused a shiver to run straight through me, a shiver that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the dark, dangerous thrill he ignited in me.
"You did," I managed to whisper, my voice a pathetic, breathy thing. "But how was I supposed to address you in front of everyone?"
"Don't lie to me, Isabella," he said, his voice a low, accusatory murmur. "You used your bedroom voice."
He was right. The fucking bastard was right. I did it on purpose. I just couldn't fucking resist it. The way he tensed up, the way his eyes darkened... it was a drug. And that's exactly the type of reaction I was expecting from him.
"You're right, sir," I said, my voice dropping lower, a deliberate, seductive challenge. "I did it on purpose."
"Stop calling me 'sir'," he said, his voice a low growl, a warning shot. "Or else."
"Maybe that's what I want, sir," I whispered, the word a final, delicious taunt.
"You're testing my patience, Isabella," he said, his grip on my hair tightening just enough to make my scalp tingle. "You know by now I don't tolerate disobedience."
"Oh, I'm shaking," I mocked, he paused, and I could feel the shift in the air, the game changing. "You know very well what you're doing, don't you?" he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. His eyes were dark, burning with a desire so intense it was almost frightening.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear, his command a raw, possessive whisper that left no room for defiance.
"Strip. Now."
The words hit me like a fucking lightning bolt. All the teasing, all the defiance, it all came crashing down in a single, heart-stopping moment. This was it.
My fingers trembled as they moved to the buttons of my blouse, but my eyes never left his. This was it. The point of no return. I slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned my shirt, letting it fall open to reveal the simple black lace bra underneath. Then I shimmied out of my skirt, letting it pool at my feet. I stood there in nothing but my bra and panties, my heart hammering against my ribs, my skin tingling under the weight of his intense, predatory gaze.
He didn't say a word at first, just watched me, his eyes dark, burning holes into my exposed skin. Then, he gestured with his chin towards the large, polished desk behind me.
"Bend over the desk," he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl.
A slow, wicked smile touched my lips. "Yes, sir," I said, the words soft, submissive I turned, my movements fluid, and bent over the desk, but only slightly, a final, silent act of defiance.
That was a mistake.
In a heartbeat, he was on me. He pushed me down roughly, his hand flat on the small of my back, pinning me against the cold, hard wood of the desk. My breasts were pressed against the surface, the shock of the cold making me gasp. He leaned over me, his body a heavy, dominant weight, his lips brushing against my ear.
"I told you I don't tolerate disobedience," he whispered, his voice a raw, possessive promise that sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated fear and lust straight through me. I was completely and utterly at his mercy. And fuck, it was exactly where I wanted to be.
He pulled my panties up, the fabric digging into my ass, pulling it tight against my dripping wet pussy. The rough lace rubbed against my clit with every movement, and I couldn't stop the low moan that escaped my lips.
"Greedy, are we?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You really need to be punished."
And just like that, a palm landed on my ass cheek. Hard. The sharp, stinging slap echoed in the quiet office, making me squeal. But the sting was immediately followed by a jolt of pure pleasure as the friction of the panties against my clit sent a shockwave through me.
SMACK. His hand came down on the other cheek, the impact just as hard, just as shocking. Heat bloomed across my skin, a delicious, burning warmth that made my head spin. He didn't wait. He set a rhythm, a steady, punishing cadence, switching between my two cheeks, each spank a sharp, stinging blow that left me gasping.
My pussy grew wetter with every spank, soaking the thin lace of my panties until they were clinging to me, a second skin. The sound was obscene—the sharp slap of skin on skin, my whimpers turning into loud, shameless moans, joined his own heavy, ragged breathing. I was pushing back now, arching my back to meet his hand, like a desperate, needy whore begging for more.
"Look at you," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "Getting so fucking wet for me. You love this, don't you? You love being punished."
I couldn't answer. I could only moan, my fingers clawing at the polished wood of the desk, my body a live wire of sensation. He spanked me again, harder this time, right on the tender spot where my ass met my thigh, and I cried out, my vision blurring.
"Please," I whimpered, the word a broken, desperate plea. I didn't know what I was begging for. For him to stop? For him to never stop?
He paused, his hand resting on the heated, stinging flesh of my ass. The sudden lack of contact was its own form of torture. "Please what, Isabella?" he asked, his voice a low, mocking whisper. "Please stop? Or please, sir, make me cum?"