The boardroom was finally empty, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind the last member. Papers rustled as you flipped through your notes, trying to focus on numbers and projections instead of the way Damien Ashton’s voice still lingered in the air like static.

The man had a way of getting under your skin — always smug, always challenging you, his sharp green eyes scanning for flaws like a predator. Today had been no different; you’d sparred over strategy until the others were shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt it — that subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of his cologne, and then his voice, low and edged.

“You drive me insane,” he said.

You looked up, arching a brow. “Is that your professional feedback, Mr. Ashton?”

His jaw tightened. “No. That’s me telling you that I hate how much you get to me.”

You should have laughed. Should have said something cutting, clever. But before you could, he stepped closer — too close — his hand braced on the table beside your notes.

And then his mouth was on yours. Hard. Demanding. Like he was trying to erase every argument you’d ever had in a single breathless, heated kiss.