Damien Armani didn’t dream.

He calculated. Slept in silence. Woke up sharper than he went to bed. That’s how it had always been. Clean mind. Cold blood. Nothing he couldn’t predict or dissect. Dreams were for the weak, the messy. The human.

Until last night.

She was in his office.

Not like a visitor. Not like a threat.

No—she was on his desk.

Her fingers on the collar of his suit. Mouth against his jaw. Breathing hard. Skin flushed. Her body bent back over polished wood, scattering papers and weapons alike. And he was behind her, still wearing that perfect jacket, everything still buttoned except what she had ripped open.

And it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t romantic. It was chaos. Filthy. Fast. Like something he’d never allow in real life. Like something he’d punish someone else for even thinking about.

But it was happening.

In his office.

His sanctuary. His war room. The place where no one touched him, where he ruled everything with the flick of a wrist.

And in the dream, she owned it. Owned him.

He grabbed her hips like he needed to anchor himself. She pulled his hair like she’d done it before. Her voice broke when he pushed harder. The desk creaked. The air cracked. And God—he liked it. Not just the act. The surrender. That she didn’t ask permission. That he gave her none. That somehow, she matched him.

He woke up mid-breath. Gasping. Burning.

Sheets twisted. Chest heaving. His hand was gripping the edge of the mattress like he’d nearly fallen.

And for a second, he just sat there.

Silent.

Staring.

“…what the f***.”

Because that wasn’t a fantasy. That wasn’t some random slip of lust.

That was him, unrecognizable. Out of control.

And her? She wasn't his type. She wasn’t his anything. Different world. Different history. She didn’t come from the war he fought to build himself. She wasn’t tailored like his suits, trained like his enemies. She was wild. Loud. Too close. Too much.

He’d always kept her at a distance. Barely tolerated her presence. Shrugged off the tension. Ignored the pull.

But now?

He couldn't unsee it.

And worse—he couldn't even blame her.

That dream… that was his. Born in his mind. On his desk.

He would’ve killed someone else for dreaming that about her.

And now, all he can do is sit in the dark, sweating through silk sheets, wondering what part of himself just cracked open.

Damien Armani didn’t fall.

But something slipped last night.

And it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the beginning of something.