Damian's POV
Damian Cross lay sprawled on his bed, the silk sheets cool beneath his bare skin, his shirt hanging open to reveal the sculpted contours of his chest. The low, ambient lighting painted him in shades of gold, a fitting palette for the man who seemed to have everything. His hand rested lazily on a glass of whiskey, untouched, as his mind drifted into the vast gallery of his memories. Women—countless women—each one drawn to him as if by some unspoken gravitational pull, each encounter an intoxicating blend of power, passion, and mastery.
Damian's allure wasn't accidental. It was a carefully cultivated arsenal of presence and charisma, honed to perfection. From the moment he entered a room, he became the center of its gravity. His movements were deliberate, his gaze a magnetic force that demanded attention. It wasn't just his wealth, though that played its part, nor his impossibly sharp features or the way his suits seemed sculpted to his form. It was the way he carried himself, a silent promise of something deeper, darker, more irresistible than anyone else could offer.
He thought of the way women responded to him, often before he even spoke a word. A lingering glance from across the room would ignite something electric, a faint flush rising to their cheeks, an unconscious quickening of their breath. He played the game of seduction with the precision of a maestro, orchestrating a symphony of desire. His approach was never clumsy or overt; it was measured, calculated, a subtle dance that left them wondering if they had pursued him first.
Damian's mind wandered to his touch, the power it wielded. He remembered how his fingers would brush ever so lightly against the curve of a hand or trail down an exposed arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It wasn't just the contact; it was the way he made it feel inevitable, as though the universe had conspired to bring them into each other's orbit.
He thought of the way he kissed—slow, deliberate, teasing at first, as though savoring the taste of a forbidden fruit. He always waited for that moment when the tension reached its peak, when his partner's breath hitched, and they leaned in closer, silently begging for more. Then, he would deepen the kiss, taking control, leaving them utterly breathless, their hands clutching at him as though he were the only thing anchoring them to the earth.
Damian smiled to himself, the memories flooding in vivid detail. He recalled the way a woman's body would melt into his, her resistance crumbling as his voice wrapped around her like silk. He had mastered the art of saying just enough—words that hinted at his interest, revealed a sliver of vulnerability, and then retreated, leaving her craving more.
It wasn't just physical attraction; Damian knew how to make a woman feel seen, truly seen. He could detect the insecurities they tried to hide, the desires they were too afraid to voice, and he would draw them out, carefully and skillfully. It was his superpower, his ability to make any woman feel like the most beautiful, desirable creature alive. And when he touched them, they believed it, every fiber of their being alive with his attention.
The encounters themselves were never hurried. Damian took his time, building anticipation like a painter layering strokes on a canvas. He would let his fingers linger on the small of her back, his lips brushing against her collarbone before retreating, leaving her gasping, her body arching toward him in desperate need. He would whisper against her skin, his voice a low, seductive murmur that made their knees weaken and their thoughts dissolve into pure sensation.
Damian's smirk deepened as he remembered their whispers, the way they would confess their disbelief at how utterly consumed they were by him. They always thought they were different, that they could resist, but Damian knew better. He thrived on their hesitation, on breaking down their carefully constructed walls until they were his, entirely and unequivocally.
He thought of the scent of their hair, the soft gasps they couldn't suppress, the way their bodies moved in sync with his, as though responding to some primal rhythm only he could conduct. Damian knew his power, and he wielded it with the precision of an artist, the dedication of a craftsman.
But as he lay there, the memories swirling in his mind like a haze of intoxicating smoke, he felt a flicker of something deeper. Not regret, nor guilt—he was far too self-assured for that—but a quiet curiosity. What was it about him that made women fall so completely? Was it his charm? His confidence? Or was it the way he seemed untouchable, a force of nature they longed to tame?
He raised the glass of whiskey to his lips, taking a slow sip, the burn a sharp contrast to the softness of his thoughts. Damian had always reveled in his power, in the control he exerted over every situation. But tonight, he found himself wondering what it would feel like to surrender, to let someone else take the reins.
The thought lingered for a moment before he dismissed it with a shake of his head. For now, he was content to play his role, to be the man every woman desired and no one could truly possess. After all, he was Damian Cross—the embodiment of power, passion, and perfection. And in this world, that was more than enough.