Billionaire's Innocent Obsession

Damian's Pov

I didn't need to know her name. In the dark, names were just noise, and I preferred the suffocating silence of a pure, physical transaction.

The woman beneath me-a French runway model whose face was currently plastered across billboards in Times Square-let out a ragged, breathless gasp as my fingers dug into her hips. Her back arched off the crisp, Egyptian cotton sheets of my penthouse master bed, her long legs wrapping tightly around my waist, begging for a friction that would never satisfy the hollow ache inside me.

"Damian," she whimpered, her manicured nails clawing at the muscles of my back. "Please... mon chéri..."

I didn't kiss her. I never kissed them. A kiss required intimacy, an acknowledgement of the person breathing beneath you, and I didn't want a person. I wanted a drug. I wanted the raw, blinding heat of skin against skin, the heavy thud of my chest against hers, and the primal, rhythmic violence of an encounter that would temporarily drown out the screaming emptiness in my chest.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany handle of my bedroom door rattled violently.

"Daddy?" a small, muffled voice called out from the hallway, followed by a persistent, aggressive pounding on the wood. "Daddy, open the door! I want to watch the movie with you! Daddy!"

Damn it.

A heavy wave of irritation crashed over me, instantly freezing the heat in my veins. Chantal froze beneath me, her eyes wide with sudden awkwardness.

"Is... is that your son again?" she whispered, trying to pull the silk sheets up to her chest.

"Ignore it," I growled, trying to recapture the numbing rhythm, but the pounding only grew louder, accompanied by a sharp, high-pitched whine.

"Daddy! I know you're in there! Open it!"

It was Damian Junior. DJ. My four-year-old shadow, and the absolute bane of my private life. Ever since his mother packed her bags and accepted a twenty-million-dollar wire transfer to vanish from our lives four years ago, DJ had developed a suffocating, hyper-attached obsession with me. He didn't want nannies. He didn't want toys. He wanted me. Even at just four years old, he trailed behind me like a ghost, invading my space so relentlessly that bringing a woman home had become an absolute logistical nightmare. He was always there, lurking in the corridors, knocking on doors, sabotaging every attempt I made to escape my own mind.

"Daddy!"

"Go back to your room, Damian!" I barked toward the door, my voice booming and dark.

The knocking stopped, replaced by a low, heartbroken sniffle that made a sharp spike of guilt twist violently in my gut. I hated the guilt even more than the interruption.

With a low curse, I pulled away from Chantal, entirely unbothered by her disappointed sigh.

I threw on a heavy black silk robe, tying it tightly around my waist as I strode to the door and yanked it open.

DJ was standing there, clutching a vintage silver pocket watch-the only piece of his mother he had left. His pitch-black hair was messy, and his gray eyes, identical to mine, blinked up at me with a mixture of desperate need and stubborn defiance. He looked past my shoulder, his small jaw clenching as he caught sight of Chantal's bare shoulder under the sheets. He hated them. He hated every single woman who took my attention away from him, and he made sure they knew it.

"Go to bed, DJ," I stated, my baritone clipped and cold. "I have a guest. I will check on you in the morning."

"You always say that," DJ muttered, his voice cracking. He didn't move. He stood his ground, a tiny barrier successfully ruining my escape. "She smells like cheap flowers. Tell her to leave."

From the bed, Chantal let out an outraged gasp.

"Damian, return to your room right now before I lose my patience," I growled, towering over him, my shadow engulfing his small frame.

He glared at me, his lower lip trembling, before turning on his heel and marching down the hallway, slamming his bedroom door behind him. The mood was entirely dead. The craving inside me was scratching at my throat, wild and unsatisfied, but the hollow numbness was gone, replaced by a bitter, suffocating hangover of irritation.

"Damian, darling..." Chantal purred, reaching out a manicured hand from the bed.

"Marcus will have a car waiting for you downstairs," I said, not even looking back at her as I walked toward my private bathroom. "He will wire the allowance to your account. Goodbye."

An hour later, I was driving through the pouring rain, the Maybach cutting through the dark Manhattan streets. I couldn't stay in that penthouse. DJ's suffocating attachment was driving me insane, and I needed to move. I needed a distraction.

My driver pulled up to the curb outside Vance Luxury, my flagship boutique on Fifth Avenue. The rain was torrential, hammering against the pavement. I stepped out, a bodyguard holding an umbrella over my head, intending to do a late-night walkthrough of the luxury inventory to clear my head.

But as I stepped toward the glass entrance, I froze.

A woman was standing outside the display window, completely drenched by the storm. She was holding a cheap, broken umbrella, but her eyes were entirely glued to the emerald-green silk gown on the mannequin.

The streetlights caught her face, and my breath stopped completely.

She was, without a doubt, the most exquisite creature I had ever laid eyes on. She had pale, porcelain skin, dark lashes thick with raindrops, and a face that belonged in a masterpiece. But it was her body that made a sudden, violent surge of raw, primal lust slam straight into my groin. She was wearing a cheap, faded coat, but it couldn't hide the spectacular, jaw-dropping geometry of her frame. She had a tiny, impossibly small waist that flared out into heavy, voluptuous, and breathtakingly curved hips. Her chest rose and fell heavily against the fabric of her wet shirt, her full, heavy breasts straining against the fabric.

I wanted her. I wanted her immediately. I wanted to tear that cheap coat off her, pin those lush, heavy curves against the glass window, and bury myself in her until the noise in my head completely vanished.

I pushed the heavy boutique door open, the warmth of the interior rushing out.

"Is there something you need?" I growled, my voice dropping into a dark, predatory rumble that cut through the sound of the rain.

She snapped her head toward me. Her wide, innocent eyes flared with pure, unadulterated panic as she recognised my imposing frame and the raw hunger flashing in my gaze. She looked terrified, like a beautiful deer cornered by a wolf.

She took a clumsy step backwards, her heel catching on the wet concrete. Her cheap umbrella clattered to the ground. Before I could reach out to trap her against the wall, she turned and bolted into the dark, rainy night.

I watched the hypnotic sway of her heavy hips as she ran, my heart pounding with a dangerous, electric heat I hadn't felt in years.

"Find out who she is," I ordered my head of security, my eyes still fixed on the empty corner where she had disappeared. "I don't care what it takes. Find her.