Kiss and Grab

Damian's POV

Damian Cross leaned back in his leather armchair, a smirk tugging at his lips as he cradled his phone to his ear. His sprawling penthouse was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, casting a warm glow over the sleek, modern furnishings. A glass of scotch sat untouched on the polished marble side table, the amber liquid catching the light.

"Marcus, you wouldn't believe it," Damian said, his tone laced with amusement. "This woman—I didn't even catch her name—was something else. We met at the bar last night. She had this… air about her. Confident but mysterious. You know the type."

On the other end of the line, Marcus Reed chuckled. "Let me guess, she was all over you within minutes?"

Damian grinned, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Not quite. She played coy at first, but I saw right through it. A few drinks, a little conversation, and, well, let's just say the night took a very interesting turn."

Marcus laughed loudly. "Of course it did. You could charm a nun out of her vows, Damian. So, what happened?"

"Let's just say she didn't leave until the early hours," Damian replied, his smirk deepening. He glanced toward his bed, where faint traces of the previous night lingered—rumpled sheets and a lingering scent of her perfume. "She was sprawled across the bed like she owned it. I didn't mind. It was... enjoyable."

Marcus groaned in mock exasperation. "You make the rest of us look bad, you know that?"

Damian laughed, the sound low and rich. "It's not my fault I have a knack for this. Women just seem to… gravitate toward me."

"Gravitate?" Marcus snorted. "More like fall head over heels. So, you're going to this gala tonight, right?"

"Of course," Damian said, running a hand through his dark hair. "It's an opportunity I can't pass up. Networking, a bit of entertainment—and who knows? Maybe another mystery woman."

As they spoke, a quiet knock echoed from the main hallway. Damian gestured lazily for his house staff to enter, not bothering to pause the conversation. His "boys," as he referred to his personal stylists and attendants, walked in carrying garment bags of varying lengths and colors.

"Hold on, Marcus," Damian said, setting the phone on speaker and placing it on the table. "Looks like my suits have arrived."

The stylists carefully unzipped the bags, revealing an array of impeccably tailored suits in a spectrum of colors—midnight black, deep navy, crisp white, and even a daring burgundy. Each suit was crafted from the finest materials, the stitching so precise it was almost invisible.

"Sir, we've prepared a selection for tonight," one of the stylists said, holding up the black suit first. "This is a classic look, perfect for the gala's formal setting."

Another stylist stepped forward with the navy suit. "This one has a touch of modern flair, with subtle detailing on the lapels."

"And this," a third added, gesturing to the burgundy suit, "is bold. It will definitely make a statement."

Damian rose from his chair, walking over to inspect the options. His sharp eyes roved over the fabrics, his fingers brushing against the fine material.

"Always such a production," Marcus teased over the phone. "You need all that just to impress people who are already impressed by you?"

"It's not about them," Damian replied with a smirk, picking up the navy jacket to examine it. "It's about the message. The right suit says I'm in control before I even open my mouth."

His stylists nodded in agreement, standing at attention as Damian debated his choices.

"Which one, Marcus?" Damian asked, holding the phone closer to the suits. "Black, navy, or burgundy?"

Marcus's laughter echoed through the line. "You could show up in a potato sack, and people would still fall over themselves to talk to you. But if you're asking, go with the navy. It's sleek, confident—like you."

Damian smirked, slipping the navy jacket over his shoulders and turning toward the mirror. The fabric molded perfectly to his frame, emphasizing his broad shoulders and slim waist.

"Good choice," he said, adjusting the cuffs. "As always."

"Now go knock 'em dead," Marcus said. "And if you meet another mystery woman, try to remember her name this time."

Damian chuckled, ending the call as his staff moved to finish preparing him. The stylists adjusted the jacket, straightened his tie, and polished his Italian leather shoes until they gleamed.

Damian glanced at his reflection, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. He looked every bit the part of a man who owned the world.