The Billionaire's Intern (Maya Thompson) novel Chapter 252

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The steam had barely cleared when they finally stepped out of the shower, bodies sore, skin flushed, hearts still racing. Damien wrapped Maya in a thick towel, pressing a lingering kiss to her damp hair before handing her one of his shirts to slip into. She wore it with an easy.

smile, the fabric swallowing her frame, her bare legs peeking out beneath the hem.

Maya chuckled softly, smoothing the hem. “You know… I actually brought my own clothes.”

Damien’s gaze darkened, slow and deliberate as it traveled over her. “I know,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “But I prefer you in mine. It makes it clear who you belong to.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she laughed, rolling her eyes. “So it’s not about comfort, it’s about

possession?”

“Exactly,” he said with a wicked grin, tugging her closer by the waist. “And for the record, you look far too good in my shirts for me to let you wear anything else.”

Maya leaned against him, giggling. “Well… I guess it saves me on laundry, too.”

Damien smirked, brushing his lips across her temple. “Then it’s settled. Whenever we’re home

you’ll wear only my clothes.”

Maya’s brows lifted slightly, her voice soft, almost uncertain. “Home?”

His arms tightened around her, pulling her flush against him until her face rested against his chest. He pressed a slow kiss to the top of her damp hair, his voice low but steady. “Yes… our home.”

Something inside her ached at those words. Warmth spread through her chest, chasing away every shadow of doubt. For the first time in a long while, the word home didn’t sound like a place-it felt like him.

By the time they dressed, their hunger had shifted. The craving for intensity was replaced by a simpler one-food. Damien moved around the kitchen with a casual grace, sleeves rolled up, shoulders broad as he chopped vegetables and set pans sizzling. The scent of garlic and butter filled the air, making Maya’s stomach growl despite the warmth still coiling in her belly.

“Mmm, smells good, love. I still can’t believe the Damien Blackwood can cook,” she teased, perched on a stool at the counter, chin in her hand as she watched him work.

Damien smirked over his shoulder, sliding a pan across the burner. “Not everyone has the privilege of tasting my cooking. I only cook for myself… and for someone I love.”