Chapter 18
Arianette
Sleep parts like waves on the ocean, my body buoyant, like I’m floating over the sea. It’s the creak of the mattress, the give of springs, that reminds me I’m not adrift, but simply asleep, back in the bedroom at the House of Night.
Before I’m fully awake I feel the thick stretch of someone inside me–hot and hard–filling me so deep it drags a gasp from my throat before my eyes even flutter open.
The room is still dark, taut with quiet, the only sounds our breaths mingling and the faint creak of the bed.
It's dreamlike, edges blurred, my body warm and loose from sleep, slick with remnants of the last time I was claimed.
He slides in easily, no resistance, just a lazy roll of hips that nudges deeper, sparking low heat in my core.
It's slow at first, matching the haze in my head–gentle thrusts that make my toes curl, his hand splayed possessively over my hip, holding me close while he grinds.
I arch back into him instinctively, half-asleep, my mind floating in that surreal space between reality and reverie.
His chest presses to my back, skin fever-hot, muscles shifting like coiled steel under me.
Then hunger takes him. A low growl rumbles from his throat, and suddenly he's flipping me onto my back, strong hands gripping my thighs, lifting my legs over his broad shoulders.
The shift steals my breath—he's so much bigger like this, manhandling me effortlessly, spreading me wide as he pounds in, hard and relentless.
The bed shakes, wet sounds filling the dark, his cock dragging fire along my walls with every brutal snap of his hips.
His mouth finds my breasts, worshiping–lips latching onto one nipple, tongue swirling the silver bar piercing through it before he tugs with his teeth, hard enough to make me whimper.
He sucks hard, rolling the metal bar between his lips, and pinches the other until both are throbbing, swollen peaks under his rough palms. Pleasure-pain blooms hot, my fingers tangling in his short hair, pulling him closer even as my body jolts with each thrust.
He pulls out abruptly, leaving me quivering, and travels down my body like a shadow–kisses trailing fire over my stomach, hips, thighs.
His breath ghosts hot over my clit, then his tongue is there, flat and insistent, lapping at the piercing ring, tugging it between his lips.
He sucks the sensitive hood and flicks the metal with the tip of his tongue before delving lower to taste me fully.
It's surreal, half a dream, his grunts vibrating against my folds, breath ragged, body on fire as he spreads my legs impossibly wider, shoulders shoving my thighs apart, muscles flexing like he's devouring me whole.
He surges back up, kisses me deep–his tongue invading, making me taste myself on him. Pussy. Copper. Salt. Him. I moan into his mouth, lost in the haze.
Then he's thrusting again, deeper, better, hitting that spot that whites out my vision, hips slamming home with possessive force. My body's molten, coiling tight, every nerve singing as he drives me higher. Grunts punctuate the air, his breath hot on my neck, hands everywhere–gripping and bruising.
I shatter first, an orgasm rippling through my body that feels so hot I might melt. My walls pulse wildly around him, a thick moan trapped in my throat.
He follows with a guttural groan, pulling out at the last second–thick spurts of cum painting my pussy warm and soft, pooling sticky on my folds.
His fingers dip through the slick, sliding the mess up over my lips.
I lick instinctively, salty and musky, then kiss him, tongues sliding through the shared taste.
"Is this a dream?" I whisper, lost and confused in the dark, heart hammering. "Damon?"
The weight above me freezes, then dissolves–solid heat turning to mist, slipping through my fingers like sand, and a shift ripples through the dark, subtle, but undeniable.
I’m weightless for a breathless second, floating, carried on some unseen current until I’m gently anchored again.
An arm–strong, familiar–reaches out, drags me close.
Damon’s scent wraps around me, warm skin and soap, grounding me.
I blink up into the blackness, heart still racing. There’s… something. A presence lingering just beyond the edge of sight, a shadow that doesn’t belong to the room or to us.
Except it does.
“Daddy?” I whisper, pushing up on an elbow, voice small and uncertain in the quiet.
Nothing answers. Whatever I thought I felt is already gone, vanished like a dream pulled just out of reach.
Damon stirs behind me, half-asleep, and tugs me back down without a word. I curl into him willingly, cheek pressed to the steady rise of his chest, letting my fluttering heartbeat slow against the calm thud-thud, thud-thud of a man caught in the threads of a deep sleep.
The rain hammers the tall glass windows of the student center like it’s trying to get in, turning the world outside into a gray blur.
Inside, it’s chaos–every table crammed with students hiding from the downpour, laptops open, coffee cups steaming, voices overlapping in a constant hum.
The air smells like wet coats and burnt espresso.
I’m tucked into a corner booth with Damon, waiting for Hunter’s class to let out.
We were supposed to meet by the fountain, but no one’s braving that storm.
Damon’s hand has been on my leg since we sat down, his palm warm through my jeans, thumb dragging lazy lines up the inside of my thigh.
Every pass sends heat in two directions, a hot streak licking up my spine and a throb in the new piercing.
I can’t stop replaying last night—how he pulled me into his bed without asking, the way his body curved around mine, hard and possessive.
He’d been greedy. When he finished, he didn’t roll away; he kept me pinned close, arm locked around my waist like he was afraid I’d vanish, and fell asleep still buried in my hair. It felt… safe. Different.
I barely remember the second time–dream-hazy, half-conscious–but my body held the truth. I woke sticky, sore in the best way, his cum just starting to flake between my thighs.
Damon’s thumb pauses high on my leg when movement catches my eye.
Story’s weaving through the crowd, brown hair swinging, short dress skimming her thighs above knee-high boots.
Rath trails a step behind, dark hair messy, piercings glinting under the fluorescents, his whole vibe daring anyone to approach.
Damon’s pierced eyebrow–the one now shadowed by fresh Memento Mori ink–arches as they approach.
When Hunter asked him about it in the truck this morning, he just shrugged those broad shoulders and looked out the window.
It’s obvious he got it after he left the hypnosis.
It should be off-putting. Instead it makes my stomach flutter.
I drag my eyes away from my Baron and back to the couple walking our way. Rath’s energy is coiled tight, eyes scanning like he’s waiting for a threat.
The last time I saw Story we were tiptoeing around one another in the bathroom, doing our best to play by the rules. Today, though, she walks straight up to our table with purpose, and I feel the shift immediately—every frat-connected gaze in the building snaps our way.
A table full of jocks in LDZ shirts goes still. A cluster of PNZ on the open couches leans forward just a fraction, while over by the coffee cart, a few DKS stop mid-conversation. Even the Shadows–Mateo and Carson–push off the wall they’ve been holding up, arms crossed, watching.
The way Story ignores all of them makes me think she’s grown accustomed to the attention. She stops right in front of us, offering a small smile. “Hey.”
Damon and Rath exchange a curt nod—the barest of acknowledgments.
“I was hoping to find you here,” Story says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to talk to you about the annual toy drive.”
I blink. I have no idea what she’s talking about; it must show on my face.
She rolls her eyes, but it’s gentle. “This is the kind of thing Regina should have told you, but not every past House Girl actually follows through. God knows mine didn’t.
” She shrugs. “Anyway, every year Panhellenic sponsors a Christmas toy drive for the kids at the children’s hospital.
It rotates houses. This year, it’s technically PNZ’s turn, but Verity just had Justice, so she’s obviously not in any shape to organize it.
I figured maybe the rest of us could team up to pull it together. ”
I glance at Damon, unsure of the rules here. He gives me the smallest nod–go ahead.
“I’d be happy to help,” I say, meaning it. “It sounds like a great idea.”
“Awesome.” Story’s smile widens, genuine relief flickering across her face. “Lavinia’s in too. Since the rest of this week is off for Thanksgiving break, if it works for you, we can meet Monday at the library, second floor study tables, four p.m.”
I don’t look to Damon this time. I know my schedule–dance lets out at 3:45. “I can be there.”
“Great.” She nods, already stepping back. “Guess we’ll see you Friday night at the Fury.”
Rath slings a heavy arm around her shoulders, tugging her close as he steers her away.
Damon’s hand finally stills on my thigh, fingers squeezing once in silent approval as Story and Rath head over to the table with the jocks.
When the attention from the rest of the room fades away, I turn to him, suddenly unsure.
“Was that okay?” I ask quietly. “Talking to her like that? Agreeing without checking with you first?”
His dark eyes flick to mine, the corner of his mouth lifting in that slow, rare way that always makes my stomach flip. “You did good, Doll Baby,” he says, voice low and warm. “Real good.”