Chapter 13
MAE
See you downstairs for breakfast. Just us.
D
x
An intimate promise sealed with a kiss.
I smile when reading the words for a third time before leaving the note sitting atop my recent sketches. It’s a hot, dry California day, even more so sans a breeze. Brushing my hair, I twist it into a gold claw clip before slipping into a knee-length dress.
Once outside, the entertaining pavilion is void of life—no Damon and still no staff. Taking a moment, I watch the perfectly still water in the pool, now completely innocuous and glimmering under the bright sun. It’s a far cry from the coffin it became in my nightmare.
The sorrow that felt all too real then now seizes my throat a second time.
You were killed.
They won.
Breathing sharply, I turn my back on the harrowing memory.
Just us.
Determined to forget the horrors of Peter and Carlson, I follow the scent of something salty and mouth-watering, eventually finding the kitchen. Stunningly European in every way imaginable, it’s something worthy of its own coffee table book.
Damon is behind the large counter, his back to me as he attends to the pan on the gas stove. I watch, transfixed by his triceps and back muscles flexing under his white shirt as he confidently goes through the motions.
“Right on time.” He turns and greets me with a disarming smile, rendering me utterly defenseless against his charm. “Come in, take a seat.”
“Can I help with anything?”
He lifts a quizzical brow. “I’ve practically held you against your will, and you’re asking if you can help me?”
It didn’t seem so strange until mentioned. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Mae, I hope if someone carjacks you, you don’t offer to pay for the tank refill.” He’s joking, of course, but the analogy is unsettling and accurate.
“Perhaps I no longer consider being here as against my will.”
It’s not the response he expected, but he certainly warms to the idea. “I’m rather pleased to hear that. How’d you sleep?”
“Well,” I lie. They took your life. “And you?”
Fixing his gaze on mine, I know exactly what’s traversing through his mind. “Restlessly.”
The feeling is painfully mutual because I, too, wish he’d crawled into my bed last night. I wish more than anything that he hadn’t told me to run.
“Are you hungry?”
For you? Yes. “I am now. Breakfast smells delicious.”
Flipping the dishtowel over his shoulder, Damon serves our food onto two plates. Then, rounding the counter, he sits beside me. Having him so close but not touching feels unjust, and while I’m comforted with his presence, I’m also giddy with nerves, and the slight tremble in my hands as I handle the cutlery deceives me.
When he speaks, the deep rumble of his voice lulls me back to a place of sanctuary. “Do I still make you nervous, sweetheart?”
In every way.
If I speak the truth, would Damon Shaw consider me a fool? That I reap what I sow because of my own naivety? “If I’m to be honest, I don’t think there will ever be a time when you won’t make me nervous.”
“And is that a good thing?”
“It’s what’s keeping me alive.”
Under his intensity, I discover Damon, too, needed to hear the answer as much as I needed to say it. “Then I give you my word to never stop.”
And that’s what’s dangerous about the man before me.
I fell hard for him the moment our eyes met across the room. There was something unequivocally familiar about his smile and instant devotion, and no matter what transpires between us, the tether will continue to thicken and knot until we find ourselves unable to relinquish the other without feeling the full force of withdrawal and loss.
It’s me who looks away first, simply out of self-preservation. I have to see this through to the end of the contract signing to know how exactly I’m going to fare. So, I take a mouthful of spinach and mushroom omelet and savor the taste, my appreciative moan breaking the silence.
“I’ll never tire of hearing that sound,” Damon murmurs, and I feel the rush of it.
“I have to confess, I make this same dish every weekend and not once has it ever tasted this incredible.”
He smiles and winks. “The secret is Manchego cheese and a dash of black truffle oil.”
What we choose to leave unmentioned is how Damon knew this to be a regular dish of mine. While it should probably raise more concern than I’m allowing, at the same time, it’s also particularly considerate.
“So, how do you know David Rossi?” I ask of the Gallery of National Art director.
Damon sets his linen napkin aside before answering, “We’ve done business in the past.” It’s a topic that, for whatever reason, he simply won’t elaborate on. When I press no further, he offers a diversion. “The pinnacle of most artists’ careers is to exhibit at the Augustine, and you achieved that monumental feat by twenty-four.” Praise comes as naturally to Damon as spite does my husband. “I hope you’re prepared for the world of opportunities this will create for you.”
No matter how confident he is on my behalf, anxiety surrounding my impending deadline returns, and that’s all conditional on what life looks like for me when all this is over. “Thank you. I mean, still, at this point, it feels a little too surreal, and I keep having this reoccurring nightmare that no one shows up on opening night, but it’s just my nerves. Allyson, my agent, has been working relentlessly on the guest list. A great turnout will be entirely because of her.”
Damon isn’t so convinced. “Only in the sense of spreading the word. I’ve been a patron of the arts for many years, and I promise, I don’t attend merely out of a favor to the agent. And neither would David. Your husband may not see the importance of having the National Art Director in attendance, but he’s a widely respected figure in the industry with incredibly discerning taste, so it should be seen as a testament to you and your work.”
“That’s incredibly generous of you to say.” A tight lump lodges in my throat. Not since my mother has a kind word been said to me—my inner circle is limited to Peter’s vetting—but the compliments just seem to roll off Damon’s tongue as if he means every word.
“So,” he says, determined to refocus me, “I understand the exhibit’s title is to be revealed next week.” To know that, he must be following the Augustine socials, and for some reason—despite knowing he’s no stranger to delving into my personal life—it makes my heart skip a beat. “But since it’s just you and me here, sharing our love of the arts, maybe you could indulge me.”
A vivid and still fresh memory presents itself—trauma unresolved.
Damon notices.
Shit.
“You don’t have to tell me if—”
“No.” My hand covers his, but just as fast, I pull away. “That’s not the problem.”
My scalp burns in memory of Peter having wound my ponytail around his fist, dragging me from my seat where I’d been composing an email to Allyson with the exhibit title and overview.
He’d seen.
He’d read.
He’d used it as an opportunity to humiliate.
Pinned down face-first on the dining room table, I didn’t dare scream, for his hold on me could have just as easily resulted in a snapped neck. So, I kept my mouth shut while he had the freedom to open his. Taking liberty of my body, he’d grunted, ‘Let’s find you some fighting words, shall we? Put those on a fucking painting.’
When he’d finished, Peter let me fall in a heap on the floor, and there I stayed, crying while he zipped his jeans and pressed send on my email as he passed.
Since then, I’ve struggled to foster a positive connection with the title.
Until now.
“It’s called Things I Have No Words For. ”
His nod pulls me back to that good place I’ve been searching for. A place where he holds my dream in the palm of his hand and promises to keep it safe. “Things of such great magnitude words simply cannot do them justice.”
He gets it.
“I believe some things are just more visually poetic than others.”
Damon wears well the face of someone who shares the sentiment. “Come,” he says, taking my hand and helping me off the stool. In silence, I’m led through the house until we arrive at his office and stop at the business side of his desk. For one indecent moment, I consider all the delightfully filthy things that could be playing on his mind.
Never one to miss a beat, he rumbles, “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”
Oh, but I want to.
Instead, Damon reaches under the desk and presses a button, a door-sized portion of the bookcase opening to create a secret passage.
“You cannot be serious!”
“This isn’t even the best part.” He leads me through to a mystery room before we’re plunged into darkness. With my primary sense stripped away, all others are heightened when I’m pulled into his arms. His intoxicating scent and the feel of his warm body pressed so perfectly against mine—it’s a powerfully heady position to be in. In here, lost to the outside world, I am completely at his mercy, and there’s no place I’d rather be.
Damon cups my cheek, and I shiver.
I feel his lips before they touch mine, a magnetism drawing me in until we finally connect. At first, his kiss is gentle, a feather’s touch, taunting me into wanting more. I do, so much more, and so does he.
Deepening the kiss, his hands roam from my waist and around my back until I could practically wrap myself around him. There we remain, lost and consumed with the other, blissfully ignorant to the world in which we must return to and face.
When Damon reluctantly pulls away, his low voice hits where it matters. “You’re dangerous for me, Mae. You always have been.”
Having left me breathless, I reply, “I know how it feels.” Then I dare to ask, “Would you change any of it?”
The darkness becomes a confessional of sorts, and I hear the growlish need in his voice stronger than ever. “When it comes to you, sweetheart, not a single thing.”
My heart skips, and in the same instance, a warm glow emanates from antique brass picture lights positioned high on every wall. The middle of the room, however, remains in the shadows.
My eyes adjust, and, “Holy shit.”
Beside me, I hear the smile in Damon’s voice. “I’m guessing you recognize some of the pieces?”
The four walls are lined with framed artwork from varying movements, mostly oil paintings, with rare preliminary drawings thrown into the mix.
“Is that an Edgar Degas ?” I ask, pointing to the far wall at a painting of a solo ballet dancer on stage performing in front of elegantly dressed men.
“It is.”
I turn to the wall next to me. “ Oh my God , you have real Lichtenstein hanging in your house!”
“I do.”
Stepping closer to the two blond lovers locked in a steamy embrace and almost kissing, I read the comic panel and feel each poignant word. ‘We rose up slowly… as if we didn’t belong to the outside world any longer… like swimmers in a shadow dream who didn’t need to breathe…’
I’ve never felt moved by words before. Until now.
“Rather apt, don’t you think?” Damon muses.
The fact that he, too, feels it tells me that whatever path this man wants to take me on, I’ll follow. “This is just incredible.”
“It’s my favorite place to be. I like to come in here and escape the noise. So, when you told me the name of your exhibition, I realized I have a gallery of art pertaining to things I have no words for. These are all the artists’ things , but each one has been purchased because they’re either emotive or triggering in some way.”
This is a telling insight into Damon Shaw—a formidable man I still find so terrifying, but now, for vastly different reasons.
I point to a piece I know to be done by artist Jeffrey Smart. It’s a precisionist’s glimpse of a cityscape behind a solid teal construction barrier, bold roadwork arrows pointing in one direction, dark clouds rolling in the background, and a suspended crane-hook contrasts against the ominous sky. In the foreground, a young girl in a pink dress chases a kite, losing it behind the barrier.
“Smart is known as the master of stillness.” Damon’s voice transports me inside the painting as if I could very well be the lone figure portrayed. “Because his paintings are like capturing the eye of the storm… eerily quiet and isolating.”
The impending storm in the background is otherwise undetected by the girl who’s so easily distracted. All the warning signs are there as clear as day, but her sole focus will prove to be her downfall. The black clouds rolling in, the hook, the arrows, the construction site, each serving as a warning against the undetected threat. Even so, danger continues its path, creeping up from behind until there’s nowhere left to run.
I feel this to my core.
Deep, deep down, the analogy is more fitting than ever.
The eye of the storm.
With nowhere left to run.
~
DAMON
“You were the storm I couldn’t outrun,” she whispers, her voice laden with an emotion that carves itself onto my heart. “I never saw you coming.”
“How could you?” Stepping behind until we mold together, chest against back, Mae leans into me. With her neck exposed today, I plant a single kiss on the scar that has no right being on her body, then continue down into the sensitive crook where she rewards me with an appreciative moan. Mae shivers when I roll my tongue over the areas grazed by my teeth, my sweet girl easily surrendering to the sensation and to me. “I made sure you never saw me coming.” Kiss . “I needed to blindside you for my plan to work.” Kiss . “But what makes you so sure I’m the storm?”
“I don’t know—” Mae gasps when I sink my teeth in a little deeper. “Damon?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I don’t think I can go without you for much longer.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual.”
Restraint is lost when I pull Mae’s dress down to her waist and let it slip to the floor, lace underwear now the only barrier between us.
She turns to face me, and if that look of warring desire doesn’t convince me some promises are worth breaking, then nothing will. I lift her high, and she wraps her legs around my waist. My cock throbs between her open thighs, and in one final act of defiance, she grinds her hips into mine.
My guttural groan is absorbed by Mae’s lips because she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“You’re treading dangerous water, Ms. Ellison.”
She disregards her reckless provocation with a whisper, “What are you going to do about it?”
The beast in me is always lying in wait when Mae is involved, ready to ravage every inch of her body with or without her goading.
“Sweetheart, I showed every ounce of restraint last night, and if you make me go against my word, I can’t promise I’ll hold back.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
“ Fuck! ”
Carrying Mae to the center of the room, I lower her onto the leather chaise. Rolling my hips against hers, we both moan with infuriating need. We kiss hard, tongues feeding our urgency. When I pull away, I can just make out the sensual curves of her body, looking remarkably like she belongs in an art gallery.
Utter perfection .
Mae watches me, biting her bottom lip in anticipation, knowing precisely how we’ll be each other’s undoing. Her vulnerability is dangerous in the wrong hands, my own included, but she gives me every inch of herself without hesitation.
“Let’s just forget ,” she whispers, and I don’t need convincing.
Three words, and I’m hers .
Mae’s fingers rake through my hair, gently flexing when I take turns grazing my teeth over her nipples. Always so damn responsive, goose bumps pattern her soft skin as I trail a path down to her lace panty line. Kneeling, I pull them off and spread her legs wide open.
Fuck. Me.
Her eyes reflect a nervous trepidation. If she thinks I’m the savage about to eat her alive, she’d be right, and I’m not about to sway her opinion. Sinking my face between her legs, my tongue drags through Mae’s pussy, desperate for a taste. I hook my arms around her restless legs, pulling her hard against my greedy mouth. She arches her back while I work her clit, teasing, licking, and devouring.
There’s a murmur—something incomprehensible—when I slide two fingers inside. Immediately clenching at the sudden penetration, she writhes with every thrust.
With a breathless moan, she can’t escape the mounting pressure. “Fuck!” Her beautiful thighs hug my face moments before her pussy tightens, a broken cry filling the gallery as the orgasm tears through her. I keep the same pace because she’s holding me tight—the ride not yet over. Then, when she settles back on the chaise, breathless and sated for now, I lick her pussy, taking my time to enjoy her sweet taste. Mae shivers in delight and sighs like she always does after coming.
“Oh my God,” she murmurs. “Damon…”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I want all of you.”
I crawl my way back up, worshiping her body with every kiss and sucking a nipple into my mouth, rolling it with my tongue. “The next time I take you…” I growl, “… you won’t be his. You’ll be completely, irrevocably mine .”