Chapter 12 The Steam Room
THE STEAM ROOM
EMERY
Damon’s darkness seeps into my skin. There’s no way to avoid his effect on me. On my decisions. On my emotions. Despite Quinton’s smiles and understanding voice, I know I’m causing him harm.
I’m no idiot. The way he looks at me says it all.
He sees me. All of me. Every rough, jagged corner.
Every dirty, deranged valley. And he sees the peaks too.
The soft and gentle and airy. And I see him as well.
I understand him too. It comes naturally.
Like breathing. And yet, every breath I now take is heavy, thick with pain.
And I’m suffocating. Almost choking on the smoke Damon’s brought inside the villa.
It’s unfortunate that I’ve always been so drawn to smoke. Craved it.
Like a fool.
"Emery," Sophie says, glancing up at me from the top of her magazine.
Quinton and his father had urgent business to deal with, leaving us alone. Damon… I don’t know where he is. He’s like a ghost. Haunting me. Never showing his true face.
"You seem tense.” She lowers the newest edition of Vogue. “Is something bothering you?”
She knows exactly what’s bothering me. I don’t blame her for doing what she did. It was wise. A calculated move to prove my worth. And here I sit, aching to catch a glimpse of his stupid fucking face. In time, I’ll corroborate her theory. I’ll show her just how worthless I really am.
“I’m fine.”
Sophie pursues her lips, displeased with my lack of honesty. “Your shoulders say otherwise.” Sighing, she returns to the magazine, casually mumbling. “There’s a spa on the mezzanine. Perhaps a steam would make you feel…more fine.”
I consider her offer. The idea of the steam does sound nice.
Anything to escape the emotional storm brewing inside me.
Nodding, I rise from the plush sofa and make my way toward the spa.
If nothing else, the solitude might help me gather my thoughts.
That might take some time, though. They’re so scattered I can hardly piece two together.
The spa is empty as I step inside, the soft lighting creating a serene oasis.
A serenity that I so desperately need to overpower all the uncertainty clawing at my chest. Mist hangs in the air, and I quickly undress and step inside the foggy room, letting the steam envelop me.
Hug me. Soothe me. My body relaxes as the wet heat seeps into my skin.
Sitting on the bench, I rest my head against the tiled walls. Finally, I’m alone. Alone with nothing but questions and doubts. They flood my fickle mind like a deadly tide, and I grip the edge of the wooden bench.
Quinton or Damon? Safety or passion? Air or fire?
A choice. A decision. Why is it so difficult?
So complicated. Can’t I have both? Why can’t both elements coexist?
The earth would perish without oxygen. And it would die without the sun.
Is one more valuable than the other? Is one more important? More desirable?
Minutes pass as I attempt to calm my racing mind, but it’s a useless battle, one I am not equipped to fight. A part of me doesn’t want to fight. Damn it. I close my eyes and place a hand over my chest, over the faint scar that reminds me that my hatred is invalid.
What do you want, you wicked little thing?
My heart beats against my palm, erratic and unstable.
At least it’s beating. In a way I’ve never experienced before.
My life had been so stable, so predictable, so fucking mundane.
I felt nothing for so long. And now? I feel everything.
And it’s too much. It’s too fast. I never thought I’d miss the void, but that emptiness never hurt like this.
In the dim haze of the steam room, the door creaks open, and footsteps draw my attention.
I sense him before I even see him. My eyes snap open, and through the thick mist, I recognize Damon’s silhouette.
He stands before me, foreboding and tempting, a creation of sin and sun.
The steam caresses his broad, chiseled chest and wide, muscular shoulders.
The sculpted contours of his waist, hips, and thighs lead my gaze toward the tiny towel covering his most prized possession.
Our eyes meet in a wordless confrontation, and he smirks at me, ripping the cloth away in one swift motion.
My lips part as he strides closer, bridging the gap between us.
Steam clings to his skin, my own sticky and wet and wanting.
He veers away from me and settles into the adjacent corner.
He tilts his head, spreading his legs, his cock dangling off the edge of the stacked oak bench.
“Stop staring and close your mouth, mami,” he rasps. “Otherwise, I’ll put those fucking lips to work.”
I swallow a gasp and cross my bare legs, moisture building between my thighs. His lascivious gaze floats across my breasts, my nipples, his eyes burning and predatory.
“I could say that same thing,” I whisper. “Eyes up.”
He doesn’t listen. He never does. Instead, he flicks out his tongue, dragging the edge along the inside of his lips, his gaze locked onto my breasts. Even in this humid thick heat, my nipples harden.
“You’ve always been so fucking reactive,” he groans. “And I wonder…” He looks up at me, jaw clenched. “Is that trick of yours just for me?”
“I thought so at first,” I whisper, adjusting my position on the bench, my ass damn near glued to the oak. “But no.” I offer him a shrug, maintaining a flat expression. He can’t win this easily. “You’re not special, Damon.”
“Not special?” he scoffs, leaning back against the warm marble tile.
He snakes his hand around the base of his shaft.
My traitorous insides fucking twist with excitement.
His clipped laugh dances through the fog.
“I bet I could make you come without even touching you.” He begins to stroke himself, the muscles in his neck bulging out, the sight damn near explosive.
I stay silent, unable to utter a single word of denial.
“What? No rebuttal? Nothing to say?” He groans, the sound so guttural and raw.
“You know I’m right, Emery. We both know you’re a little slut for me.
” Another raspy, primal moan, and my core clenches with pleasurable pain.
“Oh, you like that, huh?” He groans. “Yes, you fucking love it.”
My fingers quiver with desperation as my pussy begs to be touched. Jesus. I resist the urge to touch myself, my weak fucking eyes unable to look away from Damon’s throbbing, veiny cock.
“Get on your knees and crawl to me.” His throat bobs with strain. “Crawl to me, mami. You know you want to…”
Sirens go off in my head. Loud. Red. A warning. Unable to catch a proper breath, his dirty, dirty words wreaking havoc with my mental resolve, I do the only thing that will prevent me from going down a disastrous path.
I run away.
His laughter chases after me as I haphazardly wrap a towel around myself, pick up my clothes, and dart toward the grand staircase. Rounding the corner of the hallway, my vision partially obscured, I collide with a different kind of chaos.
Quinton emerges from the haze, his ocean blue eyes piercing through my defenses. His gaze travels across my flushed cheeks and sweat-kissed skin.
“Careful, darling.” He gives me a knowing smile, lifting a curious brow. “Is everything alright? You look a tad…frazzled.”
Summoning my composure, I try to explain myself. “Steam,” I manage to say, still breathless. “I had a steam.”
Quinton’s smirk deepens, his greedy gaze gliding across my collarbones. “I can see that. Perhaps a shower is in order.”
He tilts his head slightly, his finger trailing provocatively along the curve of my neck. My spine responds to his touch, a gentle arch forming as I swallow. And then it’s back. Just as strong as before. The ache in my core as he brings his finger to his tongue, and licks.
“Mmm…salty.” With a knowing grin, he holds out a tempting hand. “Shall we get you clean, darling?”
Goddamn it. What are they doing to me? I can’t escape it. No matter which direction I run, I end up crashing into temptation, into the promise of something beautiful. Something raw. Something that terrifies me and sets me on fucking fire.
I try to resist. I do. I hesitate for the longest time before I give in to his offer. Before all logic and reason ceases to exist.
We float toward the bathroom. Float, because I am not human. My decisions and actions aren’t that of a moral mortal. They’re wicked and otherworldly. But I can’t stop. I don’t wish to stop.
Quin flicks on the waterfall shower, the tiles and windows and mirrors instantly fogging up with steam, with the hot, humid residue of my choices.
With our eyes locked, loaded with anticipation, I drop my towel and step backward through the threshold.
Streams of warm water trickle down onto my head, my shoulders, down my rising and wanting chest.
And then I watch him. I watch him shed his mask. Rip away his shields. Until he stands before me, a glorious sculpture of a vulnerable man.
With a look of hunger gracing his sharp, burly features, he strides toward me, and I step back slowly, so fucking slowly, until my back connects with the cool tiles.
His gaze flicks down to my lips, and they part for him, so easily, so willingly, I fear they may have been cast under a goddamn spell.
Our mouths collide, wet and wild and wanton, and I moan into his lungs. His fingers rake through my tangled hair, the roots screaming with pleasure as he tugs, tasting all my sin, all my evil, all my wrong fucking choices.
“Turn around,” he rasps, and I spin in his arms, panting as his cock brushes against my ass. He snakes his hand around my neck, positioning himself at my sex, and then he surges forward, slamming into me. I swear I can hear angels cry. “Christ, Emery. You feel so fucking good.”
And so does he. He feels good. The literal definition of the word.
Righteous.
Moral.
As his right hand roams every inch of my body, stroking and twisting and flicking, I feel closer to the brink of heaven than I’ve ever felt before. His touch isn’t sullied or tainted or drenched in hate and aggression, it’s covered in something far scarier, far more irreversible.
The back of my head rests against his chest, my eyes closed and sated and safe. He fills me so good, so deep, stretching me open with every thrust, opening my heart with every fucking whisper of encouragement, every goddamn moan of his impending release.
And when his wandering fingers find my sensitive clit, it all comes crashing down, and we both cry out in climax.
Quin’s head hangs low, his lips brushing against the slope of my neck, his breath shaky against my skin.
“What am I to you?” he whispers so quietly that I barely hear it over the trickling of the shower. “What…” He sighs, and his voice strains. It almost kills me. “What am I to you, Emery?”
I swallow, tensing in his arms. I think I know what he wants to hear. It’s the same thing Damon so desperately craved. Confirmation. Reassurance. A label. But I can only label one man. I can't tear the label in half, no matter how torn I am myself.
“Important,” I breathe out, turning around in his embrace. With a hammering in my chest, I lift myself on my tiptoes and place a lingering, tender kiss on his forehead. “You’re important to me.”
They both are.