Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Juliette
The hotel door clicked shut behind us with a soft, definitive sound.
Thick carpet muted the steps we barely took inside, as if the room itself knew too much about tension and wasn’t about to interrupt it.
I set my bag down carefully on the nearest chair, smoothing my palms against my slacks as if that could erase the electricity vibrating under my skin.
Damian tossed his jacket across the armrest without ceremony. He looked rumpled, tired, and maddeningly good—like every bad idea I’d ever wanted to make twice. For a long second, neither of us moved. Just breathing. Waiting.
The view from the balcony stretched out behind him—endless rows of vineyard hills dusted silver by the moonlight, yet I barely glanced at it. I couldn’t look away from him.
“So,” I said, breaking the quiet before it broke me. “Still grumpy?”
He smiled — slow and lethal, the kind that belonged behind a locked door. “Less grumpy. More... opportunistic.”
My mouth curved. “Opportunistic, how?”
He turned and pulled something from his jacket pocket and turned to me. The crinkle of a small pharmacy bag made my heart skip before my brain could catch up. Damian tipped its contents into his hands and closed his fists. Then held them out toward me, like a magician about to force a card.
“Pick a hand,” he said, his voice a shade rougher than it had been a moment ago.
I laughed, low and disbelieving. “You are unbelievable.”
“Not denying it.” His grin deepened. “Pick.”
I hesitated—deliberately—dragging my gaze from one of his hands to the other. The air between us stretched tight, electric. Finally, I tapped his right hand with one finger. He opened it slowly, palm up. A small, silver square gleamed in the soft light.
Condom.
My pulse kicked once, hard. Damian’s gaze caught mine, steady, direct, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
“And if I’d picked the other?” I asked, even though I already knew.
He tossed the bottle of Advil onto the coffee table behind him without looking.
"Then I would’ve used my mouth," he said, voice rough against my ear.
"My hands. I would’ve made you come until you forgot we ever had a choice to make.
Why tempt fate?" His gaze dragged over my mouth, my throat, then lower.
"But I'm not feeling particularly patient tonight. "
Heat coiled deep in my belly.
I plucked the condom from his palm without breaking eye contact, slipped it into the back pocket of my slacks, and turned my back on him deliberately—a dare—as I shrugged out of my blazer and laid it over the armchair.
Behind me, Damian’s breath caught.
I toed off my shoes slowly, feeling the thick carpet under my bare feet, the pull of his gaze dragging over every inch of skin I uncovered. When I turned back around, he was still standing there, looking at me like he was starving.
For a second, neither of us moved. Then he crossed the distance between us in two strides, his hands sliding up my arms, his fingers threading into my hair as he tipped my face up to his.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, even as his thumb stroked the edge of my jaw.
I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Instead, I rose onto my toes and kissed him—hard, hungry, the kind of kiss that rewrote everything we hadn’t said today and everything we were about to say with our bodies.
Damian’s hands tightened. Mine pulled at his shirt. Control? We shattered it between us like glass. Tonight wasn’t about patience. It was about claiming something we’d both been pretending we didn’t want as badly as we did.
And God help me, I wanted all of it.
I laughed under my breath, the kind of laugh you make when your heart’s already pounding in your throat and you know you’re about five seconds from doing something reckless, and loving every second of it.
God, he was beautiful. Not polished. Not pretty. Raw. Real.
Damian was dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth wanting.
I let my hands fall to my sides, and his fingers found the first button at my collar. He grazed my skin as he worked his way down. Each brush of his knuckles against my ribs made me shiver.
When my blouse parted, he pushed it from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony. His mouth found the curve of my neck, dragging heat down my spine.
"You’re still wearing too much,” he murmured against my skin.
“So are you,” I breathed.
I felt the weight of it in my back pocket—the condom I’d tucked there minutes ago like it was some kind of secret promise. The decision had already been made. A line I was more than willing to cross.
Damian’s gaze dropped to my hips, lingering like he could feel it too. For a second, neither of us moved. Then I reached behind me, slow and deliberate, and slid it out. The foil packet crinkled between my fingers.
Damian’s jaw flexed once. His hands tightened into fists at his sides. “Still sure?” he asked, voice a little rougher now. As if hoping I'd say no. As if daring me to say yes.
I didn't answer. I didn’t need to.
Instead, I stepped into his space, rose onto my toes, and kissed him—soft at first, then harder when he groaned low in his throat and grabbed my hips like he couldn’t stand not touching me another second.
More clothes came off next. Fast, messy, no pretenses. His shirt buttons popped under my fumbling fingers, one scattering across the tile like a tiny gunshot.
He didn't care.
Neither did I.
When he stripped me down to my bra and panties, I felt the tremor in his hands.
It undid me more than anything else. Without breaking the kiss, I pushed him backward until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed.
He sat, legs spread slightly, looking up at me like I was the only thing in the world worth having.
Still holding his gaze, I dropped the condom onto the bedspread beside him.
My fingers went to his belt, working it open slowly. Damian watched every move, breathing harder now, his hands flexing on his thighs like he was seconds from grabbing me.
When I pulled off his designer jeans, he was already hard—hot, thick, straining for me. I picked up the condom, tearing it open carefully between my teeth while his eyes darkened to almost black. Then, without rushing, I rolled it onto him—my hands slow, sure, reverent.
Damian hissed through his teeth, his head falling back for half a second like he couldn’t take how good it felt. “Jesus, Jules,” he muttered. “You’re gonna kill me.”
I smiled, wicked and slow. “Better to die happy.”
He surged up, kissing me like he agreed—dragging me down onto his lap, skin to skin, mouth to mouth. I gasped into him as his hands gripped my hips, lifting me just enough to guide me over him.
One slow, devastating thrust, and he was inside me.
We both froze, caught in that first unbearable stretch of feeling too much, wanting too badly. Then we moved. Together. My hands braced on his shoulders, his mouth everywhere—my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. Every grind of his hips made me feel more and lose more control.
He lifted me, let me take him deeper, let me find my own rhythm. It wasn’t frantic, and it wasn’t polished.
It was desperate. Hungry.
I rode him slowly at first, savoring the way his breath hitched every time I shifted my angle, every time I squeezed a little tighter around him.
Then faster—when the need climbed higher than either of us could control. He caught my face in both hands, staring up at me like I was something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn't stop worshiping anyway.
When I came, it ripped through me like wildfire—blinding, burning, beautiful. I felt him break right after, hips jerking up into mine, his low, broken groan vibrating against my chest where he buried his face.
We settled with our heads against the pillows, tangled and breathless and still too wound up to let go completely. His arms stayed wrapped around me. I stayed exactly where I was—legs tangled with his, heart hammering against his ribs.
As I lay there, feeling him slowly soften inside me, feeling his fingers stroke lazy, possessive circles over the small of my back, one terrifying, breathtaking thought crystallized in my mind.
This wasn’t just about sex anymore. Not even close.
The first thing that struck me was the weight of his arm draped around my waist. Damian lay asleep, his breaths deep and rhythmic, while the morning light streamed through a narrow gap in the blackout curtains, spilling softly across his bare shoulder.
He felt warm and solid, an embodiment of comfort I had been reluctant to acknowledge until now. For a brief moment, I remained still, allowing myself to forget everything else. Just two people sharing one hotel room—no baggage, past, or lies lingering between us.
My phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand. Work emails. A client confirmation. Real life waiting just beyond the soft cocoon of tangled sheets and skin.
I slipped carefully out from under his arm, grabbing the thin hotel robe and wrapping it around myself as I padded across the carpet toward the small sitting area. I wasn’t ready to start the day yet. I just needed a moment to collect my random thoughts.
A sleek tablet rested on the coffee table—Damian’s, unmistakably.
Its screen flickered softly, a constellation of notifications illuminating the dim room.
I hadn’t intended to glance at it; I swear to God, I didn’t.
But the allure of its glow beckoned me, a siren call that tugged at my curiosity.
The top message caught my eye: a bold subject line flashing from his PR team.
URGENT: Major Donor Withdrawal – Vérité Foundation
My stomach twisted, and I blinked, pretending for half a second that I hadn’t seen it. But the email preview scrolled slowly upward on its own.