Chapter Thirty • Arm Candy • Damien
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Lillith has been getting ready for about two hours and I am more than happy to wait.
She’s a smokeshow, quite literally at all times, so I can only imagine how hot she’s going to look after she’s made a point of obsessing over every tiny detail.
I was sure to tell her that I’d take her out in a trash bag, but I wasn’t at all surprised when she gave me a funny look and vanished into her bedroom to pick out something to wear.
As for me, I’ve been lying on her couch and making some subtle moves behind the scenes to make sure the night is an awesome fucking time.
It’s crazy I haven’t seen her outside her house and in town since the day I met her.
That day feels like forever ago even though it’s only been a little over a month.
It takes me a while to get everything sorted out, which is good, cause it keeps me busy.
I really want to spoil her. Sure, we’ve gone out a couple times in The Buried City, but it’s always...
weird there. People give us free meals because she’s a Nightingale.
Or they want something like a secret, and, as invasive as that might be, it doesn’t feel the same as going out and buying her shit.
Our label has covered pretty much all of our meals and our gas and where we’re staying.
I mean, we’ll be paying it back with record sales, but in the meanwhile it means that I’m just kind of sitting on quite a bit of money.
When we first started getting paid out of our advance, I was going crazy buying new gear for my kit—doing every upgrade I ever dreamed of.
Then we wound up on the radar of SJC and Zildjian, and I haven’t had to buy a piece of gear in months.
Crazy how as soon as you get money and a bit of notoriety, you start getting everything for free.
While I’m finishing up messaging someone on Instagram about one of our date activities, I get a text message.
How fancy should I dress?
I smile at my screen, already shifting some plans in my head.
How fancy do you want to dress?
Really, really fancy. Like a dress and heels?
Sounds hot. Do it.
I let my daydreams and ideas flutter in my mind about what she might wear, but, as usual, the actual thing is so much better than I could imagine.
I picture frilly dresses with lots of layers, dark purple sundresses that show just enough of her perfect tits.
Slinky sleeveless dresses that bunch up around her wide hips and ample thighs.
I’m wrong on all counts, and I’m so happy about that.
When she steps into the bedroom, she’s about four inches taller than I’m used to, thanks to the strappy platform heels she’s got on.
The shoes elongate her legs. I know this because the milky pale of her thighs is on full display as the lacy black fabric of her dress splits into two slits in front.
The back of the dress barely dusts the ground thanks to her added height.
The top of the dress is structured like a bodice and the neckline plummets all the way to the bottom of her sternum, revealing all of her chest tattoo except for what’s covered by elegant black lace that clings to her shoulders and upper arms and the long column of her neck.
The sleeves break open at the crook of her elbow and spill down her sides like she’s some kind of extra-sexy Sandersen Sister.
“Holy shit,” I say breathlessly. “God fucking damn.”
She laughs. “Damien, are you going to spend the whole night staring at my tits and my thighs?”
“I wasn’t.” But I was. And I know exactly how she knows. Because when I finally meet her pewter eyes, I’m gobsmacked again.
Her hair, as mentioned previously, is always perfect.
Always. But... she’s... grown it. Instead of dusting her shoulders, it tumbles in long, thick waves all the way to her waist. Pale lavender locks frame her face underneath her usual white hair.
She’s braided some of it, even woven in some black lace here and there.
Her makeup, of course, is impeccable. Her eyeliner is sharp and dark, her eyeshadow is this lurid shade of violet that color shifts when she blinks.
Her lips are lacquered with a pigment that’s shiny and black.
I want that lipstick all over my face and my collarbones and the length of my cock.
God, how am I supposed to take her out when all I want to do is tackle her into her own bed?
A variety of earrings tinkle and catch the warm sunlight of the afternoon as she tilts her head.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I need to fucking change,” I say. “I’ll look like an asshole standing next to you when you’re dressed like that.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No way. I’m not going to be one of those shitty boyfriends who wears cargo shorts to the first date while you look like you belong on a red carpet,” I say.
“You own cargo shorts?”
I stop, taken aback by the question for a second.
“Er—no,” I say. “But it’s—you know—the vibes. Like, spiritual cargo shorts, you know?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Alright, well... Should we go to your place then? So you can change?”
Oh, fuck yes. Not only do I get to spend a night with my girlfriend while she’s actively filling her role of the most beautiful woman on the planet, but I get to rub it in all the guys faces too?
This is the best day of my fucking life.
“Yeah!” I say, getting off her sofa, finally. I grab the key from Lillith’s coffee table and swing it around my finger before catching it in my palm. “Come on, I have our rental car outside.”
It feels unreal to take her out, honestly. I’m so used to the usual routine of hanging out all day at her apartment that I almost forget to open the passenger door for her. I have to abruptly about-face and jog back to her to open it.
“Sorry,” I say.
She smiles a pretty closed-mouth smile up at me, and I feel like I’m sixteen and clueless about women again.
“You’re so flustered,” she says as I get into the car and key the engine.
It starts up quickly, since it’s a brand new SUV.
It’s comfortable and it smells like new car.
I’m just grateful I don’t have to take her out in the shitty white van that got eviscerated last week.
It would have felt weird to drive her around in that when she’s looking like... this.
“I can’t help it,” I say. “You look... I mean... Little Bird, you’re always a smokeshow, really. Like, really, really, ridiculously good looking—”
“Is that a Zoolander reference?”
“But,” I continue (also, yes it is), “Tonight you look like... like... like I would happily lie down in a fucked-up circle of black candles and let you stab me to death for your dark lord? And probably thank you for it?”
She laughs, her smile a white flash between her perfect, lacquered lips. I pull away from the curb and head for the house I’m sharing with the guys.
“So where are we going tonight?” she asks.
“All surprises,” I say.
She pouts, the delicate pink of the inside of her lower lip revealing itself. I grab her hand and press a few besotted kisses to it, smiling around her knuckles. I love her so fucking much that I can’t stand it.
“All I’ll say is that I’m going to spoil the shit out of you,” I say. “Is that alright?”
“Damien, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt her. “Alright? I want to do it. Let me do it.”
Her lips twist in a cute little smile. “Is that a command? From Dom to sub?”
“Does it need to be?” I ask, my stomach tightening. I already want to fuck her again; this isn’t the best time to be talking about dynamic stuff.
“It would help to know I’m being a good girl while I’m letting you spoil me,” she says, catching the inside of her lower lip with her teeth, her long lashes fluttering as she blinks her wide, innocent eyes.
She’s anything but innocent. I know that full well.
Doesn’t mean I don’t feel the urge to corrupt her and wreck that feigned innocence.
I have to shift in my seat as we pull up to a stoplight. “Be a good girl and let Sir spoil you,” I say, looking ahead because I’m certain that if I watch her expression darken, or even flicker with amusement, we won’t make it to the studio, and I’ll ruin her pretty makeup before we even go out.
It’s another fifteen tortuous minutes before we finally make it to our place.
It’s a little townhome, tall and narrow.
It’s got three floors. The studio and kitchen sit on the ground floor, and then we have four rooms we’ve split up.
I’m technically sharing the main bedroom with Fletcher, but I’ve hardly been sleeping in it.
I throw the car in park and get out, coming around to help Lillith out of the passenger side. It’s a good thing, too. While the step up into the car wasn’t too bad, getting down in the heels winds up being a bit hazardous and she almost falls before I catch her around her waist.
“Oops,” she says, cringing. “Maybe I shouldn’t have worn these shoes.”
“I’ll just have to keep you close, so I can catch you,” I say, doing my best not to glue my eyes to her cleavage as her breasts squeeze together. I let out a slow breath from my lips and steel my resolve. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I help her up the shallow steps, my hand strong and supportive as she wobbles a little bit on her heels. As we near the door, he eyes widen and her lips part with some sort of realization. “What is it?”
“I just realized that I’m uh—well—I’m dressed kind of slutty,” she says.
I bark a laugh. “Okay?” I ask. “What about it?”
“The... I mean, is everyone here? Am I just going to sit awkwardly on a yoga ball while you’re getting dressed and your bandmates are doing everything not to look at my tits?”
“I fucking hope so,” I say. “I fucking love showing you off.”
“Damien,” she moans. “No!”
“I can fistfight them if they stare at your tits. How’s that?”
“No! That’s worse!”
“You’re giving me very mixed signals here, babe,” I tease as I unlock the door and help her inside.
“Oh my god, finally,” Oren calls from the kitchen. “What happened to—oh holy fucking shit—”
Oren stops in his tracks, and I do my best not to be annoyed by the fact that he’s wearing nothing but the too-big sweats he leaves hanging low on his hips.
Low enough to threaten a glimpse of fucking dick root.
He’s also wearing his reading glasses, and his undercut is unstyled, falling messily around his face. Like sex hair.
I look over at Lillith just as her pale cheeks fill with color. Man, it is hard having hot friends sometimes.
“You’re out,” Oren says, stupidly. “I thought that—I mean, what’s the occasion? Lillith, you look incredible.”
“I’ll fill you in on the details later, but basically we found a loophole,” I say. “Lillith didn’t want to waste any time, so she asked me to take her out on a date. She wanted to get fancy, so I came back here so I could change and not look like an asshat next to her.”
“You’re still going to look like an asshat next to her,” Oren says, his eyes still glued on her.
“Bro,” I gripe. “Seriously? Stop ogling her.”
“Right, sorry,” he groans, rubbing his forehead with his index and middle fingers. “Let me go put a shirt on. Sorry, Lillith, I wasn’t expecting more company today.”
More company? I open my mouth to ask about it, but get an answer before I can. The door at the top of the stairs—the door to Satoshi’s room—bursts open and a flushed, giggling Wren tumbles out of it, wearing nothing but one of his tank tops that barely falls past her hips.
Satoshi is only a few steps behind her when he grasps her wrist and stretches her arm above her head before smoothing his hand down her abdomen.
“Come on, I said I’d show you how I play an upright bass,” Satoshi says into Wren’s neck as her shoulder hitches up and she giggles.
His fingers slide toward Wren’s now-visible panties, but they stop when Lillith lets out a loud, outraged gasp.
To Satoshi’s credit, he immediately lets go and puts about three feet of space between himself and Lillith’s best friend. Wren looks downright offended as she glares at him. Then she looks down at Lillith and blanches.
“Wren. You little slut.”