Chapter 30 Damian
DAMIAN
The reception has thinned to something softer now. Low lights, tables being cleared. Signs the staff wants us to leave for our rooms. The older guests have left. The younger ones cluster near the bar, volume rising with every refill. The band has shifted into something slower, more indulgent.
Perry stands beside me at the edge of the terrace doors, watching the dance floor with a faint, unreadable expression.
I study her profile. The dress fits her like it was engineered for tension. The fabric hugs her waist and skims her hips. She looks like control dressed as temptation.
“Do you ever see yourself going down the aisle?” I ask. The question slips out without warning.
She turns her head slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as she gauges my tone. “Maybe. For the right person.”
There’s no coyness in it. No bait. Just possibility.
“And what does that person look like?” I press lightly.
She hums, pretending to consider. “Patient. Wears the hell out of this suit.”
I almost smile. She gave me her yes without saying it. How perfectly Perry of her. “That sounds reasonable.”
“Is it?” She tilts her head slightly. “It’s like I said before. I’ve made some…impulsive choices. I don’t want my life to be built on adrenaline. So, if I ever get married, it will be to someone who understands me.”
The air between us shifts. I take her hand without thinking. “Then I’ll try to be understanding.”
She arches a brow. “Try?”
“Understanding has never been my defining trait.”
“I don’t know about that. You’ve been very understanding tonight. I wonder whether it will continue.”
“How’s that?”
She dances by me, slowly slinking her way around until her backside is against my front side.
She pulls my arm around her waist, so I tuck her closer to me.
From that position, I feel her firm ass against my cock through our clothes.
“Can you keep being understanding, Damian? Do you understand that I am not taking you to bed tonight?”
“What’s that now?”
She subtly grinds back against me as we sway to the music. “We agreed earlier, remember? Taking things slowly?”
I laugh sharply. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums under her breath as she slowly sways forward and back, the little minx.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say. “Enjoying torturing me like this.”
“I enjoy seeing you restrained,” she replies. The heat in her voice is subtle but unmistakable.
I lean closer. “You think I can’t be patient?”
“I think you’ve never had to be.”
I glance down at her hand still in mine. “Maybe I need practice.”
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Maybe you do.”
The music inside shifts again, slower now, drawing couples toward the terrace doors. Whatever patience I promised myself about taking things slowly is beginning to erode with the flow of her hips.
Overhead, string lights crisscross between beams, casting a golden wash over polished wood and scattered cocktail tables. Beyond the railing, the night stretches dark and quiet, broken only by the distant glow of town lights.
Her body fits against mine naturally, like it has already memorized the shape. She moves with me easily. There’s nothing awkward in it. No hesitation. Just a slow sway under the stars. “This feels dangerous,” she murmurs.
“It’s dancing,” I reply.
“No,” she says softly. “This. Us.”
I lower my mouth close to her ear. “Because it’s real.”
She nods.
We sway in silence for a few moments. The music drifts outward through the open doors, carrying laughter and the faint scrape of chairs being rearranged. The night air brushes her hair loose at the nape of her neck. I exhale quietly, blowing it against the skin again.
She shudders slightly against me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re thinking.”
“Yes.”
“About rings?”
I laugh under my breath. “Maybe, but that wouldn’t be taking things slowly, now would it?”
She turns to face me and leans back slightly to look at me, her hands sliding higher along my shoulders. “I said slow. Not glacial.”
I chuckle. “Getting impatient yourself?”
Her smile curves. “Hardly.”
“Maybe for tonight, we test out something less dramatic.”
“What’s that?”
“The bed here.”
She snorts a laugh. “You are really not used to wanting something and not taking it immediately.”
“That’s not entirely true.”
She raises a brow.
“Alright,” I admit. “It’s mostly true.”
Her body presses closer in response, whether intentionally or not. I feel the warmth of her through layers of formal fabric. My hand at her waist tightens slightly.
We turn slowly beneath the lights, the world narrowing to the space between our bodies and the quiet music wrapping around us. Her fingers trail down my chest as if absentmindedly. It’s not an overt move, but it’s enough to send a sharp pulse through me.
“You’re trying to tempt me,” I say quietly.
She smiles. “I thought you were practicing patience.”
I pull her a fraction closer. “I am. It’s not comfortable.”
“Growth rarely is.”
“So I’ve heard, but I’ve done all the growing I want to for one night.”
Her smile widens into something wicked, and she lays her head on my shoulder.
The music shifts slightly, drawing us tighter together. Under the stars, with her body aligned to mine and the promise of something deeper hovering just beyond reach, patience feels less like virtue and more like torture.
And she knows it. The music slows another notch, almost decadent now. Her body moves against mine with deliberate restraint, and I can feel the tension coiling beneath her calm exterior. I am acutely aware of every inch of contact between us.
I bend my head toward her ear. “Once in the bathroom wasn’t enough for me tonight.”
Her breath catches.
“I want you,” I continue quietly. “Right now.”
Her lips curve, slow and knowing. “Waiting builds character.”
I laugh under my breath. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
Her hips shift subtly in rhythm with the music, pressing into me just enough to make my pulse spike. It’s controlled, almost innocent in appearance, but there is nothing innocent about the way she moves.
The air feels thicker now. Warmer. Charged.
I tighten my hand at her waist, guiding her closer. I let my palm travel slowly up her spine. “You’re killing me,” I say, and this time there’s no humor in it. “Is that what you want?”
She leans her head back slightly against my shoulder, offering me the curve of her neck. The faint scent of her perfume drifts upward, soft and intoxicating. “You’ll live.”
The challenge in her tone is unmistakable.
I pivot her gently, spinning her once before drawing her back against me. Her back aligns with my chest, and I let my hands settle at her hips, guiding the movement of our bodies together. The motion is slow, deliberate, unmistakably intimate without being overt.
She inhales sharply. The reaction is subtle, but I feel it. She enjoys being led. By me.
I brush her hair over her shoulder with one hand, exposing the line of her neck. I lower my mouth close to her ear. “You know you can’t hold out on me forever,” I murmur.
She shudders faintly, and I feel it travel through her. “No,” she admits softly. “But I like seeing you want something.”
I press closer.
“Baylocks usually get whatever they want,” she continues, voice just above a whisper. “I want to see you have some patience for once in your life.”
I growl softly in response—not loud, not theatrical, just low enough that she feels it more than hears it.
The night air curls around us, but the heat between us doesn’t dissipate.
It intensifies. I let my fingers slide slightly along her waist, tracing the seam of the dress without crossing into anything explicit. The restraint is deliberate. Torturous.
If she thinks she will win this game, she is mistaken.
“When I get you alone again,” I say quietly, letting my voice darken, “I am not going to be gentle.”
Her breath falters. “You say that like I should be afraid.”
“Precisely.”
Her hips press back against me again, this time less subtle. A clear indication. “What will you do if you get me alone?” She turns in my arms to face me, eyes bright, lips slightly parted.
“I’ll make you scream.”
“The bridal suite is empty,” she says immediately.
For half a second, I consider it. But I lean down and brush my mouth against hers instead. “Not yet.”
She’s teaching me her patience game. And it may undo me.
The terrace doors open again, letting a wave of sound spill over us—cheers, someone shouting for another round, the band shifting tempo like it refuses to let the night wind down quietly.
She steps back from me just enough to put air between us. Not distance. Control. Her hand lingers on my chest, fingers tracing the line of my lapel in a way that’s far more intimate than if she’d done anything overt. “You’re being very disciplined all of a sudden.”
“I’m suffering,” I reply. “But I suspect you are too.”
She smiles in a way that’s both amused and dangerous. I slide my hand to the small of her back and guide her into another slow turn, pulling her closer again when she faces me. Her breath is warmer now. Faster. “You know,” I say quietly, “if we go back in there right now, I won’t behave.”
Her eyes darken. “Is that a fact?”
I lean closer so my mouth brushes just beneath her ear. “I will take my time with you. I will slowly and methodically unravel you. Inch by inch. Until you’re shaking for me. Until you’re muttering my name because it’s the only word you know. I will wear out every part of your body. Patiently.”
She inhales slowly, and I feel the response ripple through her body. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, fingers curling lightly at the fabric. “And when that patience runs out?”
I pull her closer again, letting her feel the steady pressure of my body against hers, the restraint beneath the desire. “I’ll take what I want.”
Her lips part slightly as her breath hitches. “And if I keep making you wait?”
I smile slowly. “You won’t.”
She arches a brow. “No?”
“No. You like what I do to you too much for you to keep making me wait.”
The night wraps around us, the string lights overhead casting warm shadows across her skin.
She looks different out here—less burdened, less raw.
The edge from earlier has softened into something charged and playful.
The doors open again behind us, and this time a couple stumbles out laughing, oblivious to the tension they interrupt.
“I’m not sure. We agreed to go slow—”
“When I get you alone again, I’m going to shove your back to the wall.
I’ll take off that dress with my teeth, followed by your underwear.
Then I’m going to my knees for you so I can devour you.
Every hole, every soft bit of you. I’ll make you scream my name when you come on my tongue.
Again. And again. And again, until you can’t stand.
And then I’ll pick you up, and fuck you against that wall.
You’ll wake up with a wallpaper print embedded in your skin tomorrow.
And when you wake up, I’m going to flip you face down and take you over and over.
I’ll draw that wallpaper print on your back with my tongue while I fuck you—”
“Let me remind you that the bridal suite is empty.”
My suddenly impatient girl. “Let’s go.”