Chapter 11
After takinga shower to wash off the day, I sink into my clawfoot tub and bury myself beneath the bubbles of my caramel-and-pistachio-scented wash. I hold my breath as the warm water sloshes around me and through my hair. Peace at last. With Brinkley occupied by one of his favorite treats in the living room, I have a few moments to myself. I lift my head above the water and wipe the suds from my face. As I open my eyes, the candle on my vanity fills the small room with a soft glow. The flickering flame casts shadows against the green-and-white-floral-printed wallpaper. It’s the perfect place to unwind and process the day that was a blur. Well, truthfully, there’s only one moment that occupies my thoughts. I just spent the rest of the day in a daze, doing my best to think of anything else.
The way Damon touched me, spanked me—I can’t even think the word without blushing—it did something to me, something I don’t quite understand. He’s an asshole, a tall, tattooed, arrogant asshole who has done nothing but make my life miserable since the day we met. But I… Is it wrong to say I wasn’t mad at his touch? Of course, I screamed for him to stop and put me down. It’s all I knew how to do. It’s the only thing that made sense because his hands on my body and the way they made me feel most certainly did not. I shake my head and take a deep breath.
Leaning my neck against the edge of the tub, I close my eyes, our encounter replaying over and over again behind my eyelids. I should be angry or offended, even he said so in so many words. He said what happened was inappropriate and he apologized, and he doesn’t apologize for anything. So what does it say about me that I liked it? Is that it? Did I like it?
I’ve known since the day we met that Damon Dupont is different from any man I’ve ever known. I’m used to men dressed in suits who handle me as if they are wearing white gloves. But not Damon. He’s harsh, rough, and sarcastic. He’s petty, selfish, and almost a bigger pain in my ass than my brother and that’s saying something. But unlike my brother or any other man I’ve known, he…he treats me like I’m a normal person. He may call me princess, but he doesn’t treat me like one, and even though I complain about it sometimes, I like it. Fighting with him and him not backing down makes me feel normal. Being man-handled by him makes me feel normal. It also makes me feel other things too.
His touch and the way he looks at me makes me feel like a woman when all I’ve ever been treated like is a child. Even going back to the first day we met, the way his hands slid up my skirt… My heart skipped a beat and every nerve in my body was on high alert. I chalked it up to fear. But today, I had the same rush of…adrenaline, arousal—I’m not sure which word is more appropriate—and yet I wasn’t afraid of him. Why am I not afraid of him? I should be. I barely know the guy despite seeing him nearly every day since I moved here.
It’s then that I open my eyes and run my fingertips slowly up my leg. My lips part as the simple movement draws my nipples into small peaks. I continue running my fingers up my abdomen to my breasts. I stop to massage them. As I do, my core tightens and a flood of warmth rushes between my legs, and no, I don’t mean the water.
My first time—only time—lasted no more than ten minutes, including undressing and the sorry excuse for foreplay that my nineteen-year-old counterpart and I conducted. He was no one special and neither was it. We’d met in some class sophomore year at university. After being assigned to the same group project, we decided to lose our virginities to each other. I suppose we both saw our innocence as something that needed to be shed in order to fully step into our independent lives as adults. It was a one-time, emotionless thing, and I never saw or spoke to him again after the class ended.
I thought losing my virginity was what I needed to feel like a woman, to have the life I’m only starting to have now five years later. But those ten minutes didn’t do much for shedding my innocence or creating the confident, independent, in-control woman I’d hoped to become. It wasn’t enough time, or maybe just not the right person. It was my first failed attempt at growing up or rebellion, as Aidan would call it if he knew the truth. And, shortly after, my parents died. Thoughts of them make me stop touching myself, as is the case every time I try to find some sort of release.
I groan, wishing I knew how to get past this roadblock. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I’ve watched movies, even a little bit of porn. And the books I read, well, they’re very descriptive. But I just can’t get out of my head enough to go to that magical place where orgasms live. Maybe it’s because my first sexual experience is so closely tied to my parents’ deaths? Maybe it’s because I haven’t had the right inspiration or teacher—partner? Something about the way Damon touches me makes me think he could teach me a thing or two. Hell, I’m already learning. Apparently, I like to be spanked.
The thought makes me giggle and has me bringing my hands to my body once more. This time I move them between my legs. I trace the outline of my folds and then move to my most sensitive part. My mouth opens as I let out a soft gasp. As I touch myself, I wonder what other things Damon Dupont could teach me. Though reality quickly steals my fantasy. We’d probably argue the whole time. Patience is not his strong suit. And what if he’d be too rough? He’s made it clear I’m not exactly his favorite person, and he’s not on my short list either, or long list.
Frustrated, I give up and push myself out of the tub. That asshole isn’t worth being a part of my fantasy anyway. Just because I like the way he touches me doesn’t mean I like him. At that, I grab a towel from the hook on the wall and wrap it around myself. I promised myself a Damon-free weekend and it starts now, well, tomorrow, because it’s bedtime.