10. Roman
Roman
The idea of finding Damon and asking him to hit me is fucking insane, I know that. But the thought has been buzzing around my head all week and no matter how many times I try to convince myself to drop it, I can’t.
It’s like an itch I can’t scratch and I hate that he’s the only one I think is able to scratch it.
When I finally spot him after my last class of the day, he’s sitting on one of those weathered stone benches on the far side of campus. He’s hunched over a sketchpad, completely lost in whatever he’s working on.
He’s dressed in his usual black, earbuds are in, black curls their usual deliberate chaotic mess. There’s a cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling lazily around his face, and he looks… hot.
I mean, yeah I’ve always known he’s good-looking in that broody “I don’t give a shit” way, but it hits differently now. The way his hair falls into his eyes and he tries to push it back, only for it to fall forward again—it’s distracting as hell.
I swallow hard, stuffing my hands into my hoodie pockets and wondering if I should walk away now or do what I came to do.
Fuck it.
I take a deep breath and walk over to him. By the time I’m close enough to see the smudges of charcoal on his fingers, my heart’s pounding like I just sprinted across campus. Damon doesn’t notice me at first, he’s too focused on his drawing to even look up, his head tilted slightly to the left.
The drawing is brutal. All jagged lines and dark shadows—a chaotic mess of anger and frustration that practically screams off the paper.
I clear my throat and he doesn’t react. Figures.
“Damon,” I say loudly this time and his head snaps up. Those familiar green eyes narrow as they land on me and he pulls out an earbud and takes the cigarette from his lips, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.
“Roman,” he says, clearly looking unimpressed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can we talk?”
He raises an eyebrow. “About what?”
“You know what,” I say, then nodding towards the sketchpad. “Nice work by the way.”
He follows my gaze and shrugs. “Thanks. Didn’t know you were into art.”
“I’m not,” I admit, stepping closer and leaning with my hip against the stone table. “But I know frustration when I see it.”
He snorts and sets the charcoal down before taking a drag of his cigarette. “So what’s this about? If you’re here to critique my work—”
“You said to come to you if I need a hit,” I blurt out and I watch as his lips twitch in a barely there smirk.
“I did, didn’t I?”
I wonder if he’s smirking because he’s thinking back to that night in the alley. “Yeah, and I’m taking you up on it.”
Damon leans back on the bench, his cigarette balanced between the tips of his fingers as he studies me. “You’re serious.”
“As a fucking heart attack.”
He stubs out his cigarette on the stone table and setting his sketchpad aside. “Alright, Hotshot,” he says, getting to his feet and brushing off the charcoal dust. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist but I don’t back down. I’ve come this far and I’ll be damned if I’ll let him see me sweat.
“Right here?” I ask, glancing around the handful of students still milling about.
He smirks. “What’s wrong? Scared someone’s gonna see?”
“Not scared,” I say, stepping closer to him. “Just making sure you’ve got the balls to follow through.”
Damon’s smirk widens and before I can register what he’s doing, his hand shoots out, grabbing the front of my hoodie and pulling me close. “You want a hit, Hotshot? You’ve got one.”
My pulse kicks up and Damon doesn’t hesitate. He pushes me back and his fist connects with my jaw before I even have time to brace for it. The force snaps my head to the side and for a second, the world tilts.
Pain explodes across my face, but instead of knocking me out, it does the complete opposite. My knees buckle and I drop to the ground, but a rush of heat follows—a blissful, all-consuming daze that leaves me grinning like an idiot.
The metallic taste of blood spreads across my tongue, but I don’t care. My head lols back and for a second, I don’t think, I just close my eyes and breathe, the pain grounding me in a way nothing ever has.
“You’re fucking insane,” Damon says from somewhere above me.
I open my eyes and look up at him, grinning. “You think so?”
“Without a doubt,” he says, then he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Jeez, how fucking strong is this guy? I’m not exactly light. “You look like you just got laid, not punched in the face.”
I laugh and wipe the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Guess you’ve got the magic touch,” I say and fucking wink at him.
What the hell. Is punchdrunk a thing?
He narrows his eyes at me, his grip on my bicep tightening before he pushes me away. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Probably,” I admit, still smiling and he shakes his head as he starts packing up his shit and shoving it into his backpack.
I lean against the stone table, tilting my head to the side as I watch him. There’s something almost feral with the way he’s looking at me—like he doesn’t know if he should hit me again or walk away before he does something worse.
“You gonna lick my lip again?” I ask in a teasing tone, as I swipe at the blood pooling at the corner of my mouth.
Damon freezes, his expression darkening. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me,” I say, grinning and lifting my shoulder in a shrug. “Last time you couldn’t resist. I thought maybe you’d want another taste.”
His jaw tightens and for a second, I think he might swing at me again. Instead, he steps closer, his voice low and his eyes glinting dangerously. “Keep pushing me, Roman. See what happens.”
My pulse kicks up but I don’t back down. “Maybe I want to find out.”
He stares at me, his gaze burning into mine and the tension between us feels like a livewire, humming and crackling in the space we’re not even bothering to keep anymore. He doesn’t say anything, just holds my gaze as if he’s trying to make a decision.
He hates me.
But he wants me.
I can see it, feel it in the way his breath comes faster, shallower. The way his pupils dilate just enough for me to fucking notice.
I keep my grin in place even though my face hurts. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you, Trouble?”
He bristles. “Thinking about what?” he snaps.
“Licking me again.”
Damon’s nostrils flare and he looms over me even though I’m the one sitting higher. “You’ve got a death wish, Hotshot,” he growls but his voice is unsteady.
“Maybe,” I say and shrug. “Or maybe I just know how to get under your skin.”
He leans in, one hand bracing on the table beside me and I can smell the faint scent of turpentine and cigarette smoke on him. “You don’t know what you’re playing with,” he says, his low voice sounding like gravel scraping against steel.
“And you don’t know how much I don’t care,” I whisper back, meeting his gaze head-on.
The tension between us is thick enough to choke on. He’s close, so damn close, but I don’t move. Hell, I can’t. It’s like I’m rooted in place by whatever the fuck is happening between us.
Damon’s eyes flick down to my lip, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting some internal battle. So I lick the blood away slowly, just to see what he’ll do.
“Stop,” he says, his voice strained.
“Make me,” I say, leaning forward just enough to blur the line between a taunt and temptation.
His hand moves fast, gripping the back of my neck in a way that sends a jolt through me. It’s not gentle—it’s control, plain and simple, and it sends a thrill through me I can’t hide. I’m breathing hard, my blood pounding in my ears and all I can think about is how close he is.
I should hate him, but fuck, it feels good to give up control for a little while.
He slips his knee in between my spread legs and I bite back a groan. “Say it again.”
I smirk even though my pulse is racing. “Make me.”
He tightens his grip on me and my knees feel like they’re about to buckle under the intensity in his eyes. He’s so close that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, something I know Caleb didn’t have.
“You really want to play this game?” his voice is just brushing the edge of a growl and fuck me, it heads straight to my cock. “You think you can just lick your pretty little lip and make me lose my shit?”
I don’t answer, I fucking can’t because I didn’t think I’d push him this far. He leans in closer, his breath ghosting my ear and I swear I can feel the words before he speaks them. “Think you can handle me? Think you have what it takes to keep up?”
I swallow hard, but I don’t look away. “I can handle you just fine.”
Pulling back, his lips twist into something cruel and mocking. “Yeah? Because from where I’m standing, you look like you’re about two seconds away from falling apart. You gonna beg me next, Hotshot? Beg me to give you what you’re obviously desperate for?”
“Fuck off,” I growl, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he grabs my hip and squeezes hard enough to bruise.
“Oh, you don’t mean that,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his tone. “You like the idea of me pinning you down and making you beg for it. Wanna let go, Roman? Want someone else to take control for once?”
My throat tightens, the heat spiraling in my gut turning into goddamn need. “You’re full of shit,” I say, my voice more breathless than I’d like it to be.
He laughs again, the sound cruel. “Am I? Then why haven’t you tried harder to push me off, huh? You’re a fucking athlete, you’re more than capable. Just admit that you like me touching you like this.”
“You’re fucking insane.”
“Certifiable, got the papers to prove it,” he says nonchalantly. “But so are you. That’s why you came looking for me, isn’t it? You know I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”
His words hit too close, cutting through every layer of denial I’ve been clinging to and for a second, I don’t know what to say. I grit my teeth, but my body betrays me. My hard cock throbbing against his knee, the way my skin prickles under his touch—it’s all too much and he knows it.
Damon smirks and loosens his hold on my neck. “Tell me I’m wrong, Roman. Tell me you don’t want me to take this further.”
The words send a shiver down my spine, and I hate him for it. Hate him for knowing which buttons to push to see the cracks I’ve kept so carefully hidden. I shove him away hard and he finally lets me go, stepping back with a laugh that grates on my last nerve.
“You’re so fucking predictable,” he says, shaking his head and picking up his backpack. “Keep pushing, Hotshot. See how far it gets you.”
I wipe at my lip and glare at him as he walks away, leaving me standing there torn between staying away or running after him and letting him do whatever the fuck he wants to me.
The worst part is, I’m still hard as fuck and I know Damon fucking felt it.