14. Damon
Damon
I shove my way through the crowded living room, barely noticing the bodies pressing in and around me or the music pounding in my ears. I just need to get the fuck out of here right fucking now.
Why the hell did I stand there and watch that? Why did I follow them upstairs, knowing I’d see something that would piss me the fuck off?
My hands are clenched into fists at my sides, my jaw tight enough to hurt, but that’s nothing compared to the raging fire in my chest. I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that I stood there and watched Roman getting blown, or the fact that he said my name when he came down Damien’s throat.
My. Fucking. Name.
I burst through the front door into the cool night air, but the chill outside is not enough to cool me off. My head is spinning and the steady rhythm I’ve worked so hard to find this past month feels like it’s slipping out of reach.
I thought I let this go.
Four weeks. Four weeks of finally trying to get my shit together again, of working to put the anger and noise behind me. And for what? So I could end up at some dumb party, watching the object of my hate get blown like it’s the hottest fucking porn I’ve ever seen?
I stopped hearing the voices, stopped letting them drag me into the pit where I used to live, but standing there, watching him like that… It’s like every piece of progress I made in the last few weeks just disappeared.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face as I start walking down the road to where I parked my R7. My pulse is racing as I try to push those images out of my head.
I shouldn’t have followed them. Hell, I shouldn’t have even come to this party. I knew it was a bad idea, but I let myself get talked into it, thinking it would be fine. Thinking I could handle it.
Clearly, I was wrong.
It’s not like I give a shit what he does or who he fucks. He can screw the entire hockey team for all I care. But hearing my name— my fucking name —on his lips while he came down someone else’s throat?
It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t feel like my chest has been cracked open and someone’s pouring salt in the wound. I shove my hands into my pockets, my fingers curling around my keys as I continue down the road.
I don’t get far before I hear the heavy thudding of footsteps behind me. I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Damon!” Roman’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharper than the air biting at my skin.
I keep walking. “Go back to your party, Hotshot.”
“Not until you tell me what the fuck that was!” he snaps.
I stop dead, spinning on my heel to face him. “What the fuck what was? You’re gonna have to be real fucking specific.”
Roman’s standing a few feet away with his fists clenched at his side and his eyes blazing with anger and… confusion? “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he says as he takes a step toward me. “You were standing there. You saw—”
“I saw you getting blown by your stoned basketball buddy,” I cut him off. “Yeah, I saw. Congratulations, by the way. Looked like you were having a real fucking good time.”
He flinches, but his glare stays. “If you’re so pissed off, why didn’t you just walk away?”
“Great fucking question,” I snap, stepping closer to him. “Maybe I should ask why you said my name when you came down his throat.”
Roman’s eyes widen for a split second before he narrows them at me, his nostrils flaring. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t even try it,” I interrupt, shaking my head. “You said my name, Roman. Not Damien’s— mine .”
His breath shudders, his eyes locked on mine like he’s waiting for me to do something. And fuck, I want to. I want to grab him by that messy hair, drag his mouth to mine, and ruin him in ways Damien never could. I want him on his knees for me—not out of some drunken, spiteful bullshit, but because he wants to be there.
“So what if I did? What does it matter?” Roman’s breath is ragged, his fists keep clenching like he’s ready to throw a punch. And fuck, I kind of hope he does. But he just sighs. “You don’t get to be mad.”
“The fuck I don’t.” I rasp.
“No, you don’t,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You’re the one who keeps playing these fucking games with me. You push, you pull, you fuck me up, and then act surprised when I try to move on.”
I grab his wrist, holding it in place against my chest. “That’s what you call moving on?” I grind out. “Letting some half-conscious asshole slobber all over you?”
Roman jerks his arm back, but I don’t let go. His pulse is hammering beneath my fingers, but his voice is even when he speaks. “You think you’re any better? You act like you don’t want me, like I’m just some fucking nuisance in your life, and then you pull this possessive bullshit?” He yanks his wrist free and shoves me back a step. “Make up your goddamn mind, Damon.”
My jaw clenches. My mind is made up. It has been for a while.
He huffs out a breath, running both hands through his hair now, frustration rolling off him in waves. “You think I don’t know this is fucked? That I don’t wake up every morning telling myself I need to stop this—whatever the hell this is I’m feeling for you? But then you look at me, and it’s like—” He groans, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t have a fucking choice.”
I don’t say anything.
Because I get it. I fucking get it. It’s the same for me, but I won’t say that because I don’t like giving people that kind of power over me. And Roman? He already has too much.
The air between us feels like it’s about to snap, the tension crackling like static. He’s drunk, I can tell. But the way he’s looking at me right now, all wide-eyed and terrified, feels like he’s holding up a fucking mirror.
“You’re such a goddamn hypocrite.” My voice is shaking with anger now.
Roman glares, but his body betrays him. His breathing is uneven, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab me just as badly as I want to grab him. “Fuck you, Damon.”
“You’d like that too much,” I say, my lips curving into that smirk I know he hates.
His lips part slightly like he’s already waiting for whatever bullshit is about to come out of my mouth next. But then he scoffs. “You’re so full of shit.”
And just like that, the moment snaps. I clench my jaw, my hands balling into fists. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he says, running a frustrated hand through his hair again. “You say all this shit, but what do you actually want? You wanna fuck me, Damon? You wanna own me? You wanna hurt me?”
Yes.
Yes to all of it.
I fucking hate him. I hate the way he looks at me like that. I hate the way he gets under my skin like a damn parasite. And I hate that I want to kiss him anyway.
That’s why I don’t think when I grab him.
My hand wraps around his throat—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him freeze. His eyes widen, and his breath hitches as I yank him closer, forcing him into my space like I need to suffocate in his scent to get my head straight.
“You wanna know why I was watching you, Hotshot?” I laugh bitterly, my grip flexing just enough to make his pulse jump against my palm. “Because I wanted a fucking reason to hate you again. No, I needed a reason to hate you since every other excuse wasn’t working anymore!”
His lips part, his breath brushing against mine and something inside me snaps. I tighten my grip on his neck and kiss him. My lips crash against his and, for a second, he doesn’t move, like he’s too stunned to react.
Then his hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer as he kisses me back with just as much fire. It’s not soft or slow or any of those gentle things a kiss should be. It’s rough; desperate and angry. A sharp, foreign thrill rushes through me as the metal balls of his venom piercing roll against my tongue.
It’s fucking intoxicating the way they shift, adding a sharp edge to every slide of our tongues, every bite of our lips. Like he’s built to be kissed in the filthiest fucking ways.
Fuck, it’s different.
It’s messy and chaotic; all teeth and tongues and frustration. I can taste the whiskey on him as it mingles with the regret on my tongue. The rage, the fucking need—I pour it all into him, losing myself in the feel of metal and heat and Roman Bishop ruining me from the inside out.
I don’t know how long it lasts, but by the time we pull apart, we’re both breathing hard with our foreheads pressed together.
His breath brushes against my lips, hot and unsteady, and I can feel the tension rippling off him like a livewire. My hand is still at his throat and his grip on my shirt hasn’t loosened. It’s like we’re locked in this moment, too angry or too stupid to pull away.
“You gonna let go, Trouble?” he asks.
“You gonna stop looking at me like that, Hotshot?” I shoot back.
He doesn’t answer, and I know I’m not the only one feeling this—the pull, the weight, the fucked-up need to see how far we can take this.
“You hate me,” he mutters as he pulls back, almost like he’s trying to remind himself.
“Yeah,” I say, my fingers flexing against his throat. “I hate you.”
“Then why the fuck did you kiss me?”
“Why the fuck did you kiss me back?” I counter.
He doesn’t have an answer for that, and I can see it eating at him. His grip on my shirt tightens, his knuckles brushing against my chest like he can’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.
“This is wrong,” he says, his voice cracking on the words. “You know this is wrong.”
“Yeah,” I say, my gaze dropping to his lips. “I know.”
And then I kiss him again.
His lips part under mine, and I take full advantage, my tongue sliding against his in a way that makes him shudder. His hands move, one gripping my shirt, the other tangling in my hair as he yanks me closer.
I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be doing this.
But fuck me, it feels good.
Roman makes a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat, and it sends a jolt through me, straight to my cock. It strains painfully against my jeans, and I can’t help but groan into his mouth.
I back him into the side of a wall, the rough brick scraping against his shoulders as I press him against it. His hands are everywhere—my shirt, my hair, the back of my neck.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, his voice wrecked. “This is so fucked up.”
“Yeah,” I say, nipping at his bottom lip. “It is.”
But neither of us stop. Neither of us even try to.
Roman gasps into my mouth when I press my body against his, pinning him to the brick wall as I devour his sweet mouth. His nails scrape down my neck, his grip shifting from my hair to my shoulders as he tries to catch his breath.
I don’t let him. I grind my cock against him, feeling the heat radiating from his body and the hardness pressed against my thigh.
“Damon,” he whimpers— actually fucking whimpers —when I nip at the sensitive skin just below his ear, and it’s like a switch flips in my brain. I want to hear it again. I want to hear him break for me, to know I’m the one making him fall apart in a way no one else ever could.
“Fuck, Roman,” I groan, my hand sliding under his shirt, my fingers splaying over the taut muscles of his stomach. “You feel so goddamn good.”
His skin is burning, his abs clenching under my touch, and I press my palm flat, feeling the way he tenses beneath me. Perfect. All of him—tight and warm and shuddering against my hands.
His head tips back against the wall, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “This is insane,” he mutters in a shaky voice.
“Yeah? Then why aren’t you stopping me?” I whisper, my teeth grazing his collarbone as my hand moves higher. My fingers skim over his ribs, dragging along his heated skin until I brush over something hard.
Holy fucking shit.
My breath catches, and I rub my thumb over his pierced nipples, watching his body react instantly. He jerks against me, his breath stuttering, his fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Fuck,” I breathe, my voice rough as I circle his nipples, flicking it lightly just to watch him shudder. “You’ve been hiding these from me?”
He doesn’t answer, his hands tightening on my shoulders as his hips buck against mine like his body’s giving me the response his mouth won’t. I roll the piercing between my fingers, fascinated and completely wrecked by the way he twitches and gasps, his lashes fluttering.
The friction is almost enough to drive me mad. I bite down on the space between his neck and shoulder hard enough to break skin and the taste of his blood explodes on my tongue. He shudders and cries out as his fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt.
“Keep making those noises, Hotshot,” I murmur, my lips brushing against his ear. “Let me hear how much you fucking hate me.”
His response is a broken moan, and I grind into him harder, my hands sliding down to grip his hips and hold him in place. My fingers dig in, feeling the sharp cut of his v-line beneath my palms, but then— fuck.
I freeze for half a second, dragging my hand lower and pulling up his shirt. Just slightly above his V-line, two small silver bars gleam against his flushed skin on either side of his hips.
“Hot as fuck,” I comment, my voice is rough with the need to ruin him.
His breath hitches, his entire body going rigid. I drag a finger along one of them, feeling the way his muscles twitch, and his hands fly to my wrists like he wants to stop me but can’t.
“Your cock pierced too, Hotshot?” I ask, my own traitorous dick twitching against the seam of my jeans, and he smirks but shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says and I laugh as I roll my hips into him, watching his smirk falter just slightly. Not yet.
“Yeah?” I murmur, dragging my fingers along the silver bars again, watching the way his breath shudders out of him. “What, you waiting for a special occasion?”
Roman’s smirk twitches, his grip tightening on my wrists. “Waiting for someone who can handle it.”
Fuck.
That shouldn’t turn me on. It shouldn’t send a fresh wave of heat crashing through me, shouldn’t make my grip on his hips tighten like I’m about to leave bruises to match the marks already on his skin.
I grin, dragging my fingers down his stomach until they reach those damn hip piercings again. I flick one, just to feel him twitch, just to hear that quiet, breathless moan slip from his throat.
His fingers tighten on me, his hips jerking up to grind against my thigh, and my stomach fucking flips. Drawing my hand toward his neck, I run my thumb over the mark I left and smirk. “You’re so fucking pretty when you bleed for me.”
Roman shudders under my touch, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to catch a breath that won’t come. His lips are parted, his cheeks flushed, and for a second, I forget how much I hate him. How much I’m supposed to hate him.
“Fuck you,” he breathes, but there’s no bite behind the words, just heat.
I smirk, leaning in closer so my lips are just brushing his ear. “You’re already trying. Your body says yes even when your mouth says no,” I murmur, pressing my knee between his legs and feeling his dick straining against his jeans. “Pretty little liar.”
His breath catches, and the sound is enough to make my control slip. I press my thumb harder against the mark on his shoulder, the faint smear of blood still visible, and he tilts his head like he’s offering himself up.
“You’re not allowed to bleed for anyone but me,” I growl, the words coming out before I can think, but I don’t take them back.
Roman’s body stiffens, his eyes snapping open to meet mine. There’s a flicker of shock and anger in his eyes—but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same reckless heat that’s been driving this entire fucked-up moment.
“Is that so?” he breathes, his voice shaking but not with fear.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “No one else gets to make you bleed.”
His lips part, but no words come out. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. My free hand moves to his jaw and I make the decision for him when I devour his lips again, my tongue sliding against his until he’s gasping for air.
I press him harder against the wall, grinding against him like I can’t get close enough, like I need him to feel just how badly I want him, too. He moans into my mouth, and I swallow the sound greedily, my fingers tightening in his hair.
I should stop. I know I should stop. But the way he moves against me and the way he melts into my touch makes it impossible to let go.
It’s not until we hear voices nearby—someone leaving the party, laughing and shouting—that we finally pull apart completely.
Roman’s eyes are wide, his lips parted as he stares at me like he doesn’t know what the fuck just happened. I take a step back, my chest heaving and my hands curling into fists at my sides to keep from reaching for him again.
“Damon,” he breathes.
“Don’t,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “Don’t fucking say my name like that.”
He actually looks confused. “Like what?”
“Like it fucking means something to you!” I snap, my voice harsher than I intend.
He flinches, and for a second, I feel like the biggest asshole on the planet. But I can’t deal with this right now.
“I need to go,” I mutter, turning on my heel and heading down the street without looking back.
“Damon, wait—!”
I don’t stop. I don’t turn around. Because if I do, I know I’ll fuck this up even more than I already have.
And I’m not sure either of us can handle that.