18. Roman
Roman
The guy’s fist connects with my cheek again and my head snaps to the side, the sharp sting of pain blooming across my face. Blood trickles from my nose, mixing with the taste of copper on my tongue. My lip’s split wide open again and I can feel the heat of the swelling, but I don’t give a shit.
I’m grinning.
Around me, the crowd in the bar is a blur of noise—cheers, jeers, and the occasional holler of someone too drunk to care about what’s actually happening. The guy in front of me, some beefed-up frat dude with anger issues, throws another punch, and I let it land square in my gut.
The wind rushes out of me, and for a second, everything spins, but I stay standing, leaning into the pain like it’s a lifeline.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I rasp, spitting blood onto the floor and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My voice is rough, slurred from both the hits and the whiskey burning a hole in my stomach. “Come on, big guy. My fucking grandmother hits harder than you and she’s dead.”
The pain dulls the ache in my chest that’s been there since this afternoon. Since I saw him.
Damon fucking Ward, looking at me like I was nothing. Like I didn’t even fucking exist. That polite little nod, like he couldn’t give two shits if I was breathing or not. What the fuck did I expect?
So, yeah, maybe I’m reckless. Maybe I’m stupid. But at least I’m feeling something now.
The frat guy swings, and I brace myself for the hit—
But it never comes.
Instead, there’s a hand on my arm, yanking me backward with enough force to nearly knock me off my feet. The next thing I know, I’m being dragged through the crowd and out the back door, the cool night air hitting my busted face like a slap.
“Jesus Christ, Kill,” I mutter, stumbling as I’m pulled toward the parking lot. “You’ve really gotta stop—”
I’m cut off when I’m shoved hard, my back hitting the ground with a painful thud. I blink up at the figure looming over me, my breath catching in my throat when I see who it is.
Not Killian.
Damon.
He’s standing above me, messy curls hanging in his face and those green eyes blazing with anger like he has any fucking right to be pissed off. His chest is heaving, fists clenched at his sides and, for a second, I think I’m imagining him.
“What the fuck? Damon?” I croak, trying to stand up and failing miserably.
He crouches down in front of me, his eyes raking over me like a predator sizing up its prey. They linger on the blood dripping down my chin and nose, and I see his jaw tighten.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, and I bristle at the accusation in his tone.
“Yeah?” I shoot back, my words slurred with exhaustion and anger, along with the amount of alcohol in my system right now. “What’s it to you?”
Damon smirks, but there’s nothing playful about it. It’s dark, possessive, and sends a chill straight through me. He tilts his head to the side, his gaze cutting like a blade.
“What did I say about bleeding for anyone else but me?”
It feels like ice water has been poured all over my body, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s dead serious—his tone, his posture, the way his eyes are burning into mine. I can’t tell if I want to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.
“Get over yourself,” I mutter, pushing myself into a sitting position. My head’s spinning, and my body feels like it’s been run over by a steamroller, but I refuse to let him see how wrecked I feel.
But he doesn’t move. He stays crouched, watching me with that same unnerving intensity that makes my skin crawl and my blood heat at the same time.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says finally, standing up and brushing off his jeans like this is just another Tuesday.
“Thanks for the life advice,” I snap, glaring up at him. “Real helpful.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the edge of the parking lot, where it looks like his bike is parked under a flickering street lamp. I watch him, my stomach twisting as he grabs something off the seat and walks back toward me.
“Here,” he says, holding out a helmet to me.
I stare at it, then back up at him. “The fuck is this?”
“A helmet,” he deadpans and I roll my eyes.
“No shit, but why are you giving it to me?”
Damon’s smirk returns, and a flicker of amusement glints in his eyes. “Because you’re coming with me.”
“Like hell, I am,” I snap, shoving myself to my feet despite the pain in my body.
He steps closer to me, still holding out the fucking thing. “Get on the bike, Roman.”
“Or what?” I challenge, my voice rising.
“Or I’ll throw you over my fucking shoulder and drag you there myself,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I glare at him, but I already fucking know I won’t win this. Especially not with the way he’s looking at me right now.
Fuck.
“Fine,” I mutter, snatching the helmet out of his hand. “But if you crash this thing, I’m killing you.”
Damon smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and walks back to his bike. I can do nothing but follow him, and even in my drunken state, I take in how perfect his ass looks in those jeans. He pulls on his own helmet, the matte black surface gleaming in the dim streetlight, and he straddles the bike with an ease that makes my mouth go dry.
Fuck me . No really, I want him to fuck me.
“Get on,” he says, his voice muffled by the helmet. “You’re riding bitch today.”
I hesitate, my gaze flicking between him and the bike. Every instinct is telling me that this is a bad idea—a fucking terrible idea—but my legs are already moving. I climb onto the bike behind him, my hands hovering awkwardly before I give in and grab his waist.
Goddamn, he is fucking solid .
“Hold on tight, Hotshot,” he says and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Just drive, asshole,” I mutter and tighten my grip on his waist just as the engine roars to life.
The ride is a blur of roaring wind, the vibration of the bike beneath me, and the heat of his body against mine. I don’t know where the fuck we’re going or what the hell I’m doing, but my arms stay locked around his waist.
When we finally pull up in an underground parking lot, my head’s still spinning. Damon kills the engine and the silence is deafening. I climb off the bike with shaky legs and pull the helmet off.
“Where the hell are we?” I snap.
“My apartment. You really didn’t think I’d take you home, did you?”
I ignore the shiver of anticipation that shoots up my spine when he grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the elevator door, dragging me along like I don’t weigh a damn thing. He chooses a floor number and, while we wait, I try not to freak out because he’s still holding my wrist.
That, and the fact he’s taking me to his fucking apartment.
When the doors open again, he drags me out and comes to a stop in front of a door at the end of the hall, which he unlocks before pulling me inside.
I turn around and my eyes widen. It’s a studio apartment and the space is very… Damon in terms of black and silver decor. It’s small but clean and has large windows where three easels are set up. The scent of turpentine lingers in the air and canvasses lean against the walls, some finished, some half-done—all of them chaotic and raw.
“Nice place,” I say sarcastically but he doesn’t take the bait.
Instead, he locks the door behind us and turns to face me, his green eyes blazing with so much possession that my fucking balls tighten.
“Take off your shirt.”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me,” he says, taking a step toward me and I take a step back. “Take it off.”
I glare at him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Damon doesn’t flinch, he just smirks and tilts his head to the side in that infuriating way that grates on me. “You bled for someone else tonight, Roman. That shit doesn’t fly with me.”
My heart stutters in my chest and I take another step back, but he follows, crowding me against the window.
“I told you,” he continues, brushing his fingers over the partially healed mark on my shoulder. “You’re not allowed to bleed for anyone but me.”
That possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver down my spine and I hate how much I like it. “Why do you care?” I snap, my voice rising. “What difference does it make to you if I want to get my ass kicked?”
Damon’s smirk widens and he reaches for the front of my button-down, grabbing it with both hands and tearing it open before I can even stop him. “What the fuck—”
He shuts me up by drawing his hand to my lips and brushing his thumb over the split in them. The touch sends a jolt straight to my cock.
“You like it, don’t you?” he murmurs as his thumb continues to smear the blood over my lip. “The way it stings and burns.”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. My breath catches when he slides his hand from my lip down to grip my jaw so I can’t look away.
“I’m going to get my blood back,” he says, his tone of voice so low that it makes my cock twitch. “Twice over.”
I don’t have time to respond before his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees go weak.
The pain from my split lip mixes with the heat of his mouth, and I can’t stop the groan that escapes me. The heat, the pain, the chaos—it’s everything I’ve been chasing and he’s giving it all to me like it’s his fucking mission.
Then he bites down on my bottom lip, hard enough to draw more blood and I gasp, the pain sending a shockwave through my body. “Fuck,” I breathe, my head falling back against the window as he licks the blood from my lip, his tongue hot and insistent.
“You taste like every bad decision I’d make twice,” he says, his teeth grazing my jaw as he pulls my shirt off completely.
I whimper. “Damon—”
“Shut up,” he growls, pulling me away from the window and backing me up against his bed. I stumble back and fall against the soft pillows and he follows, straddling me. He leans down and runs his tongue over my neck, nipping at my ear.
“You want pain, Roman?” he whispers. “I’ll be more than happy to give you the pain you crave.”
My chest tightens, and I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words die in my throat when he drags his teeth over the mark on my shoulder and bites down. The sharp sting sends a spark of heat straight through me, reopening the healing mark.
“Fuck!” I cry out, feeling my hard cock twitch. “Damon, please…”
He smirks against my skin. “You beg so pretty,” he mutters, then his tongue flicks over the fresh mark, soothing it as my body arches beneath him, desperate for more.
I whimper, my hands clutching at his shoulders as his nails rake down my chest, leaving trails of fire. My head swims with the sharp sting of each new scratch, the dull throb of his bite marks, and the overwhelming heat pooling low in my stomach.
He pulls away, his gaze dropping to my chest, eyeing my piercings. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with condescension. “Fucking falling apart for me. I could break you, Roman. Shatter you into a thousand pieces, and you’d thank me for it.”
My breath catches, my chest heaving as he leans down to press his lips to my nipples, his tongue tracing each piercing before pulling them between his teeth.
“You want more?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice shaking.
Damon chuckles, flicking his tongue over one of the sensitive bars again before dragging his teeth against it. The sharp sting sends another surge of heat straight to my dick, and I let out a hiss.
“Yeah?” he drawls, his breath hot against my skin. “Then beg for it.”
I freeze, my pride flaring up even through the haze of want clouding my head. “No fucking way.”
His smirk widens. “No?” He shifts, pressing his thigh harder between my legs, grinding against me just enough to drive me insane. I bite my lip, swallowing down a groan, but he catches my chin, forcing my head back.
I glare at him, but I can’t stop my body from arching into him, can’t stop the way my breath stutters when he rolls his hips against mine. “Try again,” he says, his voice silk and sin. “Tell me exactly what you want, Roman. Beg for it.”
My face burns and my pride won’t fucking let me.
Damon watches me for a moment, dragging his fingers down my stomach, but never touching me where I need him. My cock throbs, aching, as he traces patterns over my skin, his lips trailing lower, lower—then he stops.
“Beg,” he repeats, lifting his head and locking those gorgeous green eyes onto mine. “Or I don’t touch you at all.”
I groan, my back arching, my body practically thrumming with need. Fucking bastard. I want to fight him on this, want to keep some kind of control. But then he presses down on my piercings again, rolling them between his fingers and sending tiny pinpricks of pain through my nerves and I fucking whimper.
Damon tilts his head, his smirk widening. “That’s cute, but it’s not begging.”
“Fuck you,” I bite out, my voice rough.
He sighs, mock-disappointed, then—fuck. His teeth sink into my hip, right next to one of my piercings, and I cry out, my fingers flying to his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
Heat floods my body, every nerve ending alive with sharp pleasure-pain, and it’s too much, not enough—
“Please,” I gasp. “Damon, please.”
He hums against my skin, his mouth moving back to my chest, his tongue flicking over my nipple again. “Not bad, but I know you can do better.” I try to grind up against him, but he holds me down. “Down boy, and beg me nicely.”
“I am begging,” I grit out, my face burning with frustration.
Damon chuckles again, his fingers ghosting over my stomach, tracing the lines of my abs before stopping just above the waistband of my jeans. “Nah, not really,” he drawls. “You want me to touch you? You want me to wreck you?”
I nod, swallowing thickly, but he clicks his tongue in disapproval.
“Words, Hotshot.” His fingers skim lower, barely touching, teasing me just to be a dick. “Say it properly.”
I groan, throwing my head back. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s fucking good at it. My pride is dying a slow death, and fuck it—I don’t care anymore. I drag my gaze back to his, my lips parting as I finally let myself break for him.
“Please,” I whisper again, voice ragged, desperate. “Please, Damon. I need you. I need you to fucking ruin me.”
His lips curl into a smirk, satisfaction radiating from him like heat. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he chuckles darkly, running his tongue over one of his bites on my hips. “Such a good little painslut.”