Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OPHELIA
Bryan hands me the cocoa and, even though he’s right in front of me, I barely register his presence. My mind’s still in the bike shed, concrete grit on my tongue, Damien’s whispered words echoing in my skull.
I mumble, “Thanks,” then wrap my hands around the mug, using its warmth as an anchor.
“Rough day?” Bryan settles into the desk chair, staring into his mug rather than at me. When he does raise his eyes, his gaze travels around the room, staring at my duvet, the corner above the door, my knee, then back at his drink.
“Just tired.”
I force the liquid down, grimacing at the taste. The bitterness comes and goes, but it’s probably worse tonight because my tastebuds are already overwhelmed from lunchtime’s depravity.
Bryan rubs a hand across his face, giving a tight smile. “Rain’s due tomorrow. Supposed to last till the weekend.”
I give a vague reply, and he continues filling the silence with small talk. My glasses. An upcoming movie. His new boss at work, the pushy little upstart.
The conversation is so forced my shoulders gradually stiffen, only relaxing when he stands, gently cupping my shoulder as he takes the empty mug. “Get some rest. You look exhausted.”
The door clicks shut behind him and I wait, counting footsteps until he reaches the downstairs landing.
Once I’m sure he won’t reverse direction, I change into my bedclothes and fetch the recording device from my bag. As I wait for today’s footage to load, I get under the covers. The worry of being caught—by a teacher, then by Bryan—had stopped me watching before now.
I play it back from the beginning, cupping hands over my earphones so the sound can’t leak.
The video barely catches Damien’s face before he moves out of frame, but the audio comes through clear.
My own breathing first, ragged and fast. The heavy footsteps could belong to anyone, but there’s no mistaking the deep baritone of his voice or the image of his thick fingers as he unzips.
Good slut… Filthy girl… Even secondhand, the growled words fill me with heat. I skip ahead, ten seconds at a time, my lips still burning from where they stretched wide around him.
Forward past the degradation, past the sounds of my own capitulation.
I let it play when a snippet shows his eyes, locked on me, not shifting for even a second. My cheeks burn listening to myself gag, to the wet obscene noises, and my core pulls tight at the groan when Damien comes.
Have a taste. My mouth fills again with his fingers, tongue eager for the salty smoky drops of his release.
My thumb hovers over the pause button. Just a few seconds more.
The kiss. The wall. My whimpers building higher. Then…
“Fuck, I love you.”
I rewind. Play it again.
“Fuck, I love you.”
His voice cracks on the word “love.” So quiet I almost miss it beneath my own gasping breaths. Not performative. Not calculated. It sounds real, and it could be.
Damien doesn’t lie.
But he’s also flat out told me he doesn’t have emotions, doesn’t feel things like normal people do.
Did he mean to say something more? I love you like this. I love you when you do what I want. Is that why he jerked like he was shocked?
No matter his reason, the short declaration is the perfect ticket out of our arrangement. If Chelsea hears him say those words, she won’t just come for me. She’ll slice him to pieces and leave his corpse bleeding on the street. His father will not be amused.
Not that I’ll ever play it for her. It’s just insurance.
I’m listening for the seventh time when my phone vibrates. The promised call.
My stomach flutters. I shove the recording device under the pillow and take a deep breath before answering.
The screen fills with Damien’s face. He’s in bed, shirtless, his dark curls messy against the white pillows. A wave of contentment washes over me, and I break into a gigantic yawn.
“Impressive display, there. Show me how wide you can get that jaw.”
A soft laugh escapes him while I’m thinking of a suitable retort. Between his voice and my sleepiness, I’m as relaxed as I usually get after a couple of wines.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is gentler than usual.
“Fine.”
“Liar.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “It’s okay to not be okay after this afternoon. When you’re a submissive—”
“Fuck you. I’m not your sub.”
His grin grows wider. “Sure, if thinking that makes you feel better, you go ahead. Tell me all about how your brain didn’t crash after the endorphin high and leave you feeling like shit.”
My lips twist. He could be right. Beneath my pleasure at the recording there is a slight hollowness in my chest.
“There’s nothing,” I insist. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” He shifts, and the movement draws my eyes to his bare torso. “Are you in bed?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
I angle the camera down, showing my sleep shirt, my bare legs half hidden beneath the covers. When I bring it back to my face, his expression has darkened, pupils blown wide.
“Touch yourself.”
“Damien—”
“You said you felt fine. Prove it.” His hand moves out of frame, and the harsh catch in his breath lets me know exactly what he’s doing. “Let me see you fall apart again.”
My hand slides down my body before conscious thought intervenes. Under my shirt, palm cupping my breast, thumb rasping over my nipple.
“That’s it.” His breathing’s already roughening. “Keep going.”
My eyes close as I let my hand drift lower. Over my stomach, between my legs, images from this afternoon playing in my head. Still sensitive from this afternoon, I jerk slightly at my first touch.
“Eyes open. Look at me.”
I force my lids apart, meeting his gaze through the screen. His hand’s moving faster now, working himself while he watches me.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about.” His jaw bunches, voice strained.
“You.” The truth slips out. “Against the wall. Your fingers inside me.”
“And?”
“Your voice.” I circle my clit, thighs clenching. “Telling me to come.”
“Fuck.” His jaw muscles strain, head tipping back briefly before he refocuses on me. The intensity of his gaze has my core pulsing, arousal surging. “I’m going to come watching you touch that pure little pussy. Are you close?”
“Yes.” The word comes out broken. I’m so close it hurts, slowing my fingers as I balance right on the edge.
“Then come for me, Snowflake. Let me see it.”
The orgasm hits hard and sudden, stealing my breath. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, body arching off the mattress while Damien watches with those hungry eyes.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, then groans, his own release hitting. I watch his face transform, all control slipping for a moment, revealing something raw and unguarded before his mask snaps back into place.
We breathe together for a moment, the silence surprisingly comfortable.
“Better?” he asks finally.
“Yes.”
“Good.” His voice softens. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The call ends before I can respond, leaving me alone with my racing heart and trembling hands.
I should feel worse. Used. Degraded. All the things I felt coming down from the high of this afternoon.
Instead, I feel… connected.
I thumb through my apps for the recording, queuing it to the right moment. The audio plays on low volume, just loud enough for me to hear, and the words wrap around me like a blanket. Dangerous and warm and probably the biggest lie he’s ever told, even if he doesn’t realise it yet.
But lying here in the dark, listening to that whispered confession on repeat, I let myself believe it’s real. Just for tonight. Just until morning comes and I face reality again.
The smile on my face feels foreign. Too soft for someone grappling with such obvious danger.
But I can’t seem to make it go away.