Pure

Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

OPHELIA

My eyes open slowly, the silence in the room different from normal. It’s like the walls are thicker, muffling all the incidental noise.

I’m not at home.

I drift back and forth between consciousness and sleep, lulled by a pleasant heat. It’s concentrated lower in my body; a delicious warmth centred between my thighs. My breath hitches as the sensation sharpens into pleasure and I gasp, hands fisting in the sheets as my back arches involuntarily.

The oversized sleep shirt is hiked up around my ribs, unbuttoned, and my legs are spread wide, pushed open by a pair of broad shoulders.

The ripple of pleasure isn’t my imagination or a dream, it’s Damien’s tongue. Hot, maddening, and far more talented than anything I’ve felt before, circling my swollen clit with deliberate strokes that leave me gasping.

“What are you…?” I shove myself upright.

But before I can work out what I’m protesting, a shudder ripples through me, and I collapse back on the mattress. His tongue dips lower, teasing at my entrance before retracing its languorous path, my legs spreading wider, giving him access.

“Shh.” His voice is low and rough when he lifts his head, eyes dark. “Go back to sleep.”

My hands find his hair, intending to push him away, but my fingers rebel, threading through his thick curls and holding him there instead. Twisting strands between my knuckles, guiding his mouth exactly where I need when his teasing becomes too much to bear.

My hips rock harder, chasing the friction.

The sensations grow sharper, more urgent, and his tongue works faster now, rougher against my sensitive flesh until the pleasure borders on pain and I’m writhing beneath him.

My thighs tremble as he adds his thumb into the mix, its rough pad pressing firmly where his mouth and tongue can’t reach, and a moan escapes me. A raw sound that echoes in the quiet room.

Memories from yesterday try to intervene and I push them away, invested only in this moment and the ever-building sensations.

I’m close, so close… just one more second…

He pulls away.

The loss is so abrupt, I cry out. A sound that mortifies me as he sits back on his heels, sucking his fingers. Probably hiding a smirk.

I lunge for a dark shape on the bedside cabinet, and my fingers close around a pair of glasses. But when I put them on, they’re not mine. Details are even more blurred than before, the room nearly white.

Frowning, I pull them off. “What are these?”

“Mine.” Damien takes them from my hands, setting them back on the cabinet. “The optometrist made them to mimic your natural sight.” He opens the top drawer. “These are yours.”

I’m touched he went out of his way to see the world how I do. I didn’t even know they could make such things.

With my glasses in place, he comes into clearer focus and there it is. His trademark smirk. It doesn’t frustrate me the way it usually does.

His voice is rough with satisfaction. “Sleep well?”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Guessed you would be.” He shifts closer. “Yesterday was an abomination. I hurt you, and you scared the shit out of me.” He drops a line of kisses along my shoulder. “But can you press pause? Just for this weekend. I’ve already lost half a day, and our time together is too precious to lose more.”

My lips press together. Not doubting his sincerity, doubting everything else.

“This isn’t my skill set.” His voice lacks his usual confidence. “But I’m thinking, and Sunday night, we’ll have that discussion. I promise. Just… not right now.”

“Okay.” It’s time I had a serious think, too. My fingertip runs over the contours of his lip. “I postponed calling my mother for over a year. I guess you can have a weekend.”

His smile spreads, then morphs into a wicked grin. And he’s already moving, crawling up my body, straddling my chest.

The pressure of his legs wedges my arms at my sides. His cock juts upwards, flushed and hard, inches from my face. The entirety of his naked body is on display in my new glasses. The ridges of muscles across his abdomen, the dark trail of hair, the thick vein running along his length.

“Stay still,” he orders, wrapping a hand around himself.

Like I have a choice.

His fist moves in long, steady strokes while his opposite hand braces above the headboard, biceps flexing with each pump.

Precum beads and I lick my lips as he spreads it with his thumb.

Every breath comes heavier, his chest rising and falling faster, knees tensing against my pinned arms with every ragged inhalation.

“You know how crazy you make me, lying there all flushed and desperate.” His voice breaks into a groan, strokes quickening. “Watching me get off on your pretty tits.”

My face burns. The ache between my legs grows worse, squeezing my thighs not enough.

I tug my hand but can’t get free, can’t give myself that release.

His hips buck towards his fist, eyes never leaving my face, staring with the blank intensity that always makes my stomach flip and my thighs squeeze harder.

His cock twitches, then ropes of cum splatter across my collarbones, the swell of my breasts.

He gathers the last drops and spreads it over my throat, massaging it into my flesh with slow, deliberate circles.

“So fucking good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His thumb brushes my nipple until it peaks, then he pinches it lightly. “My perfect little ghost.”

The possessiveness sends fresh heat pulsing between my thighs, but he rolls off the bed.

Fine.

I lower my fingers, sorting myself out, and he grips my wrist painfully tight, pulling them away. “No. It’s time for breakfast. Try that again and you’ll be cuffed.” His lips quirk as he grabs a pair of sweatpants from a drawer and steps into them. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”

My entire body throbs with unresolved need. I’m wet, aching, covered in his drying cum, tense enough to scream.

“You’re not making things better for yourself, you know that. Right now, I hate you.”

“I’m sure you do.” His smirk transforms into a warm smile while I scowl, then he darts in close, lips at my ear. “But I bet your pretty cunt’s still clenching for me.”

I sit up, thighs sticky, my sleep shirt clinging where his cum soaked through the fabric. Buttoning my shirt, I follow him out the door and we walk along a corridor, then into an open-plan kitchen.

Sunlight streams through floor to ceiling windows, instantly transitioning my glasses into their strongest tint. Damien moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling items from the enormous refrigerator, his back muscles working beneath his tanned skin.

“Sit.” He gestures to a bar stool before the marble island.

I hover in the doorway, arms folded. “I need a shower first.”

“No.” He sets a bowl of strawberries on the counter, then yoghurt, muesli, and milk. The coffee machine bubbles behind him, and he rests his hands on the counter. “Breakfast first, then we’ll see. You want eggs?”

I shake my head but my stomach growls at the question. When did I last eat? I threw my sandwich on the lawn for the birds when I got home and only picked at my tea. Apart from two glasses of wine and my nightly cocoa, that was it.

I sit, pulling the hem of my shirt, the wooden seat cold underneath me.

“You seem on edge,” he says with a lazy grin.

“I’m fine.” I arch my eyebrows. “Just don’t complain later that you wasted a turn for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing.” His lips drift closer, making mine pulse with anticipation. “And although I very much enjoyed my breakfast, it doesn’t count.”

“You came. That counts.”

He rolls his eyes. “I jerked off. If we’re adding that into the mix, I used up your teeny tiny quota on the first day.”

Before I can argue further, a strawberry pushes against my lips and I bite into its juicy flesh. He lifts another one. “I can feed myself.”

His arms close over my chest, hugging me back against his torso. “But today, you don’t need to.”

From the moment Damien first confronted me, I’ve felt attraction, my desires practically rolling around in his red flags, despite how much my common sense protested.

But it’s nothing like this touch-starved comfort, his warmth bleeding into my back, arms tight around me.

And I no longer believe his self-diagnosis. Last night, those emotions he claims not to have were fully evidence. Lost in panic, he showed his hand.

I part my lips and he slides the strawberry inside, fingers still brushing my lips as I bite down. Juice floods my mouth, sweet and slightly tart. He still hasn’t withdrawn his fingers, and my lips close around them, sucking them clean without thinking.

“Good girl.” He takes the seat beside me, pupils expanding despite the lightness of the room. “Another?”

His eyes are ravenous when I accept the food without further protest. My body hums with tension, the ache between my legs growing more insistent with each passing minute.

“You look good like this.” He feeds me a grape, his fingers lingering at my lips. “All soft and obedient, letting me take care of you.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Always.”

His hands suddenly circle my waist and lift me onto the marble island. The cold surface makes me gasp, shocking against my overheated skin. My fingers scramble for purchase but he’s already between my legs, spreading them wide.

“Arms up.”

My eyes flicker to the enormous windows. Anyone could be outside, staring in.

“You should worry less about who’s outside, and more about who’s right in front of you.” Damien’s baritone gruffness lends the words a delightful menace. “Now arms up”—his fingers find my shirt hem, bunching the fabric—“or I’ll tear it off.”

I raise my arms and he pulls the shirt over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me completely naked, perched on the breakfast island like an offering.

“Thought we might take a walk later,” he says, softer than usual but still carrying a distinct undercurrent of authority.

“Explore the native bushland nearby. Maybe go for a swim. There’s a set of steps leading down to a private beach.

Bit of a killer walking back up, but there’s always the temptation of nude sunbathing. ”

“Yeah.” I flash my pale arm before his eyes. “Not really on my radar, even with copious amounts of sunscreen.”

“In which case, we can stick around the indoor pool. My dad’s overseas, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. Lie back.”

My spine protests the cold stone, and my nipples peak instantly. I brace myself on my elbows, but he pushes me flat. My head tilts back, hair spilling over the edge of the island.

“Perfect.”

He traces a finger down my sternum, between my breasts, circling my navel, moving lower.

But instead of giving me relief, he flips me over, face down. My nipples painfully tight against the polished rock, arse in the air.

“A punishment’s in order, for skipping our arranged meeting yesterday.”

The first slap lands before I can brace for it, his palm cracking against my right cheek. The sting radiates outward, sharp and shocking. I yelp, trying to push up, but his hand plants between my shoulder blades, holding me down.

“How is that pressing pause?”

But he doesn’t provide an answer beyond another slap, left side this time. “Stay still.”

He works methodically, alternating sides. Each strike landing harder than the last.

The pain builds into a throbbing burn that makes my eyes water. But underneath the pain, something else builds too. A dark heat that makes my thighs tremble.

“Count them,” he orders, his voice still flat. “Out loud.”

“Eight,” I gasp when the next one lands.

“Start over. Count all of them.”

My hips buck against the counter at the next blow. “One.”

“Good girl.” Another slap. “Keep going.”

By the time I reach twelve, my arse throbs with heat, probably bright red, and my breath comes in strangled gasps. But my pussy is drenched, clenching around nothing, desperate for his fingers or his cock.

His hand smooths over the heated flesh, almost gentle now. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“I’ve learned that you’re a controlling bastard who gets off on denying me.”

His fingers push inside me, pumping in and out while his thumb circles my clit.

“Wrong answer,” he murmurs against my ear, body draped over my back. “The lesson is, when you’re fulfilling your contract negotiations, this body belongs to me.”

He works me ruthlessly, fingers curling to hit that perfect spot while his thumb maintains steady pressure.

And my orgasm builds faster than before, spurred by the pain, the humiliation, the sheer wrongness of being spread out on his kitchen island. The small part of my brain that licked cum off the bike shed floor lights up, glowing, eager for more.

“If you want to come,” he says, voice dropping to that gravelly purr, “beg.”

The orgasm hovers just out of reach, so close.

A plea nearly escapes, and I clench my jaw, determined to hold this one line against him. “No.”

His fingers withdraw immediately and my groan of frustration echoes through the kitchen. He steps back, leaving me bent over the island, arse burning, clit swollen and aching.

“Suit yourself.” His footsteps retreat towards the doorway. “We’ve got all weekend for you to change your mind. Now come on. Time to shower before I decide what we’re doing next.”

I push up slowly, muscles protesting. He leaves the kitchen, completely unconcerned, whistling under his breath.

My hands curl into fists against the counter, nails biting into my palms.

I won’t beg.