Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
OPHELIA
The darkness swallows us whole the moment we step inside the restaurant, and for once, I’m not the only one struggling to see.
Around me, other diners fumble and laugh nervously, their voices pitched higher with disorientation, but I move through the blackness with Damien’s hand warm against my lower back, tugging at the hem of the minidress that he selected this morning.
Damien’s torture continued overnight, my wrists cuffed to the bedhead in case I ‘strayed.’ My stubbornness has backed me into a corner, and I have no idea how to get out.
A lunchtime dining experience is a welcome distraction.
“Welcome to Nuit,” a voice says from somewhere to our left. “Please, take my arm.”
The host leads us through the space, carpet muffling our footsteps. Silverware clinks against crockery, breaking up the low murmur of conversation. In the complete darkness, sound takes on texture and weight, each whisper and laugh pressing against my skin.
“Your table.” The host’s hand guides mine to the back of a chair. “Your server will explain the evening’s menu. Enjoy.”
I slide into my seat, and Damien settles beside me. His knee bumps mine, deliberate and warm. “Comfortable?”
“Probably more than you.”
His laugh is low, agreeable and intimate in the dark.
While the server explains the dark-dining restaurant, Damien catches hold of my wrist, bringing it up to his mouth. His lips brush my knuckles, tongue darting out to taste my skin, and that aching pulse between my legs surges back to life.
“Our first course is a compressed melon sphere with prosciutto air and aged balsamic. Please, use your hands.”
Our food is set down and I reach out carefully. First finding the plate’s edge, then something smooth and round, no bigger than a large marble. I lift it, and it’s heavier than expected, dense.
I pop it in my mouth, and it explodes. Sweet melon floods my tongue, then the saltiness of prosciutto. The balsamic cuts through with acidic sharpness, and I give a small whimper of joy.
“Christ,” Damien mutters. “That noise.”
“What? It’s good food.”
His hand lands on my knee under the table, and my muscles tense. All weekend, his fingers have been my tormentors. Now his palm slides higher, bunching the fabric of my dress until he’s touching my bare skin.
The second course arrives while his thumb traces lazy circles on my inner thigh. “Seared scallop with cauliflower puree, crispy pancetta, and brown butter,” the server announces and I barely hear over the roaring in my ears.
The scallop yields to the slightest pressure, butter-soft, and the puree beneath is velvet on my tongue, rich and earthy. The pancetta adds salt and crunch, a textural contrast that makes each bite a small revelation.
Damien’s hand inches higher.
Around us, the other diners create a rich soundscape. The scrape of cutlery, appreciative hums, fragments of conversation that blur into ambient noise.
A woman laughs somewhere to my left, high and bright. Glasses clink. Someone drops a fork and curses softly.
Damien hooks aside my panties, and when his fingertip lazily teases, circling my clit, my fork clatters to the plate.
I clear my throat.
“Shh.” His fingers dance away again, maddening. “You need to finish your scallop. It’s getting cold.”
I fumble for my cutlery with shaking hands, spearing another bite. The taste could be cardboard as he slowly teases along my inner thigh, building that familiar tension low in my belly.
My legs squeeze closed but his other hand grips my knee, holding me open.
Close. So close. The pleasure coils tighter, my breath coming in short gasps I muffle behind my napkin.
His hand withdraws completely, leaving me throbbing and empty, and I want to scream. A tear trickles from my eye. “You are building some bad karma.”
“Only if you believe in that stuff.” He sounds obscenely pleased with himself. “Now settle. We still have two more courses.”
The main arrives. Duck breast, the server explains, with parsnip puree, roasted figs, and a port wine reduction.
My hands tremble as my knife slides through the tender offering. The first bite is iron-rich and gamey against the sweetness of fig, but I can’t focus. The darkness closes in around us.
Every sound amplifies as he teases me again, the wet slide of his movement, my halting breaths. Anyone could hear.
He curls his knuckle, and I grip the edge of the table. The tension builds, my thighs trembling with the effort of staying still, of staying silent. I’m going to come in the middle of this restaurant, and I’m well past caring.
But he pulls his fingers free.
The denial is physical pain. A cramping ache that makes me double over slightly in my chair, and I’m grateful the darkness hides my expression.
“Finish your duck.”
I’d rather dump the plate in his lap.
Instead, I force down another bite, then set aside my cutlery.
Around us, conversations continue, oblivious. Weekday plans. Wine pairings. The mundane chatter of people who aren’t being slowly driven insane by calculated denial.
Dessert is a dark chocolate mousse with salted caramel and hazelnut crumble. Roasted nuts, cocoa, burnt sugar, all dissolving on my tongue in a rush of bittersweet intensity.
Damien curls his hand around my neck, holding me in place while he feeds me a bite, his breath a delicate tease across my lips.
“You’re awful.”
“Maybe.” The metal spoon is cool against my lips as he delivers another bite. “But remember, you’re the one in control here.”
His words stay with me as I swallow the last mouthful, holding the sweetness on my tongue. I’m in control.
My legs are weak from denied pleasure by the time we walk to the exit, and I lean into him more than I’d like as he opens the door.
Sunlight blinds me after two hours of complete darkness.
I throw up my hands, shielding my eyes even through the tinted glasses. But it’s still too much. I close my eyes, and Damien pulls me against his chest, his body blocking the worst of it as he guides me to the car.
The door shuts. The engine starts. Slowly, incrementally, the burning fades enough that I can crack my eyes open, squinting through my fingers at the dashboard.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
And my answer encompasses more than my watering eyes. I’m sad, knowing our postponed conversation will take place soon. That I’ll ask him to choose.
Already knowing he can’t, he won’t, choose me.
When we’re back in his home, Damien leads me into the pool room. It’s entirely glass-walled, water reflecting rippling patterns across the ceiling.
I glance towards the changing room doors, but he pulls my dress over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the pool.
“What?” I grab a towel from a rack and cover myself, laughing. “You’re too poor to afford spare bathing suits?”
“We are. You finally uncovered our secret shame.”
He strips without any self-consciousness. One second, his sweatpants are pooling at his feet, the next he’s naked, arms stretching above his head before he dives in.
The splash echoes through the white-tiled space as he surfaces, water slicking back his dark curls. “Are you coming in, or will you stand there perving all day?”
“I’ll watch,” I say, sitting on the edge, dangling my feet in the water.
“Suit yourself.”
Damien swims laps, powerful strokes that eat up the length of the pool. I stare, enjoying the play of muscle across his back and shoulders. The strength in his legs as they kick.
When he taps the edge near me, immediately turning underwater and pushing away from the wall with his feet, light marks show across his hips. More scars, though they’re not as pronounced as the ones above his elbow.
The next time he returns, he stays, treading water, then crossing his arms over the edge. Another light stripe mars his shoulder.
I dangle my legs in the water, then trace it with my fingertip. “Your dad?”
“Probably.” His voice has gone rough, and when I move to trace a scar near his neck, he catches my wrist. “Enough. You’re making this weird.”
He tugs me forward and I yelp, hitting the water in a graceless splash. The shock of cold after the balmy air makes me gasp, then I’m sputtering, trying to find my footing. He drags off the sodden towel, then holds me upright until I can stand, water lapping above my shoulders.
I flick wet hair out of my eyes. “Are these glasses even waterproof?”
“Better be. Pretty sure the manufacturer’s heard of rain.”
The moment of vulnerability is gone, and I push away from him, floating on my back. Damien swims lazy circles around me, occasionally ducking under to grab my ankle, making me shriek.
When he surfaces, water streaming down his grinning face, I splash him. He retaliates, and soon we’re engaged in a full water fight, childish and chaotic.
For several minutes, I forget the denial, the power games. It’s just fun, the two of us laughing like normal people instead of a sociopath and his obsession.
He catches me mid-splash, arms banding around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His cock is hard again, pressing against my stomach underwater. The playfulness drains from his expression, replaced by that hungry intensity.
“Time to get out,” he murmurs against my ear.
He lifts me from the water, setting me on the pool’s edge. The tile is warm against my bare arse—still tender from spanking—and when I pull away, his hands clamp on my thighs, spreading them wide.
“Lie back.”
I set my chin.
“You want to come, don’t you?” His breath feels cool as it puffs over my wet skin, sending a shiver up my inner thigh. “You’re the stubbornest girl in the world, and you win. Now just relax and let me take care of you.”
His mouth finds me before I can respond, tongue parting my folds, licking through my arousal, groaning appreciatively as he works. “Even chlorine scented, you taste good.”
His tongue circles my clit, then flattens, dragging upwards, not playing. My back arches off the tile, hands finding his wet hair, gripping tight.
Spurred by hours of denial, the orgasm builds, my body so desperate for release, I don’t care any longer.
He already told me I won.
“Please,” I whimper, voice so husky I barely recognise it as my own. “Please, please…”
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them perfectly while his tongue maintains its relentless rhythm. The pressure builds and builds, coiling tighter in my core.
“That’s it,” he growls, dragging my neck low for a kiss that tastes of the pool and me.
He stands abruptly, water streaming down his body, his cock jutting forward, thick and flushed.
My throat lets out an aggrieved rumble. “I asked nicely.”
But he’s just repositioning himself, dragging me onto my hands and knees, completely exposed. His hands grip my hips, and his cock pushes slowly inside, stretching me, making me feel every thick inch.
“Fuck, you feel incredible.” His voice is strained, fingers digging into my hips and arse.
He withdraws almost completely, then thrusts back in, setting a steady rhythm. Not the frantic pounding of the car or outside the community hall. This is different.
Measured, deliberate, like he’s savouring every stroke.
One hand slides up my spine, and tangles in my wet hair, tugging my head back. The position strains my neck, but I don’t care. I can’t focus on anything but the drag of his cock inside me, the building pressure.
“You’re mine,” he growls, punctuating each word with a thrust. “Every. Fucking. Inch.”
His other hand reaches around, finding my clit, circling with the same rhythm as his thrusts. The dual sensation overwhelms me, pleasure radiating from both points until I’m straining, my walls tight around him.
“Not yet,” he warns. But his strokes lose their measured control, becoming more erratic. “Wait for me. Come with me.”
He presses harder on my clit, his cock driving deeper, and the orgasm hovers just out of reach, a promise that makes every nerve ending sing. Then I’m lost, days’ worth of denial compounding into a climax that rocks me so hard, every cell turns inside out.
Damien collapses across me, his face straining, still beautiful even in the throes of ecstasy. The aftershocks continue, pleasurable echoes.
I never want them to end.
“For future reference,” he whispers, chest still rapidly rising and falling. “This is what counts as a turn.”
I laugh, turning my face into his chest. His arms wrap around me, and mine twine around him. For long moments, drifting down from our shared high, it’s like we’re moulded together.
One dark twisted creature. Beautiful and deadly.
A shadow falls across us.
“Damien.”
The voice is cold, precise, echoing through the pool room with the weight of absolute authority.
Damien freezes, his whole body going rigid. He withdraws, standing, the loss so abrupt it leaves me empty, gasping.
I scramble for the wet towel, clutching it to my chest.
A man stands in the doorway. Older, maybe fifty, with the same dark curls as Damien but shot through with silver. Same build, same wide eyes, and broad cheekbones.
His eyes scour and dismiss me in the same smooth motion, focusing on his son.
“Get dressed.” Each word is clipped, speaking of a controlled fury beneath the surface. “Both of you. Then meet me in the kitchen.”
The man turns on his heel and stalks away, footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Damien stands frozen, rivulets of water trickling down his body, cock limp against his thighs.
But it’s his expression that makes my stomach drop. The blank mask is gone, replaced by something he referenced but that I’ve never seen on his face before.
Fear.