Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Blair
This dress is a knock-out.
Ordinarily, I reserve my best wardrobe selections for parties that I actually want to attend.
However, with my social calendar currently void of any such occasion, and a newly established resolution to make Damien Mallory crawl and/or beg to fuck me again, I think tonight’s event warrants an exception.
It’s actually well worth the—admittedly exorbitant—amount of money I spent on it, because this dress isn’t just pretty, sparkly, and ridiculously hot on me, it’s armor.
I’ll need it to successfully navigate my role as the only piece in a four-way game of chess, being played by people who all want to move me in the direction that suits them best.
Damien, who’d like me to remain single and available to him, without ever treating me as such.
My mother, who is clearly hoping to have me married off and safely someone else’s problem.
The single, socially appropriate fuckboys who absolutely do not want to get married, but would very much like to have sex with me.
My sister, who would prefer me to be as quiet, unassuming, and boring as possible.
That’s a lot of conflicting responsibilities for anyone to juggle in one night, but fortunately, this dress makes it possible. Or, at least, it makes it possible for me to fake it, while pursuing my own ulterior motives.
As I turn this way and that, admiring my reflection in my bathroom’s floor-length mirror, however, I experience a brief moment of concern that I might be being a little mean. Damien is trying to do the right thing.
On paper, us getting further involved is a terrible idea. I should definitely respect his wishes, take our newly established peace, and be grateful I don’t have to spend the next six months coming up with fresh nickname variations for Satan.
Should, but won’t.
The problem is that the light, breezy attraction I felt for that man when we met, has become a fully-fledged hurricane. I’ve seen a hint of what could exist between us if that big, bossy buttface would just let it happen, and I want it.
I want it so, so bad, and unfortunately for Damien Mallory, I refuse to let the stick up his ass get in the way.
He’ll thank me later.
Reservations dismissed, I smirk at my reflection, watching myself smooth my palms over the front of the dress.
It has an art deco vibe, with its gold beading and velvet material, and is cut in such a way that emphasizes my curves when I’m standing still, but catches the light whenever I move, toeing the line between sexy and sophisticated.
The garment is a little more daring than I would ordinarily attempt with my mother present.
However, my efforts to get things in order for the party this week must have bought me some goodwill, because she merely purses her lips when I finally join her in the sitting room.
I’m a little late, too, after taking my time on the journey across the house, making sure I was in full view of all Damien’s temporary security cameras the entire time and throwing in a strategically angled shoe adjustment for good measure.
“People will begin arriving any moment,” she informs me, as if I could have missed the flurry of last-minute activity in the entrance hall.
Despite myself, I glance toward the camera I know is hidden in the shadows of a nearby bookshelf, wondering if he’s already seen my outfit choice for the evening.
I’m saved from making conversation with my mother by the sound of footsteps in the hall and the arrival of Ced. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but I think he looks a little ill. Certainly, he’s paler and more distant than he was when I last saw him in September.
He barely acknowledges either of us, offering only a curt nod before stalking over to stand beside the fire and pulling out his phone.
“Cedric, you can’t possibly be thinking of wearing that,” Mom squawks, her eyes round in alarm at the sight of my brother’s dark pressed trousers and plain white button-up.
“Would you like me to be in attendance?” he replies cooly, not lifting his gaze from the device in his hands.
Mom splutters, “Of course. You—”
“Then this is what I’ll be wearing.”
His response leaves no room for argument, and I stare at him as our mother heads to the bar cart, obviously intent on pretending the exchange didn’t happen. Even for Ced, who is stiff and unfamiliar with nearly everyone, he’s historically been at least polite to our parents.
God, whatever.
My brief flicker of interest in this new development in the family dynamic dies nearly as soon as it sparks.
Despite seeing them more than I have in years, I’ve never felt so detached from my parents, brother, or sister.
More than anything, I finally understand what that cold, echoing emptiness inside me is, and that I will never be whole if I wait for them to fill it.
Muffled voices interrupt my brooding, and seconds later, Dad and Alba enter the room.
I haven’t actually seen Dad since everyone arrived this morning. He went straight to his study and didn’t emerge, but now, it’s clear he looks nearly as weary as Ced, though seems to be taking the trouble to pretend otherwise.
At his side, my sister is wearing six-inch heels, a white cocktail dress, and makeup that is so flawless, you’d never know she has a pore.
“Guests will be arriving shortly,” Mom echoes the news she just relayed to me, clutching her newly poured glass of wine. “Alba, make sure to call dear Princess Araminta in the morning, apparently she wasn’t feeling up to the journey.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and—”
Alba, who has stopped just beside the door, shoots her a venomous look. “Why don’t you email your requests to my secretary, so I can enjoy my engagement party without your to-do list on my mind?”
In response, Mom downs half her remaining glass of wine in a single gulp.
Okay. What is going on? Something has obviously happened, and I can’t decide whether I’m thrilled that nobody thought to tell me or annoyed they’re including me in the fallout anyway.
“Be right back, I’m going to sneak upstairs to change my shoes really quickly, I think I’m getting a blister,” I hedge, inching toward the door.
Nobody stops me, and I make my escape from the bubble of simmering tension, filled with unbridled relief as I stride back across the house toward the stairs in my unusually comfortable heels.
I don’t make it far.
One second, I’m passing the very first bathroom I helped Summer clean, barely noticing that the door is ajar.
The next, a hand has wrapped tightly around my wrist, and I find myself being pulled sideways into the familiar, marble-tiled space. Disoriented, I blink, watching as Damien closes the door behind us, locking it with an audible click. “What are you—”
The question is silenced as he reaches out to grip my waist, dragging me into his warm, firm body. I get a glimpse of a tight jaw and darkened, hungry eyes, before he’s bowing to kiss me with all his might.
Oh my god.
My pulse is humming, flooding my body with a violent, reckless need as he crowds me backward into the vanity.
I moan into our kiss as my butt hits the cabinet, and I feel the unmistakable, stiff ridge of his cock.
My hands fly to his hair, clutching the silken strands as our lips work frantically, devouring each other.
Barely fifteen seconds could have passed since he pulled me in here, and already, heat is blooming low in my core, my pussy aching to be filled.
Damien hisses as my teeth graze his bottom lip, but doesn’t pause or say a word as his hands tighten on my waist. Seconds later, I gasp as, without warning, he lifts me right off my feet and onto the edge of the cool, marble countertop.
I whimper as he shoves my thighs apart, filling the space between them with his hips.
“Is this what you wanted?” Damien mutters against my lips as between us, he rocks his erection against the narrow strip of fabric covering my pussy. “Are you happy now?”
He must not really want a response, because the question has barely been asked before he’s kissing me again, devouring my noises of pleasure as the friction of the arousal-coated material drags over my clit.
Yes, I wanted this.
Yes, I’m happy now.
Yes, I will take literally anything he wants to give me.
Yes, yes, yes.
Damien doesn’t stop me as my hands move to his belt, fumbling helplessly with the loops and metal pieces as I tilt back, trying to maintain the connection with his lips and cock as I work them apart.
Dimly, I hear a strand of my dress’s detailing break, sending a wave of tiny gold beads onto the bathroom floor. It’s not important, though. I don’t care. Especially not as I finally manage to get the belt open. The room spins, and flames flare higher in my belly at the promise of what comes next.
Gathering my dress in his hands, Damien shoves the garment up to bunch around my waist, letting out a low grunt of approval as I manage to free the button of his trousers from their loop.
Both of our hands are clumsy with urgency, clawing at the garments between us in our desperation to remove them.
He pulls my panties over my hips and down my legs, shoving them to the floor along with one of my heels.
I shove his briefs down, and my lungs burn from the lack of oxygen as I wrap my fingers around the hot, heavy base of his shaft, stroking him.
And, through it all, he never stops kissing me.
“Fuck me,” I whisper against his lips, my heart leaping into my throat as a set of footsteps passes by the bathroom, and the distant murmur of voices reminds me that we aren’t alone.
In my hand, Damien’s bare cock pulses. “We don’t have a lot of time. Show me you’re ready,” he mutters, his voice a low, rumbling order.
For once, I don’t hesitate to obey.