Chapter 41 #2
I hear him unbuckle his belt, the clink of metal and the whisper of leather pulling free from loops. This feeling of anticipation, of wrongness at doing this here, with my family just beyond that door, makes me clench my thighs together. The improperness only heightens the need.
In moments, I feel his tip make contact with my center, and I can't help but shudder at the sensation, at how ready I am for him.
"So fucking wet for me, s?onko," he murmurs, running himself through my slickness. "Or did watching that sausage-looking moron drool over what's mine do this to you?"
I shake my head frantically. It's him. It's always him. The way he looks at me like I'm untouchable, powerful, his. The way he actually makes me feel like I'm the sun in his life, like my very existence brings him warmth and light.
"Words, baby." His lips skim along my neck, each kiss stealing a little more of my strength, making my knees weak.
"It's you," I breathe out. "It's always you."
Something flickers in his eyes, something vulnerable and raw that he quickly masks.
But in the next second his hand flexes on my waist, his grip possessive and grounding, and when he enters me in one hard thrust, my moan is all that's heard in this bathroom.
The sound echoes off the tiles, far too loud for how close we are to the dining room.
I try to put my hand over my mouth to muffle any other sounds, but Damien takes my wrist and kisses each finger in turn, reverent and slow, never stopping his movements inside me.
"Your hair isn't frizzy, it's perfect," he tells me between thrusts, his voice clear and firm.
"Your skin has no imperfections, and even if it did, it would still glow.
The work you put into every event you organize shows in the hundreds of clients fighting to book you for their parties, so get this word through your head: PERFECT!
" His eyes lock with mine in the mirror. "That's what you are."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by his words, by the sincerity in them, by the way he sees me so differently than everyone else does.
I don't think he understands the weight of what he's doing.
How every word he says is stitching together something in me that's been broken for so long, piece by fragile piece.
I can be strong. God, I can be fearless when it comes to fighting for my work or protecting the people I love.
I'll go to war for them without hesitation.
But with myself? When those voices start their endless loop of criticism and doubt, when they whisper that I'm not enough, never enough, I'm merciless.
I say things to myself I'd never let anyone else say to me.
I tear myself apart with a cruelty I'd never show another soul.
"Damn, baby!" His voice breaks through my thoughts, ragged and desperate.
I don't know how much time passes. Minutes?
Hours? Time loses meaning. I just feel his hands leaving their mark on my skin, branding me with every touch.
I feel his breath at the base of my neck, hot and uneven.
I hear his guttural sounds, those raw masculine noises that send shivers down my spine, and I know that right now, in this moment, I feel perfect.
Because I'm giving this to him. This pleasure coursing through his body. I'm the one drawing these moans from him, I'm the one making his gaze cloud with pleasure, making him lose control. Me. Not anyone else, but me.
His rhythm shifts, becomes more deliberate.
Slower. Each thrust deeper than the last, making me feel every inch of him.
One hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise while the other slides up my torso, palm hot against my ribs, my sternum, before cupping my breast. His thumb brushes over my nipple and I arch into the touch, a whimper escaping my lips.
"Look at yourself," he commands, his voice rough in my ear. "Look at how beautiful you are when you're falling apart for me."
I force my eyes open, meeting my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, lips parted as I pant, eyes glazed with pleasure. I look wrecked, thoroughly claimed, and the sight of it sends another wave of heat through me.
Behind me, Damien is pure intensity. His jaw is tight, muscles flexed, that vein in his neck prominent with the effort of maintaining control. His eyes are locked on mine in the mirror, watching every reaction, cataloging every gasp and moan.
"That's it," he murmurs, his hand sliding down from my breast to my abdomen, fingers splaying possessively across my stomach. "Feel what you do to me. This is what perfection feels like, s?onko."
His words send sparks of electricity through my veins. I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and the angle shifts just enough that he hits that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Fuck, just like that," he groans, his grip tightening. "Take what you need from me. Use me."
The permission, the encouragement, breaks something loose inside me. I start moving with more purpose, rolling my hips, chasing that building pressure. His breathing becomes harsher, more ragged, and I feel him twitch inside me.
"You're going to make me lose it," he says through gritted teeth. "The way you move, the sounds you make, how tight you are around me. Jesus Christ, Roxanne."
When I feel his palm lower, moving to where he's still sliding in and out of me, where we're joined, I turn my head to him and capture his mouth with mine. I need to taste him, need that connection. The kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation.
He doesn't stop, doesn't pause, like he physically can't, like stopping would cause him actual pain.
His fingers trace where we're connected, feeling himself move in and out of me, and the intimacy of the gesture makes my breath catch. "So wet for me," he murmurs against my lips. "Feel that? Feel how perfectly your body takes me? Like you were made for this. Made for me."
When his fingertip brushes circles over my clit, the touch light but deliberate, I know I'm not going to last much longer. The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of him inside me combined with the focused attention on that bundle of nerves has me trembling.
"Damien," I gasp out his name like a prayer, like a plea.
"I know, baby. I've got you." He increases the pressure of his fingers, the circles becoming more insistent. "Let go. Show them all who makes you feel this good. Scream my name."
The command in his voice, the absolute certainty that I will obey, sends me over the edge.
My toes curl as the knot in my belly snaps, pleasure washing over me in waves so intense they border on pain.
I cry out, his name torn from my throat, and I don't care who hears.
Let them all know that my husband is fucking me in their bathroom.
The moment my walls start to pulse around him, clenching and releasing in rhythm, milking him, he curses against my lips and follows me over the edge. "Roxanne, fuck, I'm..." His words dissolve into a groan as I feel him throb inside me, feel the warmth of his release filling me.
His movements become erratic, uncontrolled, each thrust punctuated by a harsh breath as he rides out his orgasm. I watch him in the mirror, watch the way his face contorts with pleasure, the way his eyes squeeze shut before flying open to lock with mine.
"Mine," he growls, still moving inside me with shallow, possessive thrusts. "Say it."
"Yours," I breathe out, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
I'm breathing hard when I pull away from his lips, my chest heaving with exertion.
So I just look at him, taking in every detail.
The dimples in his cheeks that appear when he smiles, even now.
That earring catching the light. The cross tattoo on his neck, dark ink against flushed skin.
Every part of him feels familiar and new all at once.
My lips are swollen and sensitive after the marathon I've put them through tonight, tender to the touch. But when he approaches them again, drawn back like a magnet, I let him. I'll always let him.
"Perfect. And mine," he whispers against my mouth, the words a promise and a claim.
"Perfect. And yours," I whisper back, meaning every syllable.
Everyone at the table pretends to ignore us except for Cora, who asks me some questions about work, about Luna, whom she knows, and about my wedding.
I answer each one without going into too much detail, and then I go to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Damien's outside, talking to Vasili on the phone about an important shipment, and the rest are in the living room, enjoying coffee.
"Looks like things worked out for you," Aria says from behind me.
I don't answer her, because I know I'd just be giving her ammunition, but since every visit to this house has to grate on my nerves, she continues.
"I’d really hoped you'd have had the decency not to come. Considering that last time you threw yourself at my fiancé, what little dignity you have left should have stopped you from showing your face."
I set the last glass down and turn to her while drying my hands.
When we were little, there were moments when I believed she'd be my lifeline in this house. But with each passing year, another crater formed between us.
"For the hundredth time, I have eyes, and believe me when I tell you I wouldn't subject them to the torture of looking at someone like Zion."
"Of course not. Because you're Roxy. You can have any man you want at your fingertips. I wonder, how would you feel seeing me do what you did?"