Chapter 3
3
Damien stares at me hungrily, like a man who’s been taken hostage and hasn’t eaten in days.
I pinch myself, making sure I’m not in some freakish dream.
I grew up around men like him. They enjoy playing games with their victims, as if murder gives them a hard-on. And I’d stupidly become the easiest prey in history.
They’ll mock me in true crime documentaries.
She didn’t scream, run, or even send a hand signal for help. Instead, she led him up the stairs, into her apartment, and stood before him, debating whether to dance for him. Oh, what a silly victim .
Damien doesn’t seem as cruel as others. If someone owed my uncle money and failed to pay, he wouldn’t only slam their face into a steering wheel. He’d brutalize them, making the family watch, and then do the same to them.
But here I am, still breathing.
So is my father, to my knowledge.
I shake my head, trying to focus on my current problem— Damien’s offer.
If he knocks off half my father’s debt, we’d have enough to clear the balance.
I relax my shoulders, begging my tight body to do the same.
It’s just a dance, Pippa .
I’ve danced for hundreds of people on stages.
This shouldn’t be any different.
So, why is my stomach flip-flopping with the worst case of stage fright ever?
The people I’ve danced for didn’t stare at me like this, is why.
His dark eyes probe mine, brimming with desire, a man ready to be rewarded.
There’s so much on the line for this.
Yesterday, two loan sharks threatened to skin my mother and sister alive. A week before, someone burned down my mother’s dance studio. I’m unsure of how many people my father owes money to, but they keep popping up like zits when I’m on my period.
Damien taps his watch face. “Ticktock, Pippa.”
If dancing for him means helping my family, then I’ll fucking dance for him.
I step forward, mind made up.
Damien’s legs stay wide as he reclines on the couch. He stretches his arms along the back as if preparing for a lap dance at the strip club. He and his all-business-like demeanor look so out of place in my apartment. It’s almost laughable as he sits on my hand-me-down couch, wearing a posh suit and polished loafers that I’m sure cost more than my rent.
He rolls up the sleeves of his blazer and shirt, his stormy eyes not leaving mine.
Everything about him screams intimidation.
Masculinity.
He’s about to be thoroughly disappointed when I start the Nutcracker number I performed three Christmases ago.
I tap my foot, unsure how to start, and peer down my body. “I need to put on my pointe shoes.”
He flicks his hand through the air. “Not necessary.”
I gulp while kicking off my sandals.
“Five seconds,” he warns.
His voice, sharp as a whip, startles me.
I perfect my posture, twirl on my toes, and nearly stagger into the wall. It’s the worst spin in the history of spins. A toddler who hasn’t even taken their first steps would’ve looked more graceful.
A thickness forms in my throat as I lift my gaze to his, inch by inch.
“Come closer.” He crooks his finger.
I edge nearer but abruptly stop.
Make this worth your while, Pippa .
I cross my arms. “How much will you knock off my father’s debt for that?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Are you selling yourself to me?”
“Hell no.” I wince. “But if you’re making me perform, I might as well ask.”
“First off, I’m not making you do anything. I gave you the choice.” He hooks his finger again, another demand to come closer.
I hesitate, shuffling my feet against the shag rug until I’m only inches from him.
Bending at the waist, he grabs me around the hips and yanks me onto his lap. I lose a breath as he gathers my face in his hands.
Hands so large that they could effortlessly crush my bones.
His eyes are stern and intrusive as he works his jaw. “I’d pay off every debt he owes for a night with you.”
A sudden lightheadedness hits me .
“How do you know I’d be worth it?” I ask as he holds me in place.
He lazily sweeps his cold thumb along my chin. “I know it’d be worth it since I’d spend the rest of my night having fun with you, my sweet dancer.”
Goose bumps pebble along my skin like a veil, and my lower lip tingles as he slides his mouth against it and sucks. It takes all my strength to turn my head away from him.
“One dance,” I say, hating how my voice shakes. “That’s our deal.”
No way can I get pulled into Damien’s magnetic field.
I have a feeling those who do are forever stuck there.
He chuckles connivingly, as if he doesn't believe me.
Edging closer, he brushes his lips along my ear. “Then, dance for me, Pippa.”
Nerves flutter in my belly as I slightly flex my hips. He cups my waist, rolling me forward and then back. I gasp, my legs tightening when I feel his erection brush my core.
Damien might’ve told me to dance for him, but he’s made himself the director of the show. He guides me slowly, wanting me to experience every inch of him.
I moan and hold his shoulders when he shifts his weight, providing me a better angle to slide against his cock.
A hiss escapes him when he moves me faster.
Faster.
Faster.
Showing me what he likes.
Showing me what I like.
I lose our rhythm when he releases me.
He splays his arms along the couch. “Now, you dance for me.”
I rotate my hips forward, desperate to feel his length against my core until the end of days. My blood is on fire at the realization that this is no simple ballet dance .
A long moan escapes me, knocking me back into reality.
I stop. “We need music.”
He prevents me from climbing off his lap. “Your moans will be our music.”
“Someone sure is arrogant.”
“It’s not arrogant when you know it’s true.”
His hands find my waist again, and he resets our pace.
I desperately dry-hump him while he lifts his hips, meeting me thrust for thrust. I’m so in my zone that I don’t stop him when he lowers my tank, exposing my bra.
And now, we’ve surpassed lap-dance level.
He yanks my tank off, unclasps my bra, and tosses it on the floor in one swift motion. I gasp when he cups his hands over my breasts.
Hands so big that they cover them completely.
Palms so cold that my nipples immediately harden beneath them.
My heart is on fire, and I keep our pace, my skin silently pleading for more of his touch.
He doesn’t ask for permission before lowering his head and flicking my nipple with his tongue. Or when he takes it in his mouth, sucking it. I tip my head back as he swipes my hair off my shoulder to do the same with my other nipple.
His soft lips glide along my skin to the middle of my chest, where he sucks deep on the skin as if wanting to form a bruise. When he pulls back, I push his blazer off his shoulders, dragging it off his arms. It lands in a pile beside him.
“You’re fucking beautiful, Pippa.” His cock jerks as he smooths his thumb over my cheek.
He speaks like we’ve known each other forever.
Like he took an oath to always protect me.
His lips crash onto mine, and he cups the back of my head, tugging me closer to deepen our connection .
I’ve kissed plenty of men—okay, six—but none have ever given me such a rush or made me feel so desired.
I open my mouth, and he groans into it.
A warning he’ll tear my life apart.
An unsteady breath catches in my throat when he hauls me to my feet and situates me so I’m standing, my heels sinking into the cushions.
My vagina is only inches from his face.
I guess we’re going for a Nutcracker remix .
Even though it’s the worst idea ever, I rest my palms on the couch as he holds me steady. My breathing is a ragged mess as he guides me to lift one foot, allowing him to peel my leggings down one leg.
Then, he does the same with the other.
I tremble as he rips my panties and flings them over his shoulder.
My knees shake, and without warning, he buries his entire face between my legs. He grips my ass cheek in one hand while the other holds my thigh in place.
His skilled tongue licks straight up my center.
I tense, aware letting this random man go down on me is a bad idea.
But, God, it feels too good to stop him .
I’m throbbing for him to do more.
Growing wetter and wetter with each flick of his skilled tongue.
“Your pussy is so wet for me,” he groans against my leg, his voice raspy.
My legs tighten when he slips a thick finger inside me.
“It’s been this wet since I put you in my car, hasn’t it?”
I stifle a moan, resisting the urge to demand he stop asking questions and return to his pleasuring.
“Admit it,” he presses. “You wanted me to come up here and touch you. That’s why you didn’t scream. You’d rather I make you scream in other ways.”
I grip the back of his head, shoving his face closer.
“Answer me,” he clips yet also sounds desperate. “Tell me you wanted this as bad as I did.”
“Yes,” I cry out. “I wanted it bad.”
As if satisfied with my answer, he shoves two … maybe three … fingers inside me. My knees weaken, and he tightens his grip on me.
I dig my nails into his hair, the other hand into the couch, struggling to handle the intensity of his mouth and fingers. Nothing has ever felt so right and perfect.
He hitches my leg higher, rubbing his scruffy cheek against my thigh. I love how abrasive and rough it feels against my skin.
Damien laps me up as if I’m something sacred he’s never drunk before.
As if consuming me will grant him immunity from every sin he’s ever committed.
“Ride my face until you come all over it.” He pulls me back some so I can understand his words. “I want you to smother me with your sweet cum, my dancer.”
He moans when I thrust my hips forward.
Forget smothering him with my cum. I’m riding his face so hard that I’m bound to crush his face with my thighs.
As a dancer, I’ve always felt in complete control of my body. But with Damien, it feels like he’s hijacked all that control and taken over.
It’s as if he wants to erase the innocence inside me and turn me into the devil he is so we become a better match.
He inches my legs farther apart. His mouth is wild between my legs, sucking on my clit, and his tongue laces through my slit while his fingers torture me.
I swear he doesn’t take a single breath until I’m falling apart .
A tight string of ecstasy pulses through me—growing tighter and tighter and tighter—until it finally snaps. As I drop forward and cry out, he massages my pussy with his tongue, lapping up my release.
He clasps the back of my thighs as I catch my breath and collect myself. My panting continues as he lowers me to straddle him. I shudder, ready for more, when he skims his wet lips along my jawline.
“I wanted to loosen you up before your performance, baby,” he comments with a slight humor in his tone, and he raises his lips to mine. “You were tight everywhere .”
We’ve had a change of events.
A change of needs now.
No longer do I just want to dance off my father’s loan.
I want more .
More of his mouth, his tongue, all of him.
And my orgasmed-out brain tells him this.
“Damien, please fuck me.”
I’ve gone from fearing this man to wanting to fuck him.
He stares down at me, studying my face, and bares his teeth. “Ask me to fuck you again, Pippa.”
I gulp in a breath. “Fuck me, Damien.”
His hands claim my waist again, and he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. My back arches when he sucks on the tip.
He doesn’t stop me when I drag my hips back, providing enough room to unbuckle his belt. As I unzip his pants, he lowers his mouth to my throat, sucking on my sensitive skin. As soon as they’re loose enough, I tug them down.
We freeze when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
“Ignore it.” I drag his pants down farther.
“Unfortunately, I can’t.” He snatches my wrist to stop me and shifts to collect his phone with the other. He shuts his eyes and blows out a breath while checking the caller ID before silencing the call. “I have to go.”
I peer away from him as he assists me off his lap and stands. “ You’re leaving?” I fall back a step as embarrassment creeps through me.
“Consider the debt paid in full.” He zips his pants and buckles his belt. “Keep the cash, and don’t you dare give it back to your father.”
My soul crushes when he presses a kiss to my forehead and walks out the door.