Chapter 7
7
This morning, I woke up to an empty bed with no signs of Damien.
No phone number scribbled on a napkin.
No last night was great note.
No breakfast.
A cliché one-night stand who left nothing but confusion, sore legs, and a dark hickey on my thigh.
At least he left the blazer as a reminder of him.
The blazer he pretty much decorated with our cum .
Now, it’s three in the afternoon, and still no word from him. I never gave him my number, but given how resourceful he seems, he could easily find it.
“See you tomorrow, Jane!” I shout, waving goodbye to my boss.
The bell above the coffee shop door chimes as I leave. I’ve been a part-time barista at Brew Bliss since high school, but I’ve had to pick up more shifts after my mother's studio fire. Rent is due in two weeks, and my landlord doesn’t take IOUs or lattes as payment.
I’m also sure as hell not offering up a lap dance for it .
Seventy-five-year-old Roy would have a heart attack.
After my two-hour dance practice, which only makes me sorer, I walk home.
Fingers crossed Damien somehow broke into my apartment and is waiting for me.
I frown when I find it empty, and spend the next three hours doing dishes, laundry, and anything else to get my mind off him.
“Screw it,” I mutter, collecting my keys and driving to Lucky Kings.
Who knows if he’ll be there? But it’s my only way of getting in touch with him.
I need to make sure he’s okay.
Comfort the criminal’s heart.
That is, if he has one.
Patrons crowd the noisy casino. I walk across the patterned carpet, passing the roulette wheels and crap tables. The room smells like overpriced alcohol and desperation.
Before yesterday, I’d never stepped foot inside a casino.
As the daughter of a gambling addict, I’ve always hated them. There are too many memories of my father coming home drunk and broke after a casino night out. He and my mother would fight about him gambling away bills, rent, grocery money, everything. Not a dollar was safe from his greedy hands.
These places are the monsters that feed his selfishness.
Maneuvering around people, I beeline straight to the table my father directed me to yesterday. I’m so close to my destination when something stops me.
Or rather someone .
“Dad!” I charge over to the blackjack table. “What the hell?”
My father’s spine stiffens at the sound of my voice, and he swivels on his stool to face me. “Oh, hi, Pippa.”
All eyes swing to me. The dealer frowns at my interruption. My father’s face mirrors his, as if he wouldn’t stop the dealer from pushing me out the door so he can continue his game. He’s wearing the same shirt and khakis from yesterday—the shirt now blessed with a ketchup stain to match the blood ones. He did manage to replace his glasses.
Two men seated on each side of him glare at me.
“Hit me and ignore her,” one says, tapping the table. “I’m on a good roll here.”
I ignore them and focus on my father. “You told me no more.” Tears form in my eyes, and I blink them away.
“But didn’t you settle my debt?” he replies so casually. “You gave Damien the money.”
Whoa.
I flinch.
Did he get a concussion when Damien rammed his head into the steering wheel and forget he didn’t have all the money?
Unless he assumes Damien got it out of me in another way. Disgust rises up my throat as a hard knot forms in my belly.
“You’re unbelievable,” I snarl.
I tug at my shirt as if the room suddenly grew fifty degrees warmer and glance around, searching for the nearest exit.
This is the sign I needed to stay away from here.
From Damien.
From places like this.
They’re bad freaking omens.
I shake my head and turn to leave, but I don’t make it far before running into a hard body.
A tall man in a sharp black suit holds me steady as I catch my balance. I rub my forehead. Jesus, it’s like I ran into a brick wall.
“Pippa, Damien told me to escort you to his office,” the man informs me before pinning his attention on my father. “And you need to leave, Paul. You’re officially banned from the casino. Don’t come back.”
As if on autopilot, the bald dealer reaches forward and collects my father’s chips.
Well, chip since he only had one .
“Good riddance,” one of the players mutters.
“Says who?” my father huffs at the man.
“Damien.”
“I want to speak to Damien, then.” My father crosses his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with my money.”
The man scoffs. “Trust me, you don’t want to speak with him.”
My father stubbornly stays on his stool.
“Dad,” I sigh. “Please, just leave.”
When he doesn’t listen, the man clutches my father’s collar and yanks him to his feet. My father stumbles, but the man doesn’t help him. He falls on his butt before slowly pulling himself up.
“Put in a good word for me, Pippa,” he says when he’s on his feet. “Get him to change his mind. You’re a good girl.”
God, it sounds like he’s pimping me out to play a few rounds of blackjack.
The dealer, along with the other men, pause their game to look at my father in disgust. A bodyguard with the same muscle mass as Thor approaches us and escorts my father out.
“I’m Emilio,” the man introduces before offering the dealer a head nod.
“Pippa.” I swipe imaginary lint off my shirt. “But you, uh … already knew that.” I follow him without question.
We leave the main casino floor, pass a break room filled with employees eating and watching TV, and walk through a hallway with a line of offices. Some doors are open, some closed.
Damien’s office is the third from the end.
When I step inside, it’s like I’m entering the devil’s playground.
If the devil had the world’s biggest minimalistic interior designer.
The walls are dark green, there are no windows, and a small lamp on the desk provides the only light .
“Wait in here,” Emilio orders and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I stand there, taking in the boringness for a good ten minutes. Unlike my apartment, there’s nothing personal here—not one sign of who works in this office.
No photos, no heirlooms, no personality.
All a mystery.
Like the man who works here.
Only a rich cherry-wood desk with the lamp, an iMac, and a keyboard. A black ergonomic chair sits behind it, and a deep-seated taupe couch is in the corner. I have a strong urge to snoop, but I don’t.
He for sure has cameras in here, and I want him to trust me.
I plop down on the couch, make myself comfortable, and read a book on my phone while waiting for what feels like forever.
Or two hours, according to the time on my screen.
A little while later, the door opens, but it’s not Damien, only Emilio bringing me a slice of pizza and water.
I eat and fall asleep, waiting for the man I shouldn’t want.
The feel of someone scooping up my sleeping body in their arms and carrying me out of the office wakes me. I pull back but relax seconds later at Damien’s familiar scent. Burying my face in his shoulder, I allow him to take me outside. This time, I don’t fight him when he places me in his SUV, clicks on my seat belt, and drives off.
The seat is warm, and I yawn, fighting to fully wake up.
I barely know Damien, but something in my gut tells me I can trust him.
That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea, though .
The car ride is quiet, and I perk up in my seat when we reach a guarded gate. The window squeaks when Damien rolls it down. He offers a two-finger wave to the guard, and the gate opens.
I sit up straighter, craning my neck to get a good look. “Is this your house?”
He shakes his head. “Antonio’s.”
“Why aren’t we going to yours?”
“I don’t know if it’s safe for me to go home yet.”
I slowly nod and stop with the questions.
After parking, he assists me out of the SUV. Once on the front porch, he blocks me from seeing the passcode he enters on the front door. An alarm fires off when we enter the house, and he quickly turns it off with another code.
The low light follows us into the house as he guides me toward a separate wing. He blocks me from seeing the door’s passcode as he keys it in.
Well, well.
He sure didn’t have that same courtesy when it came to my building code .
The lock beeps, and we enter a bedroom that smells like fresh laundry.
Like I’m in a live-action Tide commercial.
Damien flips on a lamp that emits the level of brightness you’d get from a lava lamp. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.”
He drops his keys on the dresser and walks through a dark doorway. He shuts the door, and seconds later, a light shines through the cracks.
I don’t make myself comfortable. The king-sized bed’s comforter is insane-asylum white. No way am I getting in it with these outdoor clothes. Just as I’m about to raid the dresser for pajamas to borrow, I hear commotion behind the door.
“Fuck,” Damien hisses.
This time, I’m not above being nosy. I creep toward the door, to what I assume leads to a bathroom, and stop. Drawing in a deep breath, I slowly open it, surprised it’s unlocked.
Damien stills, staring at me, unblinking.
I gasp, my hand covering my mouth as I sweep my gaze down his body.
He’s bare-chested, his pants unfastened, his bloody shirt on the floor.
Speaking of blood .
Dried-up blood cakes his split, battered knuckles.
Bruises cover his chest, and there’s a slash on his forehead.
He didn’t give one sign of this earlier.
He walked fine, carried me through the parking lot with not one groan or limp, and drove without showing pain.
In the back of my mind, I hate that I know he’s accustomed to pain.
I do a quick self-check for any transferred blood on me, but I’m clean. A gun sits on the vanity next to a pocketknife and brass knuckles. His vigilant eyes bore into mine as I move in closer. He draws in a long breath and curses beneath it.
“Pippa,” he starts, hissing in torment while attempting to stop me.
“Shh.” I press my finger to my mouth and sink to my knees on the tiled floor. Collecting his cold hands in mine, I softly kiss each knuckle.
His body tightens as if no one is supposed to touch him like this.
He stares down at me in shock as I lower his pants and briefs to his feet. His cock, growing harder by the second, springs free.
If I could see my reflection, I’m sure our expressions would match. I’m trying to appear more confident than I feel.
I’ve never been so impulsive before.
Reckless.
But right now, I don’t care. All I want to do is help Damien.
He drops his hand to stop me. “You don’t have to?—”
I shh him again and stare at his large cock while noticing a small scar on his right thigh. I slowly trace it with my thumb.
I’ve seen cocks before, obvi. His was inside me last night. But I didn’t get a close-up.
He’s the largest I’ve ever touched. The head has a purple hue, throbbing with need, and a bubble of pre-cum sits at the slit. It jerks when I wrap my hand around it. My fingers don’t even fit around his width. As I stroke him, his body relaxes, vertebra by vertebra.
A low moan escapes his throat as I work his cock. I slide forward, gaining a better grip. My mouth waters at how close it is to my face. I open it slightly, contemplating with myself.
Am I that daring?
I’m not normally a first-move girlie, especially when it comes to blow jobs. But with Damien, it seems I am.
Pleasing him is like an adrenaline rush.
Damien reaches down to grip the base of his cock. “Do you want to suck my cock, Pippa?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Look at me and say it.”
“I want to suck your cock, Damien.” I stare up at him with tired eyes, biting into my lip.
“Open up.” He drags his cock along the seam of my lips. “Let me feed it to you.” He tightens his hold and slips it inside my mouth, inch by inch.
When I’ve taken all of him in, he stills, waiting for me to do with him as I please.
He must know I’m at level one when it comes to experience from our other hookups. I’ve hit home runs, but I’m normally benched. Tonight, I want to show him I’m capable of more.
I slide my head forward, deep-throating him the best I can. Inhaling through my nose, I suck in my cheeks to create suction while bobbing my mouth along his cock.
I do this teasingly slow. My wish for this moment is to stay as intimate as it is. I wait until I can tell he’s excited, near the edge of his peak, before speeding up. I cup his balls with my hand and stroke him with the other.
“God, baby,” he groans, petting my hair and running his fingers through the strands. “Just like that. Suck it so good.”
He praises me but doesn’t force me to go faster or shove his cock farther.
My clit throbs as I suck him harder. I don’t stop, even when spit drips down my chin.
I choke a few times.
Typical me.
But for the first time, I’m not embarrassed by this. He stops, allowing me time to relax my throat.
When I return to my normal pace, he grips the back of my head and grinds his hips against my face. My pulse speeds as I suck him as good as I can.
“I’m about to come,” he warns. “Pull away if you don’t want to swallow.”
I drop his balls, still working him in my mouth, and give him a thumbs-up. Seconds later, he releases his cum in my mouth. He tightens his fingers in my hair, holding me in place, as if wanting me to swallow every drop of him.
My insides vibrate, and my clit aches. But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about him.
He catches his breath while I suck him dry, and when I start to stand, he helps me to my feet. His hand lingers at my waist as I turn on the shower, grab a rolled-up washcloth, and clean his knuckles while waiting for the water to warm.
I wait for him to tell me to stop.
To pull away.
But all he does is blow out a rough breath and allow me to take care of him.
“Strip,” he demands when I’m finished.
“What?” I stutter, suddenly feeling shy .
“Take off your clothes. You’re showering with me.”
He helps me undress. His hand cups my ass when I lower my leggings, and when I unclasp my bra, he brushes his thumb along my hardening nipple.
“I’m sorry, Pippa,” he says, noticing the hickey-slash-bruise on my thigh from last night. “I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt, standing on my tiptoes. Even then, I’m not close enough to his face to kiss him. So, he lowers his head and presses his mouth to mine.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I say. “I liked everything you did to me last night.”
He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t fully believe me.
He assists me in the shower and joins me.
It’s so intimate as we wash each other’s body.
I’m seeing a rare side of Damien. A side I’d guess not many see.
I carefully rub the washcloth along his bruised, scarred, and bloody skin, knowing there’s a chance I’m washing away crime evidence.
The blood flows down the drain, taking my sanity along with it.