Chapter 28
28
I reread my Sexy but Stress-Free Date Night checklist on my phone.
Damien is coming home early, and I’ve planned the perfect date night for us.
His jobs have become more demanding, and each day that passes, the tension on his face deepens.
On numerous occasions, I’ve asked if he wants to talk about it. He shakes his head and changes the subject. Since he ruled out therapy sessions from Dr. Yours Truly, I discovered other ways to boost his mood—sex; introducing him to my favorite shows, which usually put him to sleep; and dancing for him.
His favorite is the third.
“I understand now,” he once told me. “When you said dancing calms you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Watching you dance calms me. You pull me into your world and take my breath away with each delicate movement you make. The way your body flows with the harmony of the music is beautiful. It erases my worries, my troubles fading away as if they never existed at all. ”
When he walks through the door tonight, I want him to forget his troubles and pain, for him to relax.
My master plan started this morning. Much to Emilio’s dismay, he chaperoned me on a shopping trip with Darcy and Genesis. We gathered the date-night necessities—lingerie, bubble bath, champagne, and chocolate. Now, I’m just waiting for my man to come home.
Emilio is seated at the island, drinking coffee and texting. Out of all the men Damien has appointed on Pippa duty, Emilio is my least favorite. Not that I disclosed that to him. He might be boring, but he’s still a man who murders people for a living.
When I asked Damien what Emilio’s deal was, he explained that Emilio struggles with his role within the Lombardi family. Unlike Damien and Julian, who adjusted well with the fact that they had no other life choices, Emilio didn’t. I guess his dad is a real asshole, too, and he and Emilio constantly butt heads.
My thoughts slip from my phone to the door when it opens. Damien walks in, holding a black garment bag.
Emilio stands and tucks his phone inside his pocket. “Am I good to go?”
“You’re good,” Damien replies, his eyes fastened on me.
Emilio leaves, and my mouth waters as Damien comes closer. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his cuff links undone. I see him every day, and not one has passed where I didn’t find him fucking sexy.
I stand from the couch, meeting him halfway.
“Go change into this.” He hands me the garment bag. “We leave in thirty minutes.”
“To go where?” I tug at the hem of my tee.
I saved the lingerie for later. Damien would’ve flipped his shit if he had walked in to see me lounging in a lace nightie in front of Emilio.
“It’s a surprise.” He lowers his head, brushing a kiss against my lips. “Now, go get dressed, baby. ”
He swats at my ass as I dash toward the stairs and follows me.
I haven’t officially moved in with Damien, but he cleared out half his closet for me. Since then, nearly my entire wardrobe has moved residences from my cubbyhole-sized apartment closet to here.
When we started dating, I had no issue fitting all my belongings in my apartment closet. But after all Damien’s spoiling, not even half would fit now.
I stroll through the bedroom and French doors that lead into the closet. Kicking out of my slippers, I hang the garment bag over my robe hook. I unzip the bag, my smile building with each inch.
The bag falls open, revealing a blush-pink gown.
It’s simple yet elegant with a V-neck and a length that sweeps the floor. I feather my fingers along the satin and notice Damien standing in the doorway, watching me. He rests against the length of the doorframe, his gaze sweeping down my body as I strip out of my clothes.
He inches into the closet yet keeps his distance as I glide the gown off its hanger. The dress is heaven, brushing my skin as I slip it on. Damien retreats to his side of the closet, swapping his black suit for a tux. He opens his watch drawer, selects a gold Rolex, and fastens it around his wrist.
I shudder when his gaze returns to me, and he licks his lips. His eyes lower down my body, drinking me in, and he whistles.
Raising his hand, he gestures for me to turn, facing the mirror. While staring at our reflections, I watch his gaze drift from my face, down my collarbone, to my cleavage, then down my waist. It lingers there as he cups his hands on my hips.
He bites his bottom lip before whispering, “Let me.” Crowding closer, he toys with my dress zipper that extends down my back to the base of my ass .
I breathe out a moan as he raises the zipper in slow motion, his free hand now stroking my shoulder.
“This color,” he mutters, burrowing his face against my neck, his voice as silky as the dress. “It’s the color of your cheeks when you blush after I’ve made you come.” He plays with the thin strap, slipping it down my shoulder, and slides his lips along my collarbone to place a gentle kiss there. “I can’t wait to see this color on your skin later tonight when my mouth is between your legs.”
My cheeks warm, blooming with the pink he loves.
“Time for your surprise, my sweet dancer,” he says against my skin.
I don’t have patience for surprises.
Maybe because the only surprises I had growing up were shut-off utilities and whatever scam of the week my father was working on.
“Will you give me a hint?” I plead with Damien in the back seat before adding flirtation to my tone. “ Just a little one .”
“You’re lucky you’re sexy as hell,” he replies with a chuckle.
I hate how poorly lit our space is, making it difficult to see more of his face. I love when he chuckles. There’s always a sliver of a smile on his handsome face when he does.
He withdraws two tickets from his blazer pocket, passes them to me, and turns on the overhead light. I gasp as I read them.
Two front-row tickets to New York City Ballet’s Swan Lake .
Once, he asked what my dream ballet to attend was. I casually mentioned the show being on my bucket list but didn’t expect him to take me. I’ve replied to that question with the same answer since I was a child .
It was on my Santa wish list four years in a row before I eventually quit asking. My father once told me Santa didn’t have a budget for things like that.
This is yet another quality I admire in Damien.
He listens. Truly listens.
When we talk, he absorbs my words like they hold a secret puzzle within them.
My heart thumps in my chest when we arrive at the theater. Augusto parks and opens the back door.
Just like every time he has a driver, Damien doesn’t allow him to assist me out of the SUV. He cups my hand, holding me as I step out.
Augusto tells us to have fun, and Damien guides me into the building. The lobby is quiet as we head straight to the theater. Peering up, I admire the gold-leaf ceiling and crystal chandelier. The room itself is a masterpiece.
I’ve been to this theater two other times. Once during a third-grade field trip and the other when I brought my mother for a matinee show on Mother’s Day. Each visit increased my love of ballet more. Growing up, this was where I dreamed of dancing. Unfortunately, life got in the way of that.
As I stand here, bliss spreads through my body.
I’m in absolute heaven.
If heaven had a population of two.
No other soul is in the theater.
No people making random chatter or filing in, searching for their seats before the show starts.
I slip my hand up Damien’s wrist to check the time on his watch. “How is no one here yet? The show starts in ten minutes.”
Here I was, stressed we were on time.
“No one else is coming,” Damien says with absolute certainty.
I inch closer, our bodies brushing, as if we were in on a secret. “What? ”
His lips curl into a smirk. “It’s a private show for us, baby.”
I gape at him, shivers spreading over every inch of my skin. “Are you serious?”
He slowly nods.
My mouth falls open, and it takes me a moment to recollect myself from the rush of happiness flowing through me. “You spoil me too much.”
Damien releases my hand to rest his on my waist, drawing me in closer. The smell of his intoxicating cologne swallows the air around us. With the way he’s hungrily staring at me, even if the theater were flooded with people, he’d still absorb all my attention.
He brushes his bruised knuckles across my cheek, and I shiver.
Bruises. Cuts. Blood.
They’ve become frequent accessories on Damien.
My body softens at his touch as I appreciate the roughness of his skin brushing mine. I love how they collide, like two different worlds merging into one.
Once, after drinking too much wine, I referred to us as a strawberry couple. He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Rough on the outside, aka you—” I said.
“Please refrain from comparing me to a fruit again,” he interrupted me. “While I don’t fit into the comparison of a fruit, I’d have to say you taste as sweet as one.”
The next day, I bought strawberry-printed pajamas.
That night, he came home with chocolate-dipped strawberries. He squeezed the juices between my legs and licked it up while fingering me.
Damien saying my name breaks me away from my thoughts. With his hand still on my waist, he stares down at me in awe, a tenderness in them I’ve never witnessed before.
“You’ve completely changed my life,” he says, his tone matching the warmth in his eyes. “Because of you, I don’t come home alone to a cold bed. No matter what condition I’m in—broken, battered, bloody—you’re my strength. You see the best in me even though I don’t deserve it. You giving me that is something priceless. The least I can do is spoil the shit out of you and make every dream of yours come true.”
I stare at him, speechless.
Good thing he’s holding me, or his heavy words would’ve dropped me to my knees.
He presses his soft lips to mine. The kiss lingers, both of us wanting more, but neither pushing it. No, thank you on being arrested for indecent exposure.
I’m absolutely, no doubt in my mind, falling in love with this man.
He’s the one for me.
I gulp in thick breaths when he separates from me, trying my hardest to come up with a response.
He’s all of that for me.
My home. My strength. My heart.
I blink, attempting to conjure a prose as perfect as his in my mind.
I have a way with dancing. It seems Damien has a way with words.
“Let me escort you to our seats,” he says, interrupting my brainstorming. “The show is about to start.” He falls back a few steps and crooks his elbow.
I lace my arm through his, feeling on top of the world. “Where exactly are our seats?”
“Wherever you want them to be.” He motions toward the room. “Your pick, baby.”
I test three different seats in two different rows before finding one with the perfect view. Damien is a patient man each time we move and try another.
Just as I’m making myself comfortable in my final selection, the orchestra files out, taking their chairs in the pit. Damien squeezes his hand over mine, interlacing our fingers as the gold-fringed bottom curtain opens and the show starts.
Tears prick at my eyes, eventually slipping down my cheeks. My makeup will be a wild mess by the time this is over.
I cry as the dancers unfold their beautiful love story.
I cry for the love and devotion this man is showing me.
Neither of us was looking for love. If we’re being honest, Damien was looking to possibly murder my father. But here we are, falling in love with each other.
Now, I just hope the fate I wished for stays on my side.
“Oh, no, I’m not finished with you yet.” Damien pulls me against his wall of a body to stop me from walking toward the theater’s exit.
My eyes are glossy. And just as I suspected, my cheeks are mascara-stained.
The ballet is over. The dancers took their bows and left the stage ten minutes ago. I stayed in my seat for another five minutes, collecting myself.
Tonight wasn’t only a show.
It was an experience.
One I’ll never forget.
Damien shifts our still-connected bodies to face the stage. I hear low chatter as a man carrying a circular table appears onstage. Two others follow him, a chair in each one’s hand.
He interlaces our fingers, and the lighting is hazy as he escorts me along the perimeter of the stage. This feels so off-limits.
A gray-haired man, wearing white gloves and a black tux, stands at the base of the stairs leading onto the stage .
He stands up straighter when we reach him. “Good evening, Pippa and Damien. Did you enjoy the show?”
I’d be bouncing on my toes if I wasn't in heels. “It was amazing.”
With the amount of adrenaline pouring through me, I’ll be up for hours. It’s like someone fed fifteen espresso shots through my veins via IV.
When the man offers me his hand to assist me up the stairs, Damien stops him to do it himself.
Geesh, he needs to put out a bulletin that he’s the official Pippa helper. I’m starting to feel rude, ignoring men’s help.
My heels clack against the stage as we walk across it. An entire table setup is now in the middle, complete with a white tablecloth draped over the table and two chairs across from each other. A candle, smelling of fresh-cut roses, flickers in the middle.
Damien helps me into my chair, waiting for me to adjust my dress and get comfortable before taking his. As he sits across from me, he runs his hand along his tight jaw. He’s doing his best at hiding his stress to make the night perfect for me. For us .
As I smooth my napkin along my lap, I find my mother’s warning about him so wrong.
Yes, Damien is dangerous. A murderer. A man on the FBI’s watch list. Yes, I googled that . But his name doesn’t belong on the list with the other cliché assholes who serve the mob.
Men who chose their own self-preservation over others’ lives.
Men with egos so large that they kill anyone who threatens it.
He’s nothing like Cernach. Corruption might flood his veins, but those veins still flow into a noble heart.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I say, choking up again.
I don’t even want to know how much of a hot mess I look like .
“Baby”—Damien’s tender tone resurfaces—“if it makes you happy, believe me, I’m doing it.”
Two servers approach our table. One holds two salad plates and squeezes forward to drop them between us. The other pours champagne inside our glasses while reciting tonight’s menu. Every item—from the appetizer all the way to the dessert—is one of my favorites.
Get you a man who’s spent their entire life committing crime while evading prison time. They pay attention to every small detail.
The men tell us to enjoy and leave the stage.
“How did you do this?” I ask, picking up my fork and stabbing a piece of romaine lettuce with it.
“I made some calls.” Damien shrugs, as if it was no biggie.
“Oh, yes,” I say around a heavy laugh. “I forgot how easy it is to make some calls and reserve a private showing of the New York City Ballet company.”
I hope those calls involved monetary promises, not threats.
He meets my stare and smirks. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I very much did.” I drop my fork, the lettuce still attached to the side of my plate. “What did you think?”
“I enjoyed it.” He shrugs, scooping up the champagne glass.
“You were bored.”
“I was not.”
“Your eyes were more on me than the stage.”
“That’s because I enjoy watching you more. No need for a stage.”
“You watch me when I’m onstage.” So far, he’s attended three of my shows. At this point, I might feel more anxiety if he doesn’t come.
“Exactly—because it’s you onstage. The world could be ending around me, and if you’re onstage, I’m fucked because nothing could drag my attention away from you.”
“This is seriously the best night of my life,” I slur as we walk into the townhome.
Okay, Damien is walking us both while I use him as a personal cane. I might’ve celebrated with too much champagne.
We ate. We drank.
We talked. We laughed.
We fell in love even more.
After our three-course dinner, the show’s director, Margaret, came out and introduced herself. I nearly face-planted from my chair. I’ve followed Margaret’s journey for a while and always wanted to meet her.
I spent the next thirty minutes talking with her. Damien sat there, listening, never acting bored or pressuring me to leave. Before she left, he took our picture. Well, pictures since he’s proving himself to be even more perfect after taking ten photos to make sure I had a good one.
Damien grips me tight, as if worried I’ll topple over, and helps me up the stairs.
So much for giving him a stress-free night.
Drunk-sitting me definitely wasn’t on my list.
It’s not really a great stress reliever either.
Admittingly, I’m an annoying drunk.
But I’d rather be an annoying drunk than an angry one.
A win is a win.
He flips on the light when we reach the bedroom. I wobble in my one heel—pretty sure the other one is somewhere in the back seat—and Damien stabilizes me on our walk to the closet.
I grip his shoulder as he unzips and helps me out of my dress. It falls at my feet, hitting the top of his loafers, and I step out of it .
“Don’t let it stay on the floor,” I whisper, still holding him. “It’s too pretty.”
I hang on to his blazer sleeve as he leans down to scoop the dress in his arms and drape it over the island. His gaze flicks from the dress to me, and his stare burns down my body so hot that it’s like he’s never witnessed me so naked.
He inches closer, the toes of his loafers hitting my bare ones, and skims the pads of his fingers along my cheekbones.
“I love you, Pippa.”
If he wasn’t holding me up, I’d have fallen on my ass.
Not from being tipsy, but from the reality that he’s falling as hard as I am.