Chapter 22
CASSANDRA
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, sharp against the quiet.
Downstairs. Now.
His text cuts through the haze of my thoughts, pulling me from the edge of sleep. The house feels hushed, as if it’s holding its breath. I slip out of bed, my heart thudding with a mix of nerves and want.
The study glows as I descend the stairs, the massive fir tree casting reflections that dance across glass ornaments, catching the fire’s flicker. The air smells of pine, citrus, and wood smoke, warm and intimate.
Damien lounges on the sofa, open-neck black shirt hugging his muscular chest, slacks tailored to his powerful thighs. His Audemars Piguet glints as he swirls a lowball of whiskey, dark blue eyes lifting to meet mine—cool, aroused, and completely in control.
“Close the door,” he says. I shut it, the click final sealing us in. He scans me slowly, from my bare feet to the open collar of my robe, his gaze a touch I feel everywhere.
“You have something to say?”
I nod and take a breath. “Two things. Thank you, and I’m sorry.”
His lips curve into a tiny smile, his eyes darkening. “Show me how sorry you are.”
I untie my robe and let it fall, pooling on the floor like liquid silk.
Beneath it is a gift—lingerie I designed just for him.
A deep wine balconette bra with power mesh lifting my breasts, high-waist garter belt with satin seams carving out my waist, sheer thigh-highs and a Brazilian brief with a velvet bow matching the red ribbon at my wrist.
Strategic boning sculpts me smooth, every line deliberate. His breath hitches and his eyes darken with lust, the whiskey glass hitting the table.
“You made this?” he asks, voice rough.
“For you.”
He reaches out, fingers hovering over the garter clip, not touching, teasing. “For us.”
He leans back into the sofa, legs apart, shoulders back, and crooks a finger, beckoning me to him. I kneel between his knees on the thick rug, tree lights haloing the scene, casting a warm glow over his skin.
“Eyes,” he says, a velvet demand that sends a shiver through me. I meet his gaze, my core clenching, desire mingling with the need to atone.
“I’m ready to make it up to you,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Make what up to me?”
“Denying you before.”
A small smirk.
“Then show me.”
My fingers graze his belt.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmur, voice soft as I ease the zipper down, freeing his cock—thick, hard, glistening. My breath catches and I steady myself, one hand wrapping firmly around his base, the other resting on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense. “Let me make it right.”
I start slow, lips parting, my tongue tracing the pulsing vein with reverence, every glide a plea for forgiveness.
“I shouldn’t have denied you,” I whisper against his skin, the salt of him sharp on my tongue. I seal my lips around the tip, sucking softly, then slide deeper, my hand twisting at his base.
His fingers thread into my hair, guiding gently, letting me pleasure him.
“Good girl,” he whispers, eyes dark with hunger.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice husky with desire. “Make it up to me, just like that.” His praise lands like sparks, fueling me.
I push deeper, each motion a whispered penance.
“Eyes,” Damien commands, his voice a low, molten pull that sets my nerves alight. I meet his gaze, my body humming with need and remorse. “What do you want, Cassandra?”
“I want to make you come, sir,” I whisper. “To please you.”
A slow grin spreads across his face, dark and approving.
I relax my jaw, taking him deeper. His grip in my hair tightens slightly, a low groan escaping as he nears the edge.
I take him fully, and he erupts in my mouth, hot and heavy, a guttural groan escaping. I swallow eagerly, feeling him pulse against my lips.
His fingers loosen in my hair and he draws me up, sitting me across his lap sideways, his hands warm over the mesh panels of my garter.
“Apology accepted,” he says. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Please,” I say, clear and eager, my confidence growing. I asked, and it feels right.
He positions me on all fours, garter straps taut against my thighs. He moves the brief aside and his fingers start slow, two sliding through my slick folds, then curling to find that sweet spot inside, stroking with precision.
My hips lift, chasing, but he presses them down, his mouth descending on my clit with a metronome rhythm—slow, deliberate licks, his tongue flat and broad, then pointed, flicking the sensitive bud. The wet sounds of his mouth mix with my moans, the pine-and-smoke air thick with our arousal.
“Hold,” he commands. “Count the rise.”
I whisper, “One,” as his tongue circles, my pussy throbbing. “Two,” as he sucks gently, pulling back to edge me.
I am beginning to love the countdown.
“Almost,” I gasp, and he pauses, leaving me trembling. Twice he denies me, his fingers curling deeper, his lips teasing my clit until I’m shaking, my slickness coating his hand.
“Tell me you want to come,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
“I want to come, sir, please, on your mouth,” I plead, voice raw and needy.
He speeds up slightly, fingers and tongue in tandem, locking on my clit with a firm suckle. I come apart, a long, shuddering orgasm ripping through me, my thighs shaking against his broad shoulders, my pussy spasming as I cry out, the firelight flickering.
I catch my breath, a smile curving my lips.
“Again,” he says. I nod, my body humming, ready.
He positions me hands-and-knees over the sofa arm, the tree’s lights casting soft constellations across the room. His hand rests at my nape, grounding me as he slowly slides his cock in—a full stretch that makes me moan, my walls gripping him tight.
“Match my rhythm,” he says, and I push back, meeting his long, measured thrusts, then sharper snaps, the wet slap of our bodies echoing with the fire’s crackle. “Good girl,” he growls, hand firm on my hip. “Just like that.”
The dirty praise sends heat through me, my clit throbbing.
He pulls out and sits back, guiding me to straddle him.
I do so, facing him, his length sinking deep as I sit.
His hands grip my waist, rocking me slowly, as our eyes lock.
I lace my fingers behind his neck, the ribbon shiny at my wrist. My clit grinds against his lower abdomen, sparks building a second wave.
“Please, sir,” I whisper, and he nods, letting me chase it.
His thrusts deepen and we come together, messy and intense, his hot release filling me full. We sit cheek to cheek, Christmas lights flickering across our sweat-slicked skin.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispers.
“Merry Christmas,” I echo, resting my forehead to his.
“I won’t research on your network again. Or deny you.”
He nods once, and that’s the end of it.
The fireplace settles, embers glowing. The staff is gone, the house ours. He drapes a cashmere throw over my shoulders, my body warm and lazy in his lap, my mind quiet.
He carries me to the stairs, and I laugh against his throat. At the bedroom door, he kisses me slowly before carrying me to the bed and setting me down.
“Sleep.”
I close my eyes, his rules and care wrapping around me as surely as the ribbon on my wrist.