Chapter 25
I didn’t check my phone once tonight.
Marcus is handling anything that comes up, and he was more than happy to do it—glad, even, that I was taking a night for myself. And for once, I let it happen. No meetings, no endless schedules, no work creeping into the corners of my mind.
It was just her.
It was a night unlike any I’ve had before.
One I don’t want to admit meant something to me.
Back at the penthouse, Elena made sure there was no more temptation, no more lingering moments to pull us closer than we already are. The moment we stepped inside, she told me goodnight and disappeared into her room.
I should go to bed too. I should let this night settle, let it remain what it was—a moment in time, temporary and fleeting, just like our contract.
But I can’t sleep.
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for too long, my mind replaying the way she looked in that dress, the way her lips parted in awe when the first notes of the opera filled the air, the way she smiled softly and said she had a great time.
She meant it.
That does something to me.
With a sigh, I push out of bed and pad toward my study, the glow of the city spilling through the towering windows, slicing through the darkness. The space is quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that should bring peace but doesn’t.
My feet carry me toward the grand piano without a second thought.
It’s been a long time since I played.
My fingers hover over the keys for a moment before pressing down, coaxing a single note into the stillness. Then another. And another.
The melody comes on its own, slow and deliberate, stretching through the room like a whispered secret.
My mother had made me play as a child.
“Fortune favors the bold, Damien. Play boldly.”
She said it like a mantra, like the notes of each piece were more than music—they were control. Mastery. Another way to shape me into something untouchable.
When my father crashed the family, the piano disappeared with everything else.
And for a while, I let it stay gone.
There was no room for music when I was clawing my way out of the wreckage. No space for anything that didn’t drive me forward, keep me moving, keep me fighting for something more than the nothing I had been left with.
But when I finally had money—real money—this was one of the first things I bought.
I didn’t question why.
Didn’t examine what it meant that I wanted it back.
Now, as my fingers move over the keys, something shifts in my chest. The tension I’ve been carrying, the storm of thoughts that won’t let me sleep—it all starts to dissolve, carried away by the music, by the rhythm, by the memory of her eyes on mine, shining under the soft glow of the opera house.
And for the first time in years, I remember what this feels like.
Not an obligation.
Not a strategy.
Just something that belongs to me.
A soft creak pulls me from my trance, the melody faltering as I turn my head.
Elena stands in the doorway, watching me.
She’s wrapped in a short silk robe, the tie loose at her waist, her damp tresses falling over her shoulders. The city lights catch the curve of her bare collarbone, the delicate diamond earrings I gave her still glinting in her ears.
In her hand is a small dessert plate, a slice of dark chocolate cheesecake resting in the center. A fork in the other.
She stays in the doorway, not daring to move an inch inside the study.
“I didn’t know you played.”
I lean back slightly, resting my forearms on my thighs, letting the softness of her voice settle around me.
“It’s been a long time.”
Elena tilts her head. “Did you love it?”
I consider that, my gaze flickering down to the keys.
“I don’t know,” I admit after a moment. “I think I might have.”
She watches me for a long moment, and I swear there’s something unspoken in the way she looks at me.
Something neither of us should be feeling.
She shifts on her feet, her hands coming together, the fork clanging against the plate with a soft ding.
I look at the plate, then her.
“I—made this for you.” The hesitation makes my chest tighten, like she’s doubting if she should have done it.
I can’t look away from her. Words are lost to me. My chest rises hard with each labored breath, and I know this is the moment. The moment we cross a line—one way or another.
“Come here,” I say before I can stop myself.
She wavers just for a second, and I stop existing.
If she tells me no, returns to her room, that has to be it. I have to let her walk away.
Not just tonight. But at the end of this contract.
But if she doesn’t. If she takes a step toward me?—
Then she does.
She walks toward me slowly, carefully, as if afraid that one wrong step will shatter the fragile restraint between us.
But she never looks away. And neither do I.
Whatever this is, wherever it’s going—I’m already too far gone to stop it.
The soft glow of the city casts light over her, illuminating the smooth planes of her skin, the dark waves of her still-damp hair spilling over her shoulders. The tie of her robe loosens with each step, slipping free, the silk parting effortlessly.
The nightgown underneath is black, delicate, a second skin that barely covers her. Lace teases across her chest, the thin straps leaving her shoulders bare, her nipples taut against the fabric. A slit runs up her thigh, exposing the smooth, toned length of her leg as she closes the distance between us.
She stops beside the bench, breathing unevenly, a flush warming her cheeks.
She wants this.
She just doesn’t want to be the one to break the rules because I also had stipulations in my contract request. No intimacy.
Okay, little Trouble.
We’ll break these rules together.
Slowly, I widen my legs, making space for her between them. My hand trails up her bare thigh, feeling the slight tremor beneath my touch, the tension in her stance. Then, with a firm but gentle pull, I guide her to stand directly in front of me.
She sets the plate, the fork on the piano, and it’s like a bell, marking the shift in the moments between us.
Her scent surrounds me—faint traces of vanilla, her lotion, the floral hint of her shampoo. I press my forehead to her stomach, breathing her in, savoring the warmth of her body so close to mine.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t touch me.
But she doesn’t pull away either.
My lips brush against the smooth plane of her stomach, just above her navel, then move closer to her hip.
A barely-there sigh escapes her lips, so quiet I almost miss it.
I pull back slightly, reaching for the plate beside me, taking the fork and spearing a bite of the dark chocolate cheesecake. The moment the rich, velvety texture hits my tongue, I groan low in my throat, closing my eyes for a brief second.
It’s fucking perfect.
Decadent. Sinful. The kind of dessert that lingers, that demands to be savored.
When I open my eyes again, she’s watching me, her lips parted, her breathing uneven.
A shiver runs through her, and I know it’s not from the cold.
I set the fork down and drag my finger slowly along the side of the cheesecake, gathering a thick smear of chocolate and caramel on the tip.
I stand. My other hand moves higher on her thigh, taking the hem of her nightgown with it, the soft silk rising under my touch.
She doesn’t stop me.
“Tell me, Elena,” I murmur, my voice rough, thick with need. I hold my finger just shy of her lips, tracing the sticky sweetness across them. “Is eating dessert against the rules?”
Her breath hitches.
I press my finger gently to her lips, the warmth of her mouth sending a sharp jolt straight through me.
She hesitates, and I see the war in her eyes. But I wait. The next beat of my heart is tied to what she does next.
I see the second her resolve breaks. Her shoulders drop, and she exhales the tension she’s been retaining all week.
The moment her tongue flicks out, tasting the chocolate, I nearly break.
She closes her lips around my finger with a moan, sucking gently, licking until every trace of dessert is gone.
I exhale sharply, my jaw clenching, my cock throbbing with need.
She knows exactly what the fuck this is doing to me. But I can’t break all the way.
My little troublemaker needs to throw out these rules with me.
When she finally releases my finger, her gaze lifts to meet mine, something unreadable swirling in those hazel depths.
A silent question.
A silent dare.
And I’m more than fucking willing to see how much longer she will keep holding back—lying to herself, to me about how much she wants this. Wants us.
Her breath is uneven, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches mine. She’s waiting. Wanting. But she still won’t break.
Not yet.
So I’ll keep inching forward. Keep teasing. Keep testing exactly how long she can lie to herself before she gives in.
My fingers skim the edges of her robe, pushing the soft silk past her shoulders. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even hesitate. The fabric slides down, pooling at her feet in a whisper of luxury, leaving her bare except for the thin slip of black lace and silk that barely covers her.
I lean in, my breath fanning over the delicate skin of her neck. She tilts her head, offering it to me without a second thought.
I don’t kiss her. But I’m fucking dying to.
My lips hover, just shy of contact, dragging slowly down the elegant curve of her throat to her shoulder.
She exhales sharply, her body swaying toward mine, her hands bracing against my abdomen.
I don’t give in.
Instead, my fingers find one of the thin straps of her nightgown, toying with it, letting it slip off her shoulder in a slow, torturous reveal.
Her skin is warm beneath my touch—soft, smooth.
I move to the other side, repeating the action, my lips grazing her neck, the top of her shoulder, a featherlight touch that makes her shiver.
I slip the second strap down, watching as the silk nightgown slides over the curve of her breasts, catching only in the crook of her elbows, leaving her half-exposed, bared to me.
I inhale sharply.
“Fuck.”
The word is more breath than sound, more reverence than control.
Her breasts are full, round, perfect. The soft light catches on her skin, illuminating the peaks of her nipples, already taut, begging for attention. I watch as a wave of goosebumps rolls down her body—a clear sign of the emotions raging within her.
The ones she is so carefully trying to hide.
I reach for the plate, gathering another smear of dark chocolate cheesecake onto my finger.
Her breath hitches as I bring it to her skin, circling her nipple with the rich, decadent dessert, spreading it in slow, teasing strokes.
She lets out a soft, broken sound, her body arching ever so slightly toward me.
“Answer me, baby.”
My lips hover just beneath her ear, my voice a whisper of control and hunger, a thread away from snapping.
“Is eating dessert against your rules?”
Her breath is shaky, her fingers twitching where she grips my shirt.
Then, finally—finally—she exhales a long, trembling sigh and shakes her head.
“No.”
One word.
One simple word, and it’s like she’s granted me the keys to heaven.
“It’s not against the rules.” She’s fucking panting for me.
I don’t waste a second.
My tongue drags a slow, torturous circle around the hard peak of her breast, the lingering taste of dark chocolate and espresso blending with the warm, addictive sweetness of her skin.
She moans loudly, arching into my touch, her hands clutching at my shoulders, seeking something to ground her.
I run my thumbs beneath the soft weight of her breasts, remembering how they felt in my hands that night in the hotel. How they filled my palms, how she trembled beneath me.
Another slow swipe of cheesecake across her other breast. Another moan as she shudders under the sensation.
I need more.
Both hands find her thighs, squeezing, caressing, before sliding around to grasp her hips.
In one swift movement, I lift her, setting her onto the cool surface of the piano.
Her thighs press the keys.
The shift sends a discordant ripple of notes into the air, a soft, haunting melody beneath the sharp hitch of her breath.
A gasp leaves her lips, her fingers tightening in my hair, her legs instinctively parting just enough for me to step between them.
My mouth finds her skin again, tongue flicking over her nipple before sucking it between my lips, savoring the way she writhes against me.
The sounds she makes—the soft, breathy moans, the way my name leaves her lips in a quiet plea—send fire through my veins.
I rise, pressing my forehead against hers, breathing her in, letting the heat between us coil tighter, heavier.
She’s watching me, her hazel eyes glazed, her lips parted. That beautiful flush has spread down her chest, her body betraying the restraint she’s still desperately trying to hold onto.
She’s still fighting it.
Still keeping herself from surrendering completely.
I reach between her legs, sliding my fingers along the silk of her panties, groaning at the heat, at the unmistakable wetness soaking through the fabric.
“Fuck, baby.” My voice is rough, full of raw, aching need. “You’re so fucking wet.”
She shivers, barely parting her legs for me. Just a fraction.
Not enough.
Never enough.
I pull the nightgown over her head in one smooth motion. The black silk joins her robe on the floor, leaving her bare before me.
Jesus Christ.
She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
My hands grip her thighs tighter.
“Lay down.”
It’s not a request. It’s a command.
My hands frame her torso, my lips ghosting over her skin as she slowly reclines, her back meeting the cool surface of the piano.
She gasps at the sensation, her skin pebbling, her body arching slightly, instinctively, as if already reaching for me.
I trail my palms over her, fingers tracing the delicate dip of her waist, the soft curve of her hips.
Up, over her ribs, teasing at the underside of her breasts before moving down again, savoring every inch of warm, flushed skin.
When I reach the thin straps of her panties, I hook my fingers beneath them, dragging them down her legs, slow, deliberate.
She lifts each foot, helping me.
Fuck, she’s perfect.
I press my hands to the insides of her thighs, coaxing them open, baring her to me completely.
She’s stunning like this—laid out on my piano, bathed in the glow of the city skyline, breath shallow, pupils blown wide with need.
And I’m about to ruin her.
I dip my finger into the cheesecake once more, scooping just enough to spread across her skin, dragging it downward, watching her shudder.
Her hazel eyes lock onto mine, filled with something raw, something desperate.
“Damien.”
A plea. A prayer.
She’s losing herself, and fuck if I’m not right there with her.
“I’ve got you, baby.”
I rub the cool, decadent mixture over her clit—slow, deliberate circles—spreading it across the delicate bundle of nerves. The contrast between cold and heat makes her body jolt, a strangled moan escaping her lips.
My thumb joins in, pressing just the right amount of pressure, coaxing more slickness from her, mixing her arousal with the lingering chocolate and caramel.
I want her messy. Want her undone for me.
“Fuck,” I breathe, my hands sliding down to grip the backs of her thighs.
Then I lower myself, sitting on the piano bench, shifting one of her legs over my shoulder.
She doesn’t move or push me away.
She just watches, breathless, waiting.
I run my lips up the inside of her thigh, my stubble dragging against her sensitive skin, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her arousal.
The second my mouth gets close, I groan, my eyes rolling shut for half a second.
She’s so fucking sweet.
Better than any dessert. Better than anything I’ve ever tasted.
I press my tongue flat against her, licking a slow, firm strip up her pussy, gathering every last trace of chocolate, caramel, and her own addictive flavor.
The sound that leaves her—half gasp, half whimper—drives me insane.
I repeat the motion, savoring the way she squirms, the way she clenches her fingers into the piano’s glossy surface, her knuckles white.
Then I close my lips around her clit, sucking gently before flicking my tongue over the sensitive bud.
She cries out, her hips bucking, chasing the sensation, needing more.
“Jesus, baby, you taste so fucking good.”
I tighten my grip on her thighs, holding her in place as I feast on her, taking my time, unraveling her piece by piece.
My tongue explores every inch of her, alternating between deep, slow licks and rapid, teasing flicks.
She’s drenched, her arousal slick against my lips, and I want more of it.
I want all of it.
I slip one finger inside her, groaning at how tight and warm she is.
Her walls clamp down around me, her body begging for more, and I oblige, adding another finger, curling them upward as I continue working her clit with my tongue.
Her back arches off the piano, her thighs trembling around my head.
She’s close.
I can feel it.
“Damien—”
My name on her lips is pure sin—breathless and broken.
“Keep going.”
I double down, my pace relentless, my fingers pressing against that spot inside her that makes her body seize.
She gasps, her head thrown back, her body shaking as the orgasm crashes over her.
I don’t stop.
I don’t let up.
I lap up every aftershock, savoring every drop of her as she writhes beneath me.
Not until she’s whimpering, too sensitive, too spent.
Only then do I slow, pressing one last lingering kiss against her, my hands smoothing over her trembling thighs, grounding her.
I look up at her—her chest heaving, her lips parted, her eyes heavy with pleasure.
And fuck, if she’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I take her hand, helping her sit up, my fingers wrapping around hers, grounding her as her body trembles with the aftershocks of her orgasm.
She watches me, her breaths still uneven, her lips slightly parted. Her hazel eyes—darkened with desire—meet mine, and something unspoken lingers between us.
Satisfaction. Seduction.
Something far more dangerous.
I bend at the waist, picking up her nightgown and robe, the silk cool between my fingers. I straighten, locking my gaze with hers.
“Arms up, Trouble,” I murmur, my voice just above a whisper.
She hesitates—just for a second—before obeying.
The way she lifts her arms so effortlessly, trusting me to dress her after I’ve just unraveled her—it does something to me.
I slip the nightgown over her head, my fingers grazing her heated skin, lingering a second longer than necessary.
She shivers.
My hands find her hips, then her thighs, guiding her off the piano, steadying her, setting her carefully on her feet.
She’s pressed against me, her body warm, soft.
My cock is still painfully hard, throbbing between us, demanding relief I won’t take.
Not tonight.
Not until she shatters those rules on her own.
I don’t look away, and neither does she.
I hold out her robe, and she takes it slowly, glancing down at it, then back up at me, something unreadable in her gaze.
I don’t speak. Just watch her.
Waiting.
Testing.
“Good night, Elena.”
A faint smile—barely there—tilts the corner of my mouth, gone just as quickly as it appears. My expression evens out, unreadable once more.
I only shift back an inch or so, giving her just enough space to move.
She hesitates again.
Then she steps away.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Sliding her body past mine so closely that I feel the whisper of silk against my skin—the ghost of her warmth where I want it most.
Her eyes never leave mine as she walks toward the door.
She reaches it, stopping just before crossing the threshold.
Then—she looks back at me.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, the movement hesitant, contemplative.
It’s the last thing I see before she disappears into the hallway, leaving me standing there—fists clenched at my sides, pulse hammering, mind completely fucking wrecked.
And I know—without a doubt—I’m gone.
Completely fallen into her.