Chapter 29
T he city lights filter through my bedroom window, casting a soft glow that reflects off the full-length mirror in front of me.
I stare at myself, fingers toying with the buttons of my jersey—the one Margo gifted me, the words FUTURE MRS. WOLFE pressed bold across my back.
The lettering feels heavier than fabric, like it’s pressing into my skin, branding me with something I shouldn’t want.
But I do.
I exhale slowly, my breath shaky as I undo the buttons one by one. The soft material parts, revealing smooth skin, the delicate lace of my bra.
My pulse kicks up as I reach behind me, unhooking the clasp, slipping the straps from my shoulders, and letting it fall to the floor, where it joins my discarded shoes and jeans.
Now, I stand there in nothing but the jersey and my black lace panties, the cool air teasing across my bare skin. My fingers skim the fabric, adjusting it, feeling the absurdity of wearing something so oversized yet feeling so exposed.
I should talk myself out of this.
I should turn around, get under the covers, and pretend that this is just another night.
But I don’t want to.
I’m tired of lying to myself. Tired of pretending I don’t know exactly what I want.
Damien.
The thought sends a heat curling low in my stomach, and before I can overthink it, I step out of my bedroom, barefoot, moving on instinct.
The penthouse is dark, the city skyline the only thing illuminating the space. A quiet stillness lingers in the air, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s already gone to bed.
He was quiet after we left the ballgame—brooding, his mind still caught on Adrian’s words.
I know he wasn’t upset with me, but still, I didn’t like seeing him that way—tense, locked in his own head.
A soft gust of wind stirs the living room, and I realize the large sliding doors are open.
The sheer curtains billow gently with the night breeze, their ghostlike movement pulling my gaze to the verandah.
Damien is sitting outside, his posture relaxed but his grip tight around a dark-amber beer bottle, fingers flexing around the glass.
He’s leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted slightly as he stares out over the city.
In an almost lazy motion, he lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a slow drink, his throat working as he swallows.
The movement is unhurried, but there’s something about it—something raw, something starved.
I step forward, pushing the curtain aside, letting the fabric brush against my skin as I walk onto the terrace. I don’t say anything. I simply lean against the frame of the door, waiting, letting the moment stretch.
The wind lifts my hair, a soft whisper of movement, and he notices.
His head turns toward me, and everything inside me tightens at the way his breath hitches.
His eyes darken as they rake down my body, slow and deliberate, taking in the way the jersey hangs open, the way the fabric shifts as I move, teasing glimpses of bare skin beneath.
I see the way his grip on the bottle tightens, the flicker of tension in his jaw as he drags his tongue along his bottom lip.
Heat coils low in my stomach, my confidence solidifying, my resolve firm.
I walk toward him, slow and measured, each step deliberate.
The jersey shifts with my movements, the cool air brushing over my exposed skin, tightening my nipples beneath the soft fabric.
His gaze tracks every inch of me, his breathing deepening, his pupils dilating as I draw closer.
I stop just in front of him, the space between us humming with anticipation.
The wind carries the faint scent of his cologne, and suddenly, I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to think.
I just want him.
I know he wants me too.
He wants me to break my own rules.
He won’t push me—won’t be the one to cross that final line—but he wants me to.
I see it in the way his body tenses, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for me. He’s waiting, silently daring me to be the one who finally snaps.
So, I do.
With deliberate slowness, I lift one knee onto the lounge chair, then the other, sinking onto his lap, straddling him.
His breath hitches, his hands instantly finding my thighs, his grip firm and warm as he drags them up, cupping my ass in both palms.
A low, guttural sound rumbles in his throat, like he’s been starving for this—waiting for me to do what he’s craved from the very beginning.
I reach for the beer bottle in his hand, prying it from his grip as his fingers flex against my skin, his hold tightening as though he needs to feel me, to reassure himself that I’m really here.
Tilting the bottle to my lips, I take a slow sip, my throat working as the cold liquid slides down—a stark contrast to the heat simmering between us.
Damien watches me like a man on the verge of losing control, his lips slightly parted, his breathing uneven. He looks drunk—not on alcohol, but on me.
On my proximity.
On the fact that I’ve finally given in.
I don’t set the bottle down just yet. I want to savor this, to let it stretch.
His hands move, slow but deliberate, trailing up my spine, guiding me closer as he presses his lips, then his nose, to the column of my throat.
He drags his mouth up the length of my skin, his breath hot, teasing, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
I take another sip, my hand slipping to the back of his neck to steady myself, and the moment the bottle leaves my lips, I set it down on the side table, both my hands now free.
Free to touch him.
Free to feel him.
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into the firm muscle as I shift, arching against him, grinding against the thick length pressing beneath me.
The friction is intoxicating.
The heat unbearable.
I’m soaked, aching, clenching around nothing as my body begs for more—for him.
His hands tighten on my ass, fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me harder against him, guiding my movements, making sure I feel him.
The pressure, the way his body meets mine in each slow, grinding thrust—it’s too much and not enough all at once.
A moan spills from my lips, unbidden, helpless against the way he’s unraveling me with something so simple.
His breath is ragged, his lips brushing against my jaw as he curses under his breath.
"Fuck, Elena."
His voice is breathy, raw, desperate.
"Put me out of my fucking misery."
His forehead drops against mine, his hands still locked on my hips, guiding, controlling, pulling me down against every rock of his hips.
His patience—his infamous control—is dissolving right before my eyes, unraveling thread by thread.
We’re so close.
So close that our breaths mingle, our lips barely a whisper apart.
I open my mouth, teasing him, hovering on the edge of that final barrier, daring him to take it.
He tilts his head, chases the space, his mouth a fraction away.
“Elena,” he rasps, thrusting up against me as I grind down, the sensation making both of us shudder. His voice is a plea, a promise, a demand all at once.
“Please, baby.”
He wants me to say it.
He needs me to say it.
And fuck, I need it too.
My lips brush his.
The smallest touch.
I exhale, my voice nothing more than a whisper.
"Kiss me."
And before I can finish the word, his mouth claims mine.
Damien breaks.
There is no hesitation, no restraint—just raw hunger.
His mouth crashes against mine, his tongue sweeping in, claiming, devouring. There’s nothing soft about the way he kisses me. No tentative exploration, no slow unraveling.
This is possession. This is obsession. This is Damien Wolfe finally taking what’s his.
A desperate sound rips from my throat, swallowed by the relentless press of his lips, the way his fingers tangle into my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper, harder.
I moan into his mouth, rolling my hips against his already hard cock, feeling the rigid length pressing up against me through the thin barrier of my panties.
The sensation sends a pulse of heat straight between my thighs, and I do it again—harder, grinding against him, desperate for friction.
His growl vibrates against my lips, sharp and possessive, before he suddenly stands, gripping me tight against his chest. My arms wrap around his shoulders on instinct, my legs clenching at his waist as he carries me effortlessly toward the verandah.
The city stretches behind me, lights twinkling, a thousand stars burning beneath us, but all I can see is him.
Damien sets me down onto the wide ledge, the cool metal biting into the backs of my thighs, and his hands don’t stop moving—gripping my waist, sliding down my thighs, pulling me closer.
My legs lock around him as he steps between them, his large hands splaying across my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, teasing, coaxing.
“Elena.” His voice is a warning. A plea. A demand.
His lips trail along the column of my throat, his breath hot, his control hanging by a thread.
He wants permission.
He wants me to break the final barrier between us.
I shift, arching against him, my fingers trailing up his chest, nails dragging lightly across his bare skin.
“Damien.” My breath is uneven, shaky. “Take it off.”
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His fingers find the collar of my jersey, peeling the fabric down inch by inch.
The cool night air kisses my bare skin, sending a shiver racing down my spine as the jersey slips lower, exposing my breasts to the open night.
He groans, a deep, reverent sound.
“Jesus, fuck.”
His hands drag up my sides, his thumbs grazing over my nipples, making them tighten further.
His mouth follows. Hot and starved.
His lips close around one peak, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue swirling, licking, teasing.
I gasp, fingers threading into his hair, my body shaking as he devours me.
His teeth graze the sensitive bud before he sucks harder, his other hand squeezing the soft weight of my other breast, kneading, teasing, rolling the peak between his fingers.
A moan rips from my throat, and I roll my hips against him, grinding against the thick, hard length straining against his pants.
His breath shudders against my skin, and his hands move—gripping my hips, guiding me against him, rolling his own hips in time with mine.
The barrier of my panties and his pants is unbearable. Too much and not enough all at once.
I need more.
I need him.
And from the way he’s breathing, from the way his hands are shaking—Damien Wolfe is barely holding on.
He fists my hair, tilting my head back, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“Do you want me to stop?”
His eyes burn with something dark. Something primal.
“Fuck no.” I manage to put a whole sentence together.
“Good girl.” He nips at my jaw and I melt at the richness of his deep voice.
His other hand slides beneath the thin lace of my panties, and the moment his fingers brush against my swollen, aching heat, his breath stutters.
“Goddamn, baby,” he rasps, his voice wrecked with arousal, like the feel of me is choking him. “You’re fucking dripping.”
I whimper as he drags his fingers through my slickness, teasing, testing, spreading me open with slow, torturous strokes.
He circles my clit, his touch featherlight at first, then firmer, a slow, devastating rhythm that has me gasping, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Tell me you missed me, Trouble.” His voice is low, rough, coaxing.
I can barely think, barely breathe, too lost in the steady pulse of pleasure building between my legs.
He knows exactly how to touch me.
How to drive me insane with nothing but his fingers and his voice.
“Damien—”
His fingers press deeper. “Tell me, Elena.” His voice tightens, thick with need. “Because I was fucking dying without you.”
I shudder, rolling my hips against his hand, chasing friction, chasing pleasure.
His fingers stroke that devastating spot inside me, flicking my clit in fast, precise strokes.
And I shatter.
“Yes.” I pant as my head falls back.
A sharp cry rips from my throat, my body locking around his fingers, pleasure crashing over me in violent waves.
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t slow.
He works me through every last pulse, every last tremor, his other hand gripping my hip, holding me steady, grounding me.
The sounds of the city fade beneath the thunder of my pulse, the high-pitched whimpers spilling from my lips, the rough, wrecked curses Damien whispers against my skin.
“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, biting my jaw, licking over the sting before kissing his way back to my lips. “Fucking beautiful when you come.”
I clench around his fingers as the pleasure slowly ebbs, my body trembling, too sensitive, too desperate for more.
He grins against my mouth, withdrawing his fingers.
And then—he sucks them clean.
Groaning.
Tasting me.
His tongue swirls over his knuckles, lapping up every last drop.
The sight alone has me clenching around nothing, my thighs squeezing him instinctively.
He hums in satisfaction.
His lips brush mine in featherlight kisses, teasing, coaxing. “Tell me what you want, Elena.”
His voice is softer now, rough but sincere, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me steady.
“Because there’s no fucking way I could deny you anything.”
I don’t hesitate. I can’t. Not anymore.
But deep inside, where the scars still linger, something small and fragile shivers—because the first time I let someone in, he left me bleeding.
I built a life where the relationships are controlled. Where I say when, how and who.
I push the thought away, swallowing the fear before it can take root. Because this is different.
Damien is different.
“You.”
His entire body tightens.
I kiss him, slow and deep, pressing myself flush against him, feeling every hard inch of him, the heat, the need.
“Just you, Damien.” Another kiss. A promise. “All night.”
“Fuck me,” I whisper it like a prayer.
He groans, his forehead falling against mine.
“Break me,” I whisper.
His fingers clench against my thighs.
“Own me.”
A deep, guttural sound rumbles from his chest.
And then—he moves.
He lifts me from the railing, gripping my thighs as I wrap around him, his lips never leaving mine.
The penthouse is dark, lit only by the skyline, but he doesn’t need the light.
He knows exactly where he’s going.
And once he gets me there—he’s going to ruin me.
He already has.
Because the second I sat down next to him that night—I was his.
And I never want him to let me go.