30. Damian
CHAPTER 30
DAMIAN
T he first thing I feel the next morning is her.
Her fingertips—light, teasing—wrapped around my cock beneath the sheets. I’m already hard, already pulsing against her palm. She knows exactly how to touch me, soft but certain, her thumb grazing just under the head as her lips brush the curve of my jaw.
I groan softly, eyes still closed.
Isabelle’s tucked against my side, bare and warm, her body pressed close, one leg draped over mine, hand stroking me with slow, wicked intention.
“Good morning,” she whispers, her voice still husky from sleep.
I open my eyes and look down at her. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes still sleepy, but the smile on her lips is wicked and tender all at once.
“You’re going to kill me,” I murmur.
She grins. “That’s not the part of you I’m trying to bring back to life.”
I laugh. No one has ever made me laugh as much as she does.
I cup her face and kiss her slowly, deeply, my other hand trailing down her spine, grounding us in the heat rising between us again.
There’s nothing rushed about it. Just warmth. Trust. Need that feels as emotional as it does physical.
She strokes me again, slower now, more deliberate, and I roll toward her, reaching between her legs, wanting to feel how ready she is for me.
And she is. She’s so damn wet.
I press my forehead to hers. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to waking up like this.”
She kisses the corner of my mouth. “Then don’t.”
I shift over her, guiding myself to her entrance, ready to slide into that heat again, when?—
Bzzz… bzzz… bzzz.
The sharp vibration of a phone cuts through the morning stillness.
We both freeze. It’s not my phone on the nightstand and not her phone either.
Which means it’s my old business phone.
Buried in a drawer I haven’t opened in weeks.
The sound is unmistakable and persistent.
I curse under my breath, forehead still resting against hers.
“You can let it ring,” she whispers.
“I could,” I say.
Her fingers are still wrapped around me. I’m still on the verge of being inside her, and yet that phone keeps buzzing like it’s clawing through time.
“I haven’t heard that sound in weeks,” I mutter.
“You don’t need to go back,” she says quietly, but there’s a flicker in her eyes. Something vulnerable. Something uncertain.
I kiss her again slower this time. “I’m not leaving this bed,” I promise. “Not until I’ve made you come so hard you forget I ever had a company.”
That earns a breathless laugh. Her grip tightens on me again.
Bzzz… bzzz… bzzz.
But the world out there doesn’t care about promises.
Isabelle lets her hand drift away from me. For a moment, I think the spell has broken, but then she looks up at me with something fierce and playful in her eyes. She shifts, pushing gently at my chest until I fall back onto the pillows.
“You’re not getting up,” she murmurs, sliding the sheet off my hips. “Not yet.”
I exhale sharply, pulse already pounding as she moves between my legs, her hair spilling forward like silk across my stomach.
“Isabelle—”
“I know,” she whispers, kissing the base of me. “You chose me. Let me show you what that means.”
Then she takes me in her mouth. Slow and deep, every inch disappearing between her lips with deliberate care, her tongue circling me in ways that make my hands clench the sheets. My head falls back, and I groan, low and broken, as she begins to move, slow and steady.
She’s unraveling me with every motion.
Her hands on my thighs, her mouth warm and wet and perfect, her gaze flicking up to meet mine as she sucks me deeper. There’s something possessive in her now, not just about giving but owning this moment. Owning me.
My fingers slide into her hair, not to guide her, just to touch. To ground myself in the reality that this—she—is mine.
Not the company.
Not the empire.
Her.
The phone buzzes again, muffled now beneath layers of silence and heat.
I couldn’t care less.
My entire world is right here—in her mouth, in her hands, in the breathless sounds she draws from my throat as I struggle not to come too fast, too hard.
But it’s impossible.
She hums around me, and that sound—that sound—pushes me to the edge.
“God, Isabelle—” My voice cracks as I groan her name, hips flexing despite myself.
She doesn’t stop or flinch. What she does do is take everything, swallowing every last drop.
When it’s over, when I collapse into the mattress with a guttural, gasping exhale, she kisses the inside of my thigh like a promise. I reach down, pulling her up into my arms and pressing my lips to hers.
She smiles against my mouth. “See?” she whispers. “You didn’t miss a thing.”
Damn it, she’s right.
She’s still smiling when I pull her into my arms, but I see the flicker in her eyes. She expects me to roll out of bed and chase down the call.
Not this time.
I shift, rolling her beneath me, hands sliding under my shirt, the one she’s still wearing, barely buttoned, half-off one shoulder. I kiss the edge of her collarbone, the swell of her breast, and then the curve of her waist.
She looks up at me, breath soft. “You’re not answering it? Checking to see if there’s a voicemail or a text?”
I press my lips between her thighs. “No,” I murmur, kissing the soft skin there again, “because I made you a promise.”
My fingers part her slowly. Her breath hitches when I flatten my tongue and drag it across her, slow and firm.
“You remember what I said?” I ask.
She nods, already breathless. “You said… God?—”
I do it again, slower and deeper this time until her hips lift off the bed.
“I said I wouldn’t leave this bed,” I murmur against her, “until I made you come so hard you forgot I ever had a company.”
Her laugh turns into a moan when I suck gently on her clit, drawing soft circles with my tongue, letting her know I’m not playing this time.
This isn’t about teasing. It’s about keeping a promise.
She grips the sheets, gasping as I work her open, tongue deep, fingers stroking inside her now—firm, perfect pressure, exactly the way I’ve learned she loves it. Her legs shake, and her back arches. She tries to say my name, but it dies on her lips. Her body is trembling, unraveling, surrendering to the pressure building inside her. I don’t stop.
“I’m here,” I whisper when I feel her start to tip. “Let go for me, Isabelle.”
She shatters violently, beautifully. She comes with a cry that echoes off the walls, hips bucking, thighs clenching around my head, her body pulsing around my fingers like her soul’s leaving her for a second.
I hold her through all of it, every tremor, every breath.
When she finally collapses back into the bed, I crawl up beside her, kissing her lips, her cheek, her shoulder. She’s glowing, flushed and wild and absolutely undone.
I brush the hair from her face and whisper, “Now… do you remember what I used to do for a living?”
She laughs, the sound hoarse and happy, and shakes her head. “Not a clue.”
“Good,” I say, pulling her into my arms.
This, her and me together, is the only thing I want to be remembered for.