33. Isabelle
CHAPTER 33
ISABELLE
D inner is simple tonight, takeout from the Thai place two blocks down. My gallery assistant swears it has the best green curry in the city, and she wasn’t wrong. I’m in bare feet and one of Damian’s soft black tees, and he’s helping wash out the wineglasses while I spoon rice into two mismatched bowls.
It’s quiet and comfortable and so different from who we used to be.
He sets the glasses on the counter to dry, then slides up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I feel the warm weight of his chin on my shoulder.
“You’re going to spoil me,” he murmurs, voice low, “making me dinner in your paint-stained shirt like some domestic dream.”
I laugh. “You picked up the food. I opened the wine. This is the extent of my culinary ambition.”
“You forgot the most important part,” he says, pressing a kiss just below my ear. “You let me stay.”
I almost melt as I turn to face him, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “Of course I did.”
He watches me for a moment, the lines around his eyes relaxed, that old wall of his nowhere in sight.
Then he clears his throat. Casual. Too casual. “So, I was thinking…”
I smirk. “That’s always dangerous.”
He narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “I was thinking that maybe it’s time we talk about the next step.”
My breath catches just a little.
He must see the flicker in my expression because he holds up his hands like he’s defusing a bomb. “Nothing dramatic. No pressure. Just… if you ever get tired of walking past your neighbors’ screaming toddler and carrying three floors’ worth of groceries, the penthouse has an elevator and a view and enough closet space for even your paint-splattered coat collection.”
I laugh. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I’m suggesting,” he says with a crooked smile, “that we stop pretending like we don’t already live in each other’s skin.”
My heart flips.
But then he adds softly, seriously, “Or maybe… maybe we find something new. Together. A place that’s ours. From the ground up.”
I reach up and brush a kiss against his mouth. “You’re serious,” I murmur.
“Completely.”
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Then let’s look.”
“You sure?”
I smile. “We rebuilt a company. We survived Vincent. I think we can handle a lease.”
He chuckles, warm and low, and holds me a little tighter.
There’s still so much ahead, more decisions and more change, but right now, standing in my kitchen with his arms around me, I feel something I never felt even at the height of my success. I feel steady and not just in love but in life. With him. Us together.
We don’t finish the wine. We don’t finish the dishes either. One look across the room—his eyes dark, steady, full of something that makes heat pool low in my belly—and I know.
We don’t speak as he takes my hand. He walks me down the short hallway to my bedroom, fingers threading tightly with mine, thumb brushing over my knuckles like a silent promise.
Once inside, he shuts the door behind us with deliberate calm before turning to face me.
“Take off the shirt,” he says softly.
I blink. “Yours or mine?”
His smile is slow, dangerous, and devoted. “Start with yours.”
There’s something different in his voice tonight. A quiet authority. Not cold, not controlling. Whatever it is, it’s making me wet and sends a shiver down my spine.
I do as he says, slipping the fabric over my head and letting it fall to the floor. He watches every movement, eyes tracking over me with a hunger that makes my nipples harden.
“Now mine,” he says.
I step close, fingers finding the hem of his tee, lifting it over his head. He shrugs it off then grabs my wrist and pulls me flush against him.
“You’ve had your turn,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple. “Now I’m in charge.”
I gasp as he pushes me gently back toward the bed. Not rough. Not rushed. Intentional.
He lays me down, kneels between my thighs, and slides my panties off with agonizing care. Then he rises above me, kisses me deep, possesses me with his mouth, and murmurs against my lips, “Spread your legs for me.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yes,” he growls.
“Order me again.”
“Spread your legs for me now.”
I do willingly and eagerly.
Immediately, he sinks into me, slow at first then deeper and firmer. He locks eyes with me, and his gaze holds me there. His thrusts are deliberate and commanding. Being dominated by him like this… I’m almost enjoying this too much.
One hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place as his body moves over mine, in mine, with mine, his rhythm unyielding, his voice low and coaxing and utterly in control.
“You like this,” he breathes. “Being taken. Being mine.”
“Yes,” I gasp, nails digging into his back.
He kisses my throat, my jaw, my shoulder, never once letting me look away. “Then give it to me. Everything.”
I do. Every gasp. Every cry. Every pulse of pleasure that builds until my back arches off the bed.
He kisses the sound of my moan off my lips. I swear he’s hungry, swallowing every breathless cry I give him like he owns them.
When I come apart beneath him, shaking and gasping and trembling through the last waves of release, he doesn’t slow down.
He growls low in my ear, his voice rough and shaking with restraint. “Don’t close your eyes. I want to see you feel every second of this.”
I try.
God, I try.
But he’s relentless. His thrusts are harder now and deeper, his grip tightening on my hips as he pins me in place and drives into me like he needs to brand me with the feel of him.
He hooks my thigh higher around his waist and leans in close, forehead pressed to mine, his eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing tethering him to earth.
“This is what,” he grits out, each word edged with heat and hunger, “we are.”
He kisses me again, deep and claiming, his hips slamming into mine with a rhythm that makes me whimper.
“You’re not just mine in the morning or at night,” he says, breathing hard, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re mine when I’m inside you like this. When I’m giving you everything I never let myself feel before.”
I arch up, digging my nails into his back, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his love. He’s fierce, uncompromising, even worshipful.
He doesn’t relent. When I arch into him, breath ragged, he grips my hips with both hands, holding me fast as he burrows deeper, every stroke precise and unyielding. His mouth finds mine in a fierce kiss—teeth grazing my lower lip, tongue pressing insistently—before he pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, “That’s it. Only for me.”
His eyes blaze as he leans down, catching the echo of my moan on his lips, and then he drives into me again, harder this time, each thrust measured and demanding. My nails rake across his shoulders as he grips the back of the mattress, anchoring himself to me. The headboard rattles.
He shifts, pressing my hips into the mattress, taking full control of our rhythm. “You feel so good,” he growls, voice thick with desire. “Look at me when you come.”
I do. My vision blurs around the edges with heat and want, but his eyes are clear, fierce, loving. He traces the curve of my mouth with gentle worship even as his body moves with relentless purpose. When I tip over the edge, I do so with his name on my lips, back arching as another release crashes through me.
“Say it,” he growls, his pace unrelenting. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp. “God, Damian, I’m yours.”
That’s when he breaks.
He groans—raw, guttural, undone—and with one last deep, shuddering thrust, he buries himself inside me and lets go, spilling into me as his body pulses, his breath catches, and everything about him goes quiet and tense and reverent.
His arms wrap around me instantly, pulling me flush against him as he rides out his own ecstasy, each pulse of release a testament to the depth of feeling driving us both.
When he finally stills, he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. His hands roam over me—gentle now, caressing, as if to reassure himself I’m still here.
“Jesus,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Every time with you is more than I can handle.”
I cup his face and kiss him softly. This kiss is a little less about claiming and more about keeping.
“I love you,” he whispers into my ear, voice husky, “more than anything.”
I wrap my arms around him, holding on tight. “I love you too.”