Chapter Nine
Damien
S he owns me. Body, mind, and soul. Just like I’m going to own her.
Soon.
Very soon.
I sit in the restaurant before dawn, the only person in the empty space, my fingers drumming against the table as I wait for her to climb the stairs. My blood hums with anticipation. My heart beats for nothing but her. I can already picture the look on her face when she steps inside and sees my gift. She’ll see proof that I know her; that I listen to everything she says, even when she doesn’t think I’m there. She doesn’t see me watching. Doesn’t know that every sigh she makes, every little thought she mutters to herself…I know it all.
She’ll learn, though, to recognize my presence, to feel when I’m near.
Amelia rushes upstairs with the phone I left on her bedside table clutched to her chest, like it’s a sin she still wants it even though she knows it’s from me. She takes in the restaurant with a gasp. Her lips part as she drinks in the sight of hundreds of peonies. They’re everywhere. In vases, on the counters, tucked into little corners like I wanted her to find them again and again.
“I hope you like my gifts, little flower.”
She flinches, spinning toward me, her breath hitching. I drink in her reaction; how her pupils widen when she sees me, how her hands tighten around the gift I left her. She looks so small standing there, like something meant to be kept, held, and cherished.
“Why?” she whispers.
I rise from my seat, savoring the way she tenses as I move toward her. Her body knows before her mind does. Knows that I belong this close. That she was always meant to belong to me. I stop just inches away from her, and reach out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. She shivers.
“You deserve to be spoiled, Amelia,” I murmur, caressing the curve of her neck. “You deserve to be worshipped.”
She blinks up at me, confused. Na?ve. Innocent little thing.
“W-Worshipped?” she stammers.
I hum, my fingers tracing just outside the swell of her breasts. She jerks slightly, but I don’t move away. I keep my touch feather-light, teasing. She’s too frozen to stop me, too curious about what I might do next.
My breath ghosts against her ear. “Tell me, little flower,” I say, trailing my fingers lower, just over her ribs, the dip of her waist. “Do you want to be touched?”
Her nipples pebble beneath her dress. Fuck.
She gasps, ripping herself away, but I follow, my touch skimming lower.
“Does it confuse you?” I rasp. “The heat between your thighs? The ache?” My fingers stop just above her hip bone. “I know you’re wondering why it’s all wet down there.”
A strangled sound leaves her throat before she shoves me away. “You’re absolutely filthy,” she hisses.
I grin. Her innocence is so fucking sweet. I want to drag her down into my filth, cover her in it, and make sure she never finds her way back to the light.
Before I can respond, the door creaks open, and Margaret walks in. I like Margaret. I really do. She took Amelia in, gave her shelter. And for that, she deserves to be spoiled, too.
Her wrinkled hands fly to her chest as she takes in the decorated restaurant. “Oh my goodness!” she gushes. “Amelia! Did you do all this?”
What can she say? No, my stalker did? So she nods.
Margaret beams, kissing Amelia’s cheek. “It’s lovely, sweetheart. Just lovely.”
Margaret’s eyes widen slightly when she notices me. “Oh?”
“A customer came in early,” Amelia explains quickly. “I couldn’t turn him away.”
Margaret pats her cheek with motherly affection. “Of course, dear. That’s good business sense.”
Amelia tries to compose herself, but I still see straight through her.
“Well,” she sighs, “please take a seat so I can take your order.”
This is going to be fun.
“What can I get you?”
“You.”
“Damien,” she hisses under her breath, eyes flicking to her side like she’s scared Margaret is going to materialize there any second.
“Fine,” I sigh, dragging my eyes over her body, eating her up. “Eggs. Toast. Black coffee. And you.”
She exhales sharply, looking anywhere but at me. “Just the first three,” she mutters, scribbling it down.
She shifts from foot to foot, those pretty thighs pressing together just so.
“You keep moving like that, flower,” I say lazily, “and I’m going to start thinking about why.”
“What?”
“You want something,” I tell her. “I can see it. Feel it. I bet if I touched you right now, if I spread those little thighs of yours, I’d find you soaking for me.”
“Stop it,” she orders, but there’s no conviction behind it.
“You want me to stop?” I tilt my head. “Or do you want me to tell you more? Tell you exactly what your body is craving?”
She’s crumbling. And she doesn’t even know it yet. She flees to the kitchen.
You won’t run for long, my sweet little flower.
The morning rush starts, but my girl isn’t quite the same. She shuffles on her feet, tugs at her apron, presses her thighs together as she scribbles down orders. Her skin is flushed, her breath just a little too shallow.
She knows I’m still watching her.
She likes it.
The girl from yesterday walks in. The one Amelia clicked with. I lean back in my seat, watching as they exchange smiles and soft laughter. My beautiful girl is making friends. Good.
I watch as she gives her number to this new friend. Something dark and possessive coils in my gut, but I force myself to breathe.
She’s allowed to have friends.
I want her to have friends.
Because at the end of the day, when she’s writhing under me, begging for my touch, I’ll be the only one who knows her the way she needs to be known.
She can make as many friends as she wants. She’ll still belong to me.
When she sets my order in front of me, I don’t touch the food.
My appetite is singular.
I lift the cup of coffee, taking a slow sip, my eyes never leaving hers. The bitterness rolls over my tongue.
“Good,” I praise, licking a stray drop from my lip. “But I bet you’d taste better.”
She furrows her brows, her confusion almost adorable. My poor, sheltered girl. She doesn’t even understand what I mean.
“What?”
“Don’t worry, little flower. You’ll learn soon enough.”
“Stop talking like that.”
“Like what? Like I want to spread you open on this table and bury my tongue so deep inside you, you’ll forget your own name?”
The horror in her eyes is delicious.
“No way.” She stumbles back a step.
I laugh, setting the cup down. She turns to flee again, but I’m faster, pressing a firm hand against her stomach, fingers resting just above the band of her apron.
“You grew up religious, didn’t you?” I coax. “A village full of good little girls and boys. Let me guess... they taught you that a man only takes his wife to bed to put a baby in her? That it happens in the dark, under the covers, over in seconds?” I chuckle darkly, my hand sliding just a little lower. Not touching where she’s aching, but close. “That won’t be us, Amelia.”
Her fingers twitch at her sides.
She wants to run.
She wants to stay.
“When I take you,” I whisper, “you’ll be spread out for me, bare in the light. My tongue will know every inch of you before my cock even touches you. I’ll make you beg for things you don’t even understand yet.”
“Enough,” she chokes out.
“Do you feel that, little flower?” I press just a bit firmer. “That pulse between your thighs? It’s me. You want my touch. And when I do touch you—” I inhale deeply, letting her scent fill my lungs. “—you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.”