Chapter 22 – Marlowe
Chapter Twenty-Two
MARLOWE
The water pounds against my skin, the heat sinking into my muscles, loosening everything that’s wound too tight, but it’s not enough.
Nothing is enough. I should be exhausted.
I should be wrecked. I should be thinking about the fact that my father had me come here to die, that the money is gone, that I have to get back home.
But all I can feel is him. Watching me, pulling at something deep inside my chest. I don’t want to turn around. But I do it anyway. Slowly, carefully, I lift my chin and glance over my shoulder.
Our eye lock.
The heat is unbearable now, but it’s not from the water. It’s from him. From the way he’s looking at me. I swallow, my pulse hammering loud in my ears. I could tell him to leave. I could cover myself, break the spell, snap back into reality.
But I don’t want to. I like the way it makes me feel.
It floods my veins, my skin, my core with want so sharp it feels dangerous.
What I like even more is the way he makes me forget.
With the rough command of his hands, he can pull me out of the chaos, silence the spiraling thoughts in my head.
The firm press of his palms, the drag of his mouth, the way his tongue flicks against my skin—it all rewires me, resets me.
It ruins me beautifully. Every time he touches me, the world falls away.
And for a brief, glorious moment the lies and betrayals are gone.
The fucking disaster waiting outside this room?
Gone. All I am is hunger and heat and trembling limbs pressed to his.
I’m the gasp. The grind. The slick slide of skin against skin.
Raw nerves and swollen need, melting beneath every drag of his fingertips.
And all I can think about is the next time he’ll touch me again.
I reach for the soap, my movements slow, never breaking eye contact as I lather my hands and drag them over my arms, down my stomach, over my thighs.
His nostrils flare.
Is his want for me more powerful than his hate and distrust? The thought makes something dark and wicked curl low in my core. I’m the ache, the throb, the slick press of his mouth on my mouth. My fingertips slide over wet skin, tracing the curves he can’t stop staring at.
I can practically hear him breathe harder.
He takes a single step forward. A slow, measured step, but a step closer all the same. If he comes any closer, we both know exactly where this is going.
The moment stretches.
I keep moving, my hands slow, teasing, testing the tension stretching between us. My fingers glide over my stomach, my hips, the heat of the water making every touch slick, hypersensitive.
He stands there, eyes dark, jaw tight, his breath heavy and uneven, his fingers flexing like he’s fighting something brutal inside himself.
I want him to lose.
I let my hand drift lower, the slightest shift of my hips making my intent clear.
His eyes track every movement, his chest rising in a sharp inhale, his restraint cracking at the edges. His hand moves, like he’s about to reach for me, but he doesn’t.
I pivot, letting the water cascade over my back.
I bend, working the soap down my legs, completely exposing myself to him, an undeniable invitation.
I press my palm against the cool tile, tilting my head just enough to keep him in sight.
My skin burns under his gaze, heat spreading in a slow, deliberate pulse between my thighs.
“Damian,” I murmur, voice low, wrecked. “Make me forget.”
That’s all it takes.
He lunges into the shower. The glass door swings shut behind him, sealing us inside the heat, the steam, the sharp, unspoken hunger.
I straighten, soap dropping to the tub. His hands find me, rough and sure, gripping my hips, dragging me back against his chest. His breath is hot against my ear, his body hard, unyielding, unmistakable.
“You like this?” he breathes, his voice a rasp of pure want against my skin. “Me watching you like this?”
I shudder, my body betraying me, answering him without words.
He must know.
His lips find my neck, his teeth scraping, not gentle, not careful. He drags his hands up my stomach, fingers spreading wide, his palms claiming every inch of my wet skin.
I press back against him, needing more, needing everything.
His growl is low, primal, vibrating through my spine, through the heat of his body pressed against mine. “Say it,” he murmurs, his hands exploring, demanding, teasing.
My fingers clutch at his arms, my breath faltering. “I like it,” I whisper.
“Louder.” His grip tightens.
I arch against him, my pulse a relentless drumbeat beneath my skin. “I like it.”
His hand slides lower.
The second his fingers slip between my thighs, I lose myself.
Damian is everywhere—his tongue at my neck, his teeth scraping my shoulder.
Then he thrusts his fingers inside me.
A choked gasp rips from my throat. My legs tremble, my hands shooting up to brace against the tile as heat crashes through me, raw and all-consuming.
"Fuck," he mutters against my neck, voice wrecked, like he's the one unraveling. His free hand slides up my stomach, palming my breast, squeezing, teasing as his fingers work me open.
Two fingers. Three. Fuck, now four.
I whimper, pressing back against him, my hips rolling into every sharp, deep thrust. My body is burning, strung so tight I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
"Listen to you," he murmurs, his voice rough, gritted through clenched teeth. "Moaning and taking everything I give you." His fingers curl, stroking deep, hitting the spot that makes my insides melt. My body clenches, the sensation building, tightening, winding too fast, too sharp.
I’m already so close.
His thrusts quicken, relentless, each stroke pushing me higher, his thumb working my clit in slow, devastating circles. The intensity spirals, burning through me, spreading like fire, consuming everything in its path. “I’m so close. Don’t stop.”
And then he stops.
I gasp, my entire body jerking in protest. He pulls his fingers from me—quick, brutal.
I turn, wide-eyed, panting, desperate. “Damian,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Please…”
He brings his hand up, his fingers glistening with my arousal. His gaze pins me in place, his breath ragged. Then he licks them clean.
My knees nearly buckle.
His lips curl wickedly.
My pulse hammers, my body still aching from the way he touched me, from the way he took me to the edge and left me starving. I step forward, my hands reaching for his soaked shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, tugging. He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t move. He just watches.
I drag his shirt up, over the ridges of his stomach and chest, peeling it off and letting it drop to the shower floor. I move to his buckle, undoing it roughly, my fingers shaking from want, from need, from something blindingly frantic.
He lets out a low growl, his body taut beneath my hands.
I push his jeans down, shoving past the drenched fabric, my fingers brushing against him. His cock is thick, hard, burning hot against my palm, and the second I touch him, his whole body tenses.
“Lo,” he grits out, voice strained, like he’s warning me, like he’s trying to hold on to something that’s already slipping through his fingers.
I don’t want him to hold on. I press against him, bare, wet, aching, my mouth grazing his jaw, my nails dragging down the hard plane of his chest. "Fuck me," I whisper, breathless, pleading.
A low, guttural sound rumbles from his throat before he grabs me, hard.
His hands grip my thighs, lifting me effortlessly, pressing me flat against the tile.
The cold shock of it barely registers before he spreads me open, the head of his cock sliding against me, teasing, taunting, punishing.
His hot mouth presses against the slope of my neck.
“You drive me out of my fucking mind.” His lips drag upward, teeth grazing skin.
“I want to hate you. But I can’t stop wanting to bury myself inside you.
Make you scream my name.” The words are brutal.
He hates himself for wanting me. I can relate.
His cock pulses against my heat. I whimper, my legs tightening around him, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Then fuck me like you hate me."
He thrusts inside me in one hard stroke.
I cry out, my body stretching around him, filled completely.
His hands clutch my ass, grounding me, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
His mouth crashes into mine, all tongue and heat and raw hunger, swallowing my moan as he pulls back and thrusts again, deeper.
The pressure is exquisite, unbearable, perfect.
I feel everything. The way his cock drives into me, hitting the most devastating places, the way my body grips him, slick and desperate, pulling him deeper—needing more, more, more.
His rhythm is relentless. Every thrust shoves me against the tile, pleasure and pain mixing into something blinding.
"Fuck," he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath ragged, his body shaking from holding back.
"Don’t stop," I whisper, begging, demanding.
His fingers dig into my thighs, his hips snap harder, faster, rougher.
And I let go.
I let him wreck me.
His grip on my bottom tightens, spreading me open, vulnerable, as he thrusts into me, each stroke deep, merciless, dragging me closer to the edge. Every brutal thrust of his cock sends shockwaves through me, coiling tighter and tighter—unbearable.
"You're so fucking tight, so fucking wet for me," he grits out, his forehead pressing against mine.
I claw at his back, my nails biting into his skin, needing something to hold on to as he pounds into me relentlessly. White-hot pleasure tears through me.
"Damian—" My voice breaks, my entire body shaking from how deep he is, from how perfectly he fits, how perfectly he ruins me.
"You feel so fucking good," he growls. His hands grip my ass tighter, fingers digging into my flesh as he guides me up and down his length, every thrust deeper, harder, more consuming.
I can feel the pressure building, the heat between us intensifying. His breath is hot on my neck, his words a dirty whisper that sends shivers down my spine. He shifts slightly, hitting a spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
His thrusts slow, and he leans his head back just enough to catch my gaze. “You gonna come for me?” he asks in a low rasp that pushes me even closer to the edge. “Come on, Angel. You gonna come all over my cock again?”
I nod frantically, words failing, my world narrowing to only this, only him.
His shoulders pin me to the wall as he quickens his thrusts, rutting into me with hard, beautiful, mind-breaking strokes. It leaves no space for thoughts, only sharp, aching pulses of pleasure as he takes me closer and closer.
My orgasm hits hard, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as my entire body clenches around him, pulsing, gripping him as pleasure rips through every nerve, every muscle, every inch of me.
"Fuck," he grunts, his rhythm stammering, faltering, his thrusts turning harder, deeper, desperate. His hands slam against the wall, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as his body locks up, shaking with restraint. “Where do you want me to come?” he growls.
I flex my thighs, locking him in. “Inside me,” I breathe.
Then he lets go.
A deep, guttural sound leaves his lips as he thrusts one last time, burying himself inside me, heat spilling deep, claiming me completely.
His breath stutters, his grip unrelenting, holding me tight, firm, against him, his body still pulsing, still inside me, still taking everything I have left to give.
We stay like that, breathless, tangled, soaking wet.
His heartbeat thunders against my chest, matching mine.
Then he steps back without a word.
He turns and opens the shower door, the spray of the water soaking the floor. He yanks a towel off the rack and rubs it over his face. He doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just pushes the bathroom door open and slams it behind him.
The sound echoes through the bathroom, leaving only the steady rush of water hitting the tile. I stand there, limbs shaky, breath uneven, my body still humming from everything he just did to me.
I step back beneath the stream, letting the water wash him from my skin.
My hand finds the handle. A quick twist. The shower stops, leaving behind a silence so abrupt it hums in my ears.
My skin is flushed, my pulse deep and slow, my body fully satisfied.
I run my hands down my arms, trying to ground myself, trying to ignore the way my stomach clenches at the way his hands were just on me. Inside me.
I step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and dry off slowly, dreading walking into the chaos waiting outside the bathroom door.
I pull on my clothes, each layer feeling too much, too real, too normal after what just happened.
I breathe in deeply, pressing my palms against the counter, staring at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror.
What the hell happens now?