Chapter 11 Viviana
I hear the sound of an engine coming up the driveway at almost midnight.
My heart leaps into my throat as I rush to the front window, pulling back the curtain enough to see Damon's black SUV pulling into the circular drive. He's alone, which hopefully means the meeting went well and no one followed him back here.
He's safe. He's back. He kept his not-promise.
The relief that floods through me is so overwhelming it makes my knees weak. I hadn't realized how terrified I was that something would happen to him until the fear disappears, leaving me breathless and shaky.
I watch him get out of the car, moving with that controlled grace that I'm starting to recognize as distinctly his. Even from a distance, I see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he scans the property before heading for the front door.
The meeting didn't go smoothly.
I hear his key in the lock, hear the familiar sound of him engaging the security system. Then his footsteps in the hallway, getting closer.
"Viviana?"
"I'm here," I call out.
He appears in the living room doorway, still wearing his dark suit from the meeting.
"How did it go?" I ask.
"Better than expected." He loosens his tie, and I see the exhaustion in his movements. "Your father got the message."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." But he doesn't look fine. He looks wound tight, dangerous, like a man who's spent the evening navigating threats and is still running on pure adrenaline.
"What did Papa say?"
"He wants you home."
"And?"
"I told him that wasn't an option right now."
"How did he take that?"
Damon's smile is humorless. "About as well as you'd expect."
We stand there, looking at each other across the living room. The meeting is over, and we're both still alive.
So why does the air between us feel more charged than ever?
"I was worried about you," I admit.
Something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe, or something darker. "Were you?"
"Yes."
He takes a step into the room. His eyes move over me, taking inventory, making sure I'm whole and safe. There's something possessive in his gaze, something that makes my skin flush with heat, but also a glimpse of something protective, something that feels like care.
"Why?" he asks.
It's a simple question with a complicated answer. Why was I worried? Because I've grown attached to my captor? Because I depend on him for my safety? Because somewhere in the past week, I've started caring about what happens to him?
Or because the thought of never seeing him again panics me? Because a future without him, even one free from captivity, feels strangely empty?
"I don't know," I lie, even as my heart screams the answer.
"Yes, you do." He takes another step closer, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker – adrenaline, maybe, or the lingering tension from whatever happened tonight. And beneath it all, the scent of him, uniquely Damon.
He's right. I do know. I don't want to say it out loud, because saying it makes it real. Makes it impossible to ignore.
"I should go shower," he says, but he doesn't move. His eyes are locked on mine, dark and intense, revealing a vulnerability I rarely see. "Long fucking night."
"Okay."
But neither of us moves. We stand there, staring at each other.
"Your father threatened to kill me if I hurt you," he says suddenly. “If I touched you.”
"Did you tell him you wouldn't?" I want to know, desperately, what he truly thinks.
"I told him what he needed to hear."
"Which was?"
"That you're safe with me."
"Am I?" The question slips out before I can stop it, loaded with more meaning than just physical safety.
His smile is dangerous, predatory, but there's a flicker of something else beneath it now – conflict, perhaps. "That depends on what you consider dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of you." It's mostly true. The fear is there, a primal hum, but it's overshadowed by this other, more compelling pull.
"You should be."
"Why?"
"Because I can’t stop thinking about touching you. Touching you the first time was a goddamn mistake. But tonight I'm too tired to keep pretending I don't want to."
No romantic declarations, no talk of feelings, just raw, honest desire, laced with a hint of something deeper, a confession of his own losing battle.
"What’s stopping you?" I whisper.
"Viviana—"
"Touch me." It's a challenge, an invitation.
Something in his expression snaps. He crosses the room in two quick strides, backing me against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. His eyes are burning, filled with a tormented hunger that mirrors my own.
"You have no idea what you're asking for," he says, his voice thick with restraint. "You have no idea of the kind of man I am. I’m a dangerous man and I’m not good for you.”
"Show me." I cling to his gaze, demanding his truth.
He stares at me, and I see the war playing out behind his eyes. Loyalty against an undeniable, dangerous connection.
Desire wins..
His mouth crashes down on mine, demanding and nothing like the gentle first kiss I might have imagined. This is pure hunger, pure need. I kiss him back just as desperately because I've been wanting this since that morning in the gym.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I make a sound that's half whimper, half moan.
I've been kissed before, but never like this.
Never by someone who kisses like he's taking what he wants instead of asking for permission, and yet, somehow, giving me exactly what I crave.
"Fuck," he murmurs against my lips. "This is a bad idea."
"I don't care." I really don't. The world outside, the danger, the rules, they all blur.
"You should care. We both should care. This is too fucking dangerous."
"But we don't."
"No," he agrees, and then he's kissing me again. Harder this time, more demanding, his hands roaming over my body like he's been denied this for too long, like he needs to feel every inch of me to prove I'm real.
I arch against him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more everything. My hands fist in his suit jacket, and I can feel the taut muscle beneath the expensive fabric, can feel the way his heart is pounding against his ribs.
"This doesn't mean anything," he mutters against my throat, but his mouth is trailing down my neck, finding spots that make me gasp and writhe in his arms. His words are a desperate attempt at denial, for both of us.
"I know," I whisper, but a part of me hopes he's wrong.
"Good." His hands slide down to my waist, then lower, cupping my ass and lifting me until my legs wrap around his waist. "Because I'm not good for you, princess. I'm not the kind of man your daddy wants you with."
"I don't care what my daddy wants."
"You will. When this is over, when you go back to your life, you'll remember that I'm the enemy."
"Are you trying to talk me out of this?" My fingers trace the tense line of his jaw.
"I'm trying to make sure you understand what this is."
"I want you anyway." The truth of it is a raw, burning thing.
He groans, a sound that's pure frustration and desire, and then he's carrying me toward the stairs, still kissing me, still holding me like I weigh nothing.
"This is insane," he mutters. “Your father would kill me if he knew what I was about to do to you."
"He's not here."
We make it to the top of the stairs, and he heads toward what I assume is his bedroom. I've never been in there before, it felt too intimate, too much like crossing a line we weren't ready to cross.
But we're crossing it now.
The bedroom is all dark wood and masculine furniture, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the forest. He sets me down beside the massive bed, and suddenly the reality of what we're about to do hits me.
I'm about to have sex with Damon Lombardi. The enemy. The man who's been holding me captive for a week.
The man I've been trying not to want since the moment I laid eyes on him, but also the man who makes me feel alive, dangerous, and utterly seen.
"Second thoughts?" he asks, reading my expression.
"No. Maybe."
He steps back, allowing me space. Yet, his gaze is anything but gentle. It's a raw, unfiltered hunger, a barely contained desire that seems to strip me bare. There's a depth to his look, as if he's searching for something within my soul.
"Last chance to back away," he warns. It's clear he doesn't want to stop.
"I don't want to stop," I reply.
My hands move to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with the expensive fabric as a sudden, urgent need to touch him overwhelms me.
He doesn't stop me, just watches as I push the fabric off his shoulders, revealing the muscled planes of his chest and the dark tattoos I've only glimpsed before.
My fingers trace the ridges of his muscles, the faint scar near his collarbone, a possessive pull in my touch, a need to mark him as mine, if only for this moment.
As my hands slide down to his belt buckle, he spins us around, pressing me back against the wall. His mouth crashes down on mine with a hunger that steals my breath. His hands are everywhere, in my hair, on my waist, sliding under my shirt to touch my bare skin.
There's nothing gentle about how he touches me, nothing romantic about the way he backs me toward the bed. This is raw, desperate need.
He pulls back enough to look into my eyes, his own dark and blazing with lust.
"You sure about this?" he asks as he lifts my shirt over my head, then quickly unhooks my bra, letting it fall to the floor. My breasts are bare, exposed to his hungry gaze.
"Yes," I reply, my nipples already tightening.
"Because once I touch you, once I have you, I'm going to want you again. And again. And that's going to complicate things." His fingers trace the curve of my hip, dipping under the elastic of my bikini bottoms, his touch a promise and a threat.
"Everything's already complicated," I reply.
"It's about to get worse," he murmurs, sliding his hand lower, cupping my ass through the thin fabric, pulling me flush against his hard erection. I can feel the heat, the insistent pressure, the tremor in his body matching mine.
"I don't care," I say.
He stares at me, taking in my flushed skin, the way I'm looking at him like he's something I want to devour, something I need. There's a flicker of understanding, of mutual, devastating recognition in his eyes.
"Fuck it," he mutters, and then his control snaps completely.
He pushes me back onto the bed, following me down, his weight heavy and welcome.
He covers my body with his, his mouth finding my neck, sucking, biting, leaving a trail of fire.
He kisses me again, slower this time, reverent.
His fingers curl under the band of my panties and slide them down my legs, never breaking eye contact.
Then he strips off his clothes—black shirt, belt, pants—until he’s naked in front of me. Broad shoulders, ripped torso, scars across his ribs and one low on his hip. And God, he’s big. My eyes widen a little, and he smiles, but it’s not cocky. It’s protective. Tender.
“I’ll go slow,” he promises.
He lowers himself over me, weight balanced on his elbows, one hand tangled in my hair as the other strokes between my thighs.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmurs. “You’ve been ready.”
He finds my clit and circles it softly, making me squirm and moan. My legs fall open without thinking. He kisses my temple, my cheek, my mouth again. Then shifts lower, trailing kisses down my chest, my stomach, until he’s between my thighs.
And then his tongue is on me. I cry out, and he groans in approval, licking slow and deep, holding my hips down when I try to buck against his mouth. I can’t think. The pleasure builds fast, sharp, relentless—
I come with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his shoulders. He kisses back up my body like a man starved.
“Now,” I whisper. “Please. I want to feel you.”
He settles between my legs. His tip nudges at my entrance. He strokes my face, my hair..
He pushes in slowly, stretching me, filling me. I gasp and dig my nails into his back.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs.
It hurts, but it also doesn’t. It’s overwhelming, aching, full. And once he’s fully inside me, he stills.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
I do, and when he moves, it’s heaven and hell colliding. Slow thrusts, deep and intentional, every roll of his hips hits something inside me that makes me cry out. The pain fades, the pressure builds. I cling to him, mouth open against his throat, gasping his name.
He starts to move, slow at first, then building, a primal rhythm that claims every part of me.
Each thrust is deep, punishing, driving me further into the mattress.
My nails dig into his shoulders, my head thrown back, a silent scream building in my throat.
He grips my hips, lifting me, angling me, making sure every inch of him grinds against my most sensitive spots.
"Open your eyes," he commands, pulling back just enough to force my eyes open. His face is a mask of raw desire, sweat beading on his forehead. “Tell me you want this."
"Yes!" I sob, my body clenching around him with every thrust. "God, yes, Damon!”
He grunts, a guttural sound of satisfaction, of triumph, and then he's moving faster, harder, a relentless rhythm that pushes me to the edge.
My hips buck against his, meeting his thrusts, desperate for the release I know is coming.
The bed creaks, the sounds of our bodies slapping together fill the room, loud and unashamed.
I feel the build-up, and then the world explodes.
I scream his name, my body arching, convulsing around him, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over me, tinged with the profound relief of finally giving in to this forbidden want.
He groans, burying his face in my neck, pushing one last, deep thrust, and then he's shuddering above me, collapsing into his own release.
Afterward, when we're lying in his bed, when his arm is thrown possessively across my waist, when the world outside feels like it doesn't exist – I try to remember that this isn’t supposed to mean anything.
We’re two people seeking comfort in an impossible situation. But when he pulls me closer in his sleep, when he holds me like he doesn't want to let me go, I know we're both lying to ourselves. This wasn't just lust.
And tomorrow, we're going to have to keep lying. Because the alternative is admitting that this meant something.
And neither of us is ready for that.