Chapter Twenty-One - Damien
She stands by the window, haloed in the glow of the city, her back tense but her silhouette unmistakably soft.
The urge to cross the space, to anchor her in something real, pulls at me more insistently than usual. I let the distance linger for a moment, watching the way her shoulders rise and fall, before moving behind her. My hand settles at her waist. She doesn’t pull away.
Without a word, I lean in, pressing my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. She shivers—half tension, half anticipation—and that’s all the invitation I need.
I speak low into her ear. “Come with me.”
I don’t wait for permission. I take her hand and lead her into the bathroom, my thumb brushing slow circles against her palm.
The lights in here are softer, the world outside muffled by marble and steam. I turn on the shower, testing the water, then slide my hands under the hem of her shirt, urging the fabric upward, exposing skin inch by inch.
Emery lets me undress her, each layer revealing more of what I’ve craved all day, her body, curvy and flushed, bare for me.
She turns, and our eyes lock in the mirror. I tug her close, feeling her pulse thrum against my chest. I want to savor every reaction, every breath.
My hands roam her waist, her hips, tracing the curve of her spine as I press my lips to hers, deep and slow, claiming her with every inch of my mouth while my hands find her breasts.
Steam curls up around us. I strip off my own shirt, her hands exploring the lines of my chest, trailing down my stomach.
The brush of her skin against mine nearly undoes me. When I step into the water, I pull her in after, letting the heat drench us both.
The spray of the shower beads on her skin, slick and shining. All her curves are laid bare to me, and I soak in the sight of her thick hips and generous breasts.
My palms find her shoulders, kneading the tension there, thumbs pressing slow circles along her neck. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, lips parted—a silent invitation. I drag my mouth down her throat, tasting the salt and heat, the way her breath hitches when I bite lightly at her collarbone.
I press her gently back against the tile, hands braced on either side of her head. The water streams over us, making everything more sensitive, every brush of her chest against mine electric.
I trail kisses along her jaw, then lower, taking my time, lavishing attention on every curve, every place that makes her gasp.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping lightly as I move lower. I kneel in front of her, mouth trailing heat down her belly, and she sags against the wall, legs unsteady.
“Damien…” The sounds she makes—soft, helpless, hungry—go straight to my core.
When I rise, I press my body flush to hers, letting her feel the effect she has on me, letting her feel the thickness of my cock press at the inside of her thighs.
I turn her gently under the spray, sliding my hands over her stomach, her hips, my lips finding the shell of her ear.
“Tell me what you want,” I murmur.
Her answer is a shuddering breath, a single word: “You.”
That’s all I need. I lift her, one hand gripping her thigh, the other steady at her back, guiding her until she wraps her legs around my waist.
I press her to the cool tile, entering her slowly, carefully, watching her face for every flicker of sensation. My cock throbs as her walls close around me.
Emery clings to me, desperate and real, meeting every thrust with her own rhythm.
The water pounds around us, washing away the outside world. She moans my name, head thrown back, and I lose myself in the slide of her body, the heat, the pressure, the way she gives herself over completely.
I drive into her, deeper, harder, until she’s gasping, shaking, every part of her open to me.
I slow, then speed up, drawing it out, letting pleasure crest and ebb. Feel her pussy clench around me.
I kiss her lips, her jaw, the hollow of her throat, unable to get enough. Her hands grip my shoulders, urging me on, anchoring me in the present, in her.
When she comes apart in my arms, I follow, letting go with a groan that echoes off the marble, holding her tight as the world goes white.
We slide to the floor of the shower, water still streaming, hearts thundering in sync. I cradle her in my lap, brushing wet hair from her face, pressing soft kisses to her cheeks, her brow, her lips.
“Christ,” she murmurs, and goes boneless against me.
After, I carry her to bed, wrapping her in towels and blankets, holding her against my chest until her breathing slows and the world shrinks to just us, skin to skin, breath to breath.
In the dim light, as she drifts toward sleep, I watch her—every curve, every scar, every detail now etched into me.
There’s no more distance, no more calculation. I’ve surrendered as much as I’ve claimed. She’s not a possession, not an asset. She’s the only thing that matters.
The city outside our windows never sleeps, but for a few hours, the penthouse is perfectly still. The steady hush of the shower fades, replaced by the soft thrum of her breathing,.
Emery is warm and boneless in my arms, her hair damp and tangled, her skin flushed from heat and pleasure.
I don’t sleep. Not right away. I lie there, propped on one elbow, watching the way the city lights stutter across the ceiling and play over her bare shoulder. Her breathing is slow, deep, her lashes fanned against her cheeks.
There’s a crease between her brows, even in sleep—something anxious, unresolved. I reach out and smooth it with the pad of my thumb, careful not to wake her. Her skin is soft, impossibly soft, and my touch lingers longer than it should.
For a while, I do nothing but watch her. It should feel intrusive. It should feel like too much.
I can’t help myself. After everything—the chaos, the fear, the violence, the impossible balancing act of this life—there is something grounding in her presence, something human and essential.
I find myself mapping her features: the curve of her soft jaw, the dip of her collarbone, the dark strands of hair falling across her face. I memorize the way she curls her fingers in the sheets, the way her breath stirs the air between us.
She shifts in her sleep, rolling toward me, searching instinctively for warmth. Her leg hooks over mine, her arm drapes across my stomach, and she burrows her face against my chest with a soft, wordless sound.
My breath catches at the contact—a spike of protectiveness so fierce it nearly startles me. I slide my arm around her shoulders, holding her close, letting myself be a haven, if only for the night.
The hours slip by. Sometimes she murmurs in her sleep, frowns, then sighs as I tighten my hold.
I press a kiss to her forehead and feel her relax again, the tension leaving her body.
I realize, with something like awe, that she trusts me—at least enough to fall asleep in my arms, enough to let down her guard in a world that punishes softness.
It’s a rare, dangerous gift. I vow, silently, that nothing and no one will ever take it from her. From us.
Dawn creeps in, pale and tentative. The city is muted, sky washed out to a shade of blue that promises rain. Emery stirs, nuzzles closer, her fingers trailing absently over my skin. I could move, could start the day, could slip away and armor myself in business and command. But for once, I don’t.
I stay exactly where I am, anchored by her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart under my hand.
I study her face as the light brightens—her lips parted, lashes trembling as she fights her way up from sleep.
She blinks, confused, then finds me watching. For a heartbeat, her cheeks color, but she doesn’t turn away. She tucks her chin, hiding a small, private smile. I brush her hair from her eyes, let my fingers linger at her temple.
“Good morning,” I murmur. My voice is rough, unfamiliar even to me.
She shifts, tucks herself closer. “Is it?” she whispers, voice thick with sleep.
I laugh quietly, a sound I rarely hear from myself.
“It is now.” For a moment, the world feels distant, the troubles waiting beyond these walls a different life. I run my hand down her back, tracing the line of her spine, letting myself memorize the feel of her for another minute, another hour.
She looks up at me, wary but soft. “You don’t usually stay.”
I hesitate, then answer honestly. “I don’t usually have a reason to.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and raw. She studies me, searching my face for lies, but finds none. I hold her gaze, letting her see everything—the tenderness, the need, the promise I can’t put into words.
I cup her cheek, stroke her jaw, then kiss her. It’s not hungry or desperate like the night before. It’s slow, sweet, a promise made in silence.
Emery melts into me, her hand finding my chest, her body relaxing by degrees.
We lie together as the city wakes. For once, I allow myself this: a morning with her in my arms, no urgency, no orders, no need to rush away. I watch the sun inch up over the skyline and let her drift in and out of sleep, content to be a refuge, content to be hers.
Eventually, I know I’ll have to get up—calls to make, wars to wage, a search for betrayal that can’t be delayed.
Right now, none of that matters. The only thing that exists is Emery, tangled in the sheets, trusting me with her vulnerability, letting me see a part of her no one else has earned.
As I hold her, I realize how far I’ve fallen. How much I would risk to keep this. How impossible it has become to imagine life without her. The walls I built to survive mean nothing if she’s not inside them with me.
So I press another kiss to her hair, let my hand rest heavy at her waist, and give myself one small, selfish moment of peace—knowing that when the world calls me away, I will answer it as a man changed forever by the woman in my bed.
She breathes in deeply, then sighs, her cheek pressed against my chest. I run my fingers slowly down her arm, letting the intimacy of the moment soak in.
The sun slips higher, gilding the room in faint gold, but neither of us rushes to move.
She draws lazy patterns across my skin, her touch featherlight and absent-minded. For a long time, we say nothing.
“I could get used to this,” she finally murmurs, her voice soft, almost shy.
The vulnerability in her words stirs something deep in me—protectiveness, desire, a longing I rarely let myself feel.
I brush a kiss over her temple. “So could I.”
She looks up, meets my gaze, searching for doubt and finding none. I let her see the truth there: every raw edge, every secret promise. She smiles, small but real, and snuggles closer.
For once, I don’t think about the day ahead—the meetings, the threats, the impossible choices waiting beyond these walls. I just hold her, anchoring myself in the simple, impossible fact that she’s here, trusting me, choosing me.
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to peace, and I cling to it, knowing how fleeting such moments can be.