Chapter 14
CELINE
After my shower, I wipe steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
The decision came in the last two hours of my shift. Luckily, I’d been rushed off my feet, unable to spend any meaningful time thinking. Then there was a lull, and it all came rushing in — a crush of regret, fear, and anxiety. I went into the breakroom and stared at the Christmas tree.
The holidays shouldn’t be like this. I’m normally smiling from ear-to-ear starting December 1st until December is over.
So, I tell myself, why don’t I just pretend?
Not forever, obviously… but for one night, would it really be so bad if I allowed myself to forget about this? Would that make me a terrible person?
“He’s a killer,” I tell my reflection. “He admitted it. Just because Rico deserved it, does that make it okay?”
Whatever else is true, I know one thing. He’s driving me crazy in more ways than one.
My heart flutters in my chest when I see the cups of hot cocoa steaming on the coffee table and the movie already queued up.
The killer–the most handsome and confusing man I’ve ever met–stands off to the side.
He’s wearing a sweater, not tight, but I can see the shape of his solid body beneath as though his rippling muscles are attempting to break through.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
His solemn face lights up for a moment. “Waiting for you to tell me the seating arrangement.”
Ah, I get it. This morning, I acted like I didn’t even want him to touch me. He’s probably got whiplash from my change in mood… join the club.
“I’ll let you decide that, Grinch.”
He fires back with his own nickname. “In that case, Snowdrop, you’d better come and sit on my lap.”
He drops onto the couch. I roll my eyes, taking a seat next to him, our legs touching.
“You wish,” I say.
“I can’t deny that.”
I don’t look at him, reasoning that, well, that might make this less surreal, less wrong. He turns on the movie and leans back. Every so often, I look at him, especially during Grinch’s grumpiest parts.
He shakes his head. “I don’t see the similarity.”
At some point, I lean against him. He lifts his arm and wraps it around me like it’s the most normal thing in the universe, like we’re not betraying Julian, like the hand that gently and naturally slides through my hair didn’t end a man’s life less than twenty-four hours ago.
My eyelids grow heavy. My shift, the stress, and everything are catching up with me.
When I wake, Damian has got his hands on me, one slipping under my legs and the other beneath my shoulder blades. I don’t open my eyes. It’s classic Celine behavior, classic head-in-the-sand behavior.
His hands just feel too good, warm, rough, sturdy, and powerful as he cradles me against his chest. I let my head fall against him in a sleepy way, murmuring softly.
He carries me up the stairs as if I weigh nothing. I curl into a warm ball, savoring the feel of his solid muscles.
In the bedroom, he lays me down. I feel his presence looming over me. My mind flits with the first half of the movie, his warmth, his eyes only leaving the screen to look at me with confusing heat.
He stands over me for a long time. A shiver dances across my body when I wonder if he’s debating touching me… if he’s thinking about ‘waking’ me with a kiss or something else. I press my legs together, my body throbbing, my lust an insistent ache that doesn’t know how or when to quit.
When he turns to leave, I murmur, “Stuh-stay.” I try to make it sound like I murmured it in my sleep.
I’m not sure if he believes me, but he does as I ask. He climbs into bed next to me and pulls me into his arms. I moan and move closer, pressing my back against his torso, feeling his manhood as he groans and presses against me.
He gently kisses the back of my neck, sending an army of butterflies coursing through my body.
“I know you’re awake, Celine,” he whispers. “I know you’ve been awake ever since I picked you up.”
I moan, shifting my hips from side to side, grinding my ass against his thick, solid rod. He lets out a rasping sigh and smooths his hand over my stomach, guiding it down toward my sex.
I roll over, facing him, eyes open.
“You need to be the mature one,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “I might be older, Celine, but there’s no damn way I can be mature when it comes to you. Tell me to leave. Fucking beg me.”
“If I beg you…” I lick my lips, knowing it’s wrong, but it feels so, so right. “It won’t be to leave.”
The killer kisses me with passion, his hand gliding to my hip, pressing down as he groans like he can’t get enough of my curves. My self-esteem is like a rocket ship as I grind against him, my hand following my instinct and desire, smoothing down his body toward his crotch.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls when I rub him over his pants. He’s wearing sweats, his thickness easy to feel through the material.
I pull back from the kissing so I can look at his face—the tangled confusion, the undeniable pleasure.
I keep rubbing, moving faster each moment, feeling his desire swell even more somehow.
“You’re so hard,” I whisper.
“Because you’re so—fucking—per…”
He can’t even finish the sentence when I slip my hand into his waistband and wrap my hand around his naked cock. He snarls and reaches down, pulling at his sweats so that he spills free.
I lean back and stare. He’s… gigantic. There’s no other word for him.
He’s glistening with precome, his big tip shiny with a dollop, his thickness rock-solid. My core aches as I think about him sliding into me and setting my tunnel on fire with ecstasy.
“What we do in the dark can’t hurt us,” he moans, slipping his hand up my thigh, moving closer to my sex. I’m so wet for him, even more than I was in the gym, absolutely soaked and throbbing.
I kiss his mouth, then his neck, and I know I’d kiss all the way down his body until I tasted his solid length if it wasn’t for an intrusive thought punching into my mind.
I suddenly see him standing over Rico, holding a knife in his hand, blood dripping from the end of the blade like red teardrops. In the vision, the knife is impossibly reflective, showing Rico’s mangled body, brutalized and broken.
He deserved it, but that doesn’t make thinking about it any easier.
What else has Damian done? How far has the Beast gone?
I stop, lean back, my chest suddenly tight. It’s like my two realities collide, the fake me and the real me smashing together until I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He stands quickly, like he doesn’t trust himself to stay in bed with me and not do anything about it.
He’s tense all over as he wrenches his pants up.
The first time he misses, causing his large dick to jostle up and down.
On the second try, it gets caught in his waistband.
He groans and reaches into his pants, readjusting, until his dick is pressing firmly against the fabric.
He stares at me, opens his mouth, then closes it.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
Stop saying that.
“Me too,” he grunts grumpily, turning away.
What is he sorry for, though? What he did to Rico, what he’s done to others? The secret darkness he keeps to himself? The sick things he’s done? Just how much of a beast is he?
He gives me an answer, his broad back turned, his voice low and rough.
“I’m sorry we ever started this. But more than that, I’m fucking sorry I’m not buried in your wet pussy right now.
I’m sorry, I’m not fucking you until you cream all over my dick.
I’m sorry I’m not leaving a tattoo of my teeth on your body like I want to. ”
He closes the door behind him, leaving me in the semidarkness, my body alight with desire and my mind burning with uncertainty.
His words echo in my head.
I bite my lip and press my legs together.
I’m so, so wet.