CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE CHLOE
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHLOE
NOW
Damon tastes like honey and sin, and given the opportunity, I would become addicted to it.
His tongue drags over my lips, demanding entry, and I don’t hesitate to give it to him.
A deep groan rumbles through his chest as he deepens our kiss, taking everything he needs from my mouth. The kiss is all tongue and teeth, the hate and lust that’s lived between us all these years coming to a head.
I’ve imagined this moment far more than I’ll ever admit, but my imagination pales in comparison to the real thing.
It’s not lost on me that for the last ten years I’ve kept every man at arm’s length, never allowing them close enough to touch me, let alone kiss me, and yet here I am with the second man in as many days devouring me.
Hardness grinds against my leg, dragging me from my thoughts of Ryker. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt Damon’s erection, but there’s something different this time.
Maybe it’s because we’re older, or perhaps it’s that we’re not at his fucking engagement party.
Regardless, this time I let myself enjoy every grind, every swipe of his tongue, every bite to my lips.
I used to feel guilty about my conflicting feelings for Damon, but now it doesn’t matter. Because in a few days I’ll be dead, and there’s no place for guilt in the afterlife. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I bite down on his bottom lip, dragging my teeth along the soft pillow.
It’s not lost on me what a vulnerable position he has me in.
The soundproof room. The chain around my ankle.
The fact he could snap my neck without breaking a sweat.
But there’s something about those things that drives my need higher, my body leading for once instead of allowing my mind to steer us to a safer path.
“You taste so fucking good, Duchess,” he groans, his hips grinding down on my thigh.
“You’re still an asshole,” I snap before taking his lips in another filthy kiss.
He chuckles. “You’re a brat, you know that?”
“You’re hotter when your mouth is closed.”
“Fuck, Chloe. I might come just from you sassing me.”
I scoff. “Really? The great Damon Lombardi, who all the girls bragged about lasting for hours, is going to come from my smart mouth?”
“You underestimate how much you affect me, Duchess.”
He takes my mouth in another rough kiss before I can respond, before I can even process what he’s said.
Because those words are a direct contradiction of everything he’s said to me since the night I watched him kill an innocent man.
The night that changed the course of our relationship forever.
The night we went from best friends to enemies.
A moan slips from my throat as his thigh presses to my aching heat. Suddenly it’s really fucking hot in here.
“Jesus, Chloe,” he groans against my lips. “I bet your cunt is fucking dripping for me. I bet you’re desperate for my cock like the little slut you are.”
His degrading words wash over me like a welcome breeze. I should be insulted, especially coming from him, but it only drives my need higher.
Smirking against my lips, he continues, “Fuck, you really are a perfect whore, aren’t you, baby? So desperate for my cock, so desperate to be my little fuck toy.”
Is it possible to come from words alone?
I lift my hips to meet his thigh, the need for friction stronger than that of my self-preservation. I’m going to die anyway, so I might as well get an orgasm out of it.
But we’re interrupted when his phone starts vibrating in his pocket, tearing us both from the moment like a bucket of cold water.
I shove at his chest at the same time he rolls off me and onto the hard stone ground.
Saved by the fucking bell.
He fishes his phone out and answers it without bothering to check who’s calling.
“What?” he growls, rearranging his pants around the impressive bulge that must be causing some discomfort.
He listens to what the other person is saying, but I have no hope of hearing it over my racing heartbeat.
“Keep me updated.”
He ends the call but doesn’t move immediately.
I sit up slowly, pressing my back to the wall, but there’s nowhere for me to go. No way to escape the consequences of my own actions.
For long minutes we stay like that in perfect silence.
I refuse to be the first one to speak when I wasn’t the one that made the first move. This is his mistake.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
When he finally turns his head and his cold eyes meet mine, I know that everything we just shared is long gone. “You need to eat something.”
And with that, he shoves himself to his feet and leaves. As if he didn’t just pin me down and dry hump me.
As if I mean nothing to him.
Screw my hopeful heart for thinking anything between us could ever change.
Just like last time I was locked up down here, time has lost all meaning.
The dim light in the corner never goes out, making it impossible to know if the sun is up or not, and aside from the regular meals Ronan brings me, there’s no routine I can make sense of.
Every time he comes, he tries to talk to me, tries to convince me to eat, but I refuse.
Maybe it’s petty, but I don’t want to take anything from him. Not when he’s the reason I’m here in the first place.
He saw me with Ryker, and he let his jealousy get the best of him.
Most of the time I try to sleep. The drugs are long gone, but with mind-numbing boredom comes tiredness, and I’m grateful I’m able to escape reality.
But when I’m dragged from a dreamless sleep, my tired eyes blinking at today’s three meals sitting untouched beside the mattress, I can’t quite work out what woke me.
There’s no sound in the cellar. No footsteps. No voices. Even the drip from the first day I was here has been fixed.
But if it wasn’t a sound, what could it be?
Then I feel it. The sharp pain that slices across my lower belly.
Fuck.
My period.
A scoff escapes my throat, because of-fucking-course they couldn’t kill me before my period. They had to hold off until I’d been through one more agonizing cycle.
Glancing around the room for something I can use as a sanitary pad, I come up empty, and my chest tightens with panic.
Maybe it’s stupid that this is what breaks me. That waking up chained to a flimsy mattress in a cell a few doors down from the one I watched my parents be brutally murdered in didn’t crush me, but getting my period is the straw that breaks the camels back.
And yet tears fall against the pillow, my body already racked with exhaustion.
The idea of going through days of excruciating pain, heavy bleeding, and bone-deep fatigue without anything I need is far more horrifying than my impending death.
Endometriosis has taken so much from me, but most of all it’s taken a normal life. Because no matter how well you plan things, how meticulously you track your cycle, this disease doesn’t give a fuck.
Even after two surgeries to remove it, it came back with a vengeance.
One of my first specialists told me that symptoms can be worsened by stress, and if I were a betting woman, I would think everything I’ve been through in the last week is going to make this period the worst one I’ve had in years.
Perfect.
The ache in my bones makes it difficult, but I manage to push myself up as a wave of nausea hits me so hard I barely make it to the toilet before the minimal contents of my stomach empties.
Maybe I should have eaten some of the food Ronan brought, but now the mere idea of food has another wave of nausea hitting me.
The next time someone comes in, I might just beg them to get it over with and kill me. It would be a kinder fate than this.