Chapter 16 #2
Damon’s dark cocoa-brown eyes stare at me, but he leaves my question hanging in the air. Forlorn.
“I don’t know you. This just proves that. Validates what I said last night.” I don’t know why it was suddenly so important that I knew Damon. But it was.
Was it The Reaping making me feel this way?
Insecure? Or was it something else? The word attached to a feeling I only ever felt towards James floats around in my mind, but I let it dissipate.
It couldn’t be. Not with Damon. If that word defined my feelings, I would be destroyed. There would be no coming back.
“What I did in the past doesn’t mean anything. You know me better than anyone, Sienna.”
He doesn’t understand. I look away, trying to compose myself as hurt runs its course. How can the past be irrelevant? It made him who he is—the man standing before me with a stern look on his face but a softer look in his eyes—a walking contradiction.
“Are you guys ready?” Trixy asks, clearly not caring about what is happening between Damon and me.
“Nearly. Let's do the placement.” Damon takes my hand and leads me toward a wall-length mirror next to the pool table.
“Top off.” I meet his gaze in the reflection, checking to ensure he isn’t joking. Nope. He is not kidding .
I look behind him, but Trixy is busy on her phone.
I slowly remove my T-shirt and place it on the pool table.
Thankfully, I wore a half-decent bra today—the baby blue set that I bought with the tip money I earned at Sin. It seems a lifetime ago, but it was literally only a week ago that I was last there. Damon forced leave on me in light of The Reaping.
Damon stands in front of me, a transfer paper in his hands. His eyes meet with mine, and then he drops his gaze. My breasts react, my nipples turning into hard, pebbled peaks.
He bends slightly, and then his index finger touches the skin on my stomach, goosebumps immediately erupting at the contact. The feel of his breath as it fans my way too-sensitive skin makes my stomach muscles contract.
“Relax.” Relax. Sure. That is easy for him to say. His skin isn’t sensitized like mine. Reacting to every little thing like a worm does when it's on top of the soil, out of its element.
That small patch of skin on the tip of his finger awakens my critters and stops my breathing as he slowly drags it down.
The torture. Swallowing is hard. My mouth is suddenly dry and full of cotton wool.
His finger drags all the way down until he gets to the fabric of my jean skirt.
Slowly, like the panther he is, he unbuttons my skirt, causing my lungs to short-circuit and forget how to breathe as I watch in fascination. At this rate, I would suffocate.
He folds the left side over, the area just above my matching baby blue panties, now on display.
I look away and finally take a deep breath, praying I won’t combust into flames from what is just part of the tattoo process. The way his finger caresses the spot before he pushes the transfer paper against my skin makes me think this tattoo session would be anything but usual.
How was I going to cope with him down there? So close to my private area, for god only knows how long the tattoo would take to complete. I wouldn’t survive. And if I did, I would be a wreck.
“There. It’s perfect.”
When he moves out of the way, I gasp, stepping towards the mirror. Is this a coincidence? For a minute, I look at the tattoo and then at Damon, but his face gives nothing away.
“A moonflower. It only blooms in the dark. You like them, right? I saw them on your laptop the day you moved.” I don’t recall leaving my laptop out, but anything could have been possible that day.
Damon stands behind me as I take in the intricately designed flower that looks perfect on my skin.
“It will look different once it has been tattooed on. And it will have some abstract coloring. All the colors of a rainbow for my rainbow.”
My eyes meet with his again.
While he didn’t open up to me about many things, I also doubt he was this thoughtful with anyone else. Did that mean he cared for me? He has never actually said the words. But then, neither have I.
“It’s absolutely stunning, Damon. You are very talented.”
Where did he learn to draw and tattoo? The more time I spent with Damon, the more I learned about him and the more questions I had.
It was also ironic that both my stalker and Damon seemed to have this weird obsession with rainbows and flowers.
The pots my stalker gave me were rainbow colors.
They even arrived in that order. And then all the flower seeds that came with a beautiful quote or saying.
Original words. Not taken from some other source.
That’s what it felt like, at least. Each one spoke to me like whoever had written them knew me.
I shiver, thinking how those things I loved so dearly could have come from someone who hurt me—The Reaper. Or could they? I eye Damon, wondering. But surely not. He would have told me by now if he had sent them to me, right?
“Are you cold? Or is it something else?” Damon doesn’t miss a thing.
“It’s nothing,” I blurt out, smiling and refocusing on the beautiful design, which would soon be a permanent part of me.
“It will even look good when you are pregnant.” Damon's offhand comment before he walks off toward the tattoo bed closest to the door has my mouth dropping open.
I hadn’t thought about that. Not the tattoo and being pregnant. Just pregnant. Not in a long time, anyway. The last time I thought about children was when James died. I never saw myself having children with anyone else but him. Until now.
My eyes meet with brown ones in the mirror, his head dipping in silent command.
I turn around, Trixy suddenly nowhere to be seen. Thankfully. I like it when it is just me and Damon. Alone. And with how this felt, it was probably better we were alone—less chance of me embarrassing myself in front of an audience.
By the time I reach the bed Damon is sitting in front of, my cheeks are cherry red. The way his gaze stokes my skin with every step towards him has me teetering on the edge of delirium. Scared and excited crash together, making this weird adrenaline cocktail that makes me feel a bit high.
“On.” His voice is husky.
While I climb on, Damon removes his jacket, the black T-shirt underneath molded to his gorgeous muscular body—one I have memorized and whose images come tumbling through my mind.
This causal look of his, the t-shirt and grey sweatpants panty dropper look, is dangerous. Especially as I see his impressive dick easily outlined by the flimsy material, the hardness there making the cheerleaders inside do cartwheels and handstands in praise. I do that to him. Me.
“Skirt off. It will be better. More comfortable for my arm.”
Shit. Two problems with that.
One, my underwear would probably be sporting a wet patch. Earth swallow me now.
Second, and so much worse, Damon would see the state of my inner thighs.
A new and frankly destructive coping mechanism for my anxiety attributable to The Reaper has developed.
He would see all the nail marks. Little crescent moons, some just bruises, and others scabbed over, where I had been self-harming to gain clarity in moments when I felt like I was spinning out of control. There were a lot of those moments.
My face must give away my inner dilemma as Damon stops what he is doing and puts the tattoo gun on the tray beside him.
He looks at me like he is looking into my soul.
“Stop biting your lip. I know. It is the same reason I have been fighting. I think this,” he says, picking up the tattoo gun again, “will be a good substitute as an outlet.”
“But we can’t come here every time you feel anxious, and I cannot go fighting every time I need to clear my head.
So, instead, we will fight each other. In the ring in my apartment.
It will boost your confidence to know you can defend yourself.
And I will blow off some steam. Win-win. Now, jeans off.”
He picks up two black latex gloves, snapping them onto his hands before securing an attachment on the gun, giving me a minute to process his words.
He knows. And he isn’t angry with me. He understands. I didn’t think anyone would get it. But Damon does. Of course, this man would. He knows me better than anyone.
I give him one last lingering glance before shimmying off my skirt, pressing my legs together to hide the reasons for my hesitation.
“Lie back. Try to relax.” I laugh. I can’t help it. Relax. Is he mad?
He smirks.
“I’m going to start. Let me know if it’s too much.”
You’re too much. “Okay.”
The first prick of the needle as it touches my skin is painful, but after a while, the pain fades. It is definitely still there, but it is bearable. Like nails digging into skin.
Damon wasn’t wrong. This was a good replacement.
While the spot where the needle meets my skin does focus my attention for a long time, it eventually fades, and I become all too aware of Damon.
The placement of his arm across my side. His forearm brushing gently against my nipple with his micro-movements. My nipple now achingly hard from the tiny bit of friction.
I look away, biting my lip as the nipple sensitivity increases, heat pooling in my core. There must be an exposed nerve, as this surely shouldn’t feel this intense.
“Do you need a break?” His voice is strained as if he is sharing a similar battle.
I shake my head no, not looking at him.
He hesitates and then continues, leaving me in my silent agony.
I lay my head fully back, closing my eyes as I try and concentrate on anything else.
It’s impossible.
I’m panting. Realizing this, I bring my hand up, biting on my fist in the hopes of stifling a moan that wants to escape. Trying not to move, I squeeze my thighs together, the thin material of my panties moving against my swollen clit.
Damon groans, but I don’t dare look at him. Scared I will give my current state away.
He moves, and I sigh, thanking the gods as the constant rub of my nipple ceases. Okay. Perhaps now I could do this.
I finally open my eyes to see that Damon has repositioned himself closer to my hip. His left arm is heavy as he rests it on my upper thigh.
It was better for all of five seconds until he leans forward, his breath fanning my core and highlighting the wet spot there. It's not better. It's worse. It's much worse.
I lay my head back as he starts tattooing again.
He dips his finger into the band of my panty, pulling it down further. Oh god.
I squirm, my thighs clenching again, stimulating the little traitor down there, which also feels like it has an exposed nerve. I’m so wet. I’m sure he can see it.
I'm sure I've lost my mind, as I swear I feel him lean forward and inhale deeply.
The finger that tugged on my panty before is back, except this time, he pulls on it, the material digging painfully and deliciously into my folds and rubbing against my nub.
I moan. My hand flies up, covering my mouth. I am mortified, unable to look at Damon.
Another tug, and then his finger drags down, finding that little button giving me so many problems.
It is electric, the circular motion as he applies pressure to that bundle of nerves so consuming that it is only when he stops that I realize the tattoo gun is off. The ringing in my ears effectively buffered everything else .
I buck my hips when his finger once again strokes the length of my concealed entrance, his other hand encouraging me to spread my legs.
“Eyes open, rainbow.” I obey, lifting my head to look at Damon.
“Over there.” He points to the mirror next to the pool table, its angle perfectly aligned with this bed.
“Do you see how beautiful you look? How free. No one can take that from you.”
The woman looking back at me is me, but wild.
Face flushed, eyes hooded with desire. Curly red hair in a messy bun on my head, with whisps already escaping.
Legs parted, a damp spot visible on the matching, perfectly fitting pair of panties.
Wanton. Sexually aroused. Wet with desire.
Nipples hard and pushing against the material of my bra.
“Touch yourself.” A demand.
My eyes meet with his, and then, ever so slowly, I watch as he pulls the front of his pants down, freeing his dick as it bobs at the release. The silver piercing glints under the light, and then he palms it, stocking himself in one long move that pulls the skin taut, pre-cum oozing from the tip.
I can’t help myself. My hand snakes down, careful not to touch my unfinished tattoo, before disappearing into my underwear.
The first touch of my clit is tentative before I edge my finger down, the ample lubrication allowing my finger to slip right in. I arch my back as I add another finger, the friction of the palm of my hand against my nub so pleasurable.
“Eyes open.” I didn’t even realize my eyes were closed.
I open them to be met with the scene in the mirror.
Damon is next to me, stroking his cock, while my fingers delve in and out of my pussy.
I lift my bum and push my panties up before spreading my legs wider. Now I can see everything. It feels strange, watching as I pleasure myself. But it also feels like I am watching someone else—an out-of-body experience.
“Good girl. Now add another two fingers.”
I look at Damon, pulling my hand out and then curving my four fingers before slowly slipping them back in.
The fullness and stretch as I push my fingers all the way to the knuckles is so divine that I lose all rational thought.
It pushes me closer to an orgasm that is coiling, tightening as it readies for release.
“Faster, Sienna.” The wet, squelching sound of my fingers drilling into my pussy and the labored breathing of both Damon and me as we edge our way closer to our individual release is like an amplifier.
Before I know it, I am screaming out, my thighs slamming shut to keep my hand in place as I convulse around my own fingers.
I didn’t think I could find sexual pleasure again like this after The Reaper. I thought he stole it from me. But he didn’t. For the first time in days, I feel free. Light. And it is all thanks to one person.
My eyes fly open, dark chocolate ones looking at me with emotion in their depths I cannot understand.
Shit. The crushing realization of my feelings almost rips me in two.
I am in love with Damon.