Chapter 54
Roxy
Red Poppy on a Friday night is chaos in the best way. Men in tailored suits sprawled across red velvet couches, women in dresses that barely qualify as clothing, guys in skin-tight shirts. Every type of person on Earth converges here, and I can't help the grin spreading across my face.
"I don't know how you convinced them to let us come here, but I love you for it," Luna shouts in my ear over the pounding music meant for those who actually want to dance.
It wasn't easy, especially since we're still on high alert with The Bloody Dahlia, but Damien and Roman understood we'd lose our minds locked in the house until they catch the bastard.
For the past few days, Damien's been distant whenever I ask about that lunatic. All he tells me is he needs one more piece of information, and then he'll give me the complete file to analyze.
So until that information arrives, we're in the middle of the dance floor, with eight soldiers positioned throughout the club, eyes glued to us while Damien and Roman discuss an important weapons shipment arriving at the port.
Rihanna's "Breakin’ Dishes" blasts through the speakers, and Luna and I scream the chorus, letting our bodies move with every word.
Luna's wearing a deep blue dress with a square neckline, and she smells delicious—something like white chocolate mixed with caramel.
I know that when a certain possessive pakhan gets near her, he won't let her go all night, so I'm making the most of my time with my best friend, spinning her around while trying not to crash into strangers.
At some point I break away from Luna and step back when hands grip my waist. The strangest thing is I know immediately they're not my husband's, because my entire body locks up before I turn to face the guy, who—if he wants to keep his upper limbs attached to his body—should let go in the next three seconds.
Without embarrassment, I turn to him and try to put a polite smile on my face.
"If I were you, I'd get your hands off me before my husband sees you. Blood stains on this fabric would be a nightmare."
The wide-eyed man staring at me is probably five foot ten, with brown hair and blue eyes.
He's dressed relatively decently, but he's boring.
He doesn't have that gleaming earring, doesn't have those ridiculous dimples that take up half his face when he smiles, doesn't smell like musk and amber, and before I can continue listing all the reasons he's not the right man, the exact one I have in mind appears behind him and places a hand on his shoulder.
"If you don't take two steps back right now and run, I promise I'll throw the first blade from a distance. And I might miss because I want to dance with my wife and that's more important than putting holes in you...or maybe not..." he says, and I don't understand why I'm grinning like an idiot.
Therapy, Roxanne. It's called “you desperately need those therapy sessions.”
The man nods quickly and takes two steps back exactly as Damien instructed, but before my husband’s hand makes contact with the blade he always keeps at his back, my arms wrap around his neck.
My lips brush his jaw as I murmur, "Have mercy on him."
His eyes darken on my face, and tightening his hands on my waist, he tells me, "You will never beg for mercy for a man who dared to touch you."
"You're being dramatic. He just took his shot, and he was actually very polite when he took those two steps back."
I watch him start to shake with frustration that I'm still defending the guy, but I don't think he understands I'm doing it purely to annoy him. Because I love seeing this side of him, where he demands all my attention.
My lips travel up and I kiss his cheek, then move toward his mouth.
My feet are killing me in these heels, but I remind myself that beauty requires sacrifice.
But God, I want to throw them off right now because my toes are on the verge of collapse.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"These heels are killing me tonight," I murmur against his lips between kisses.
"Take them off."
"If you think I'm dancing barefoot on this floor where countless people have walked, I don't think we've been properly introduced," I say, laughing.
He looks at me for several seconds, and my cheeks flush because he has that intense, adoring look that makes my breathing stutter.
"Take them off and rest your feet on top of mine," he tells me.
Excuse me?
"Sorry, I think your head injury came back. Did you just say you want me to dance barefoot on your shoes?"
"Exactly what I said," he answers with a smile that makes his dimples even more visible.
"We'll go from me being in pain to you being in pain, so I don't think that's a solution, but I appreciate it, baby."
The next second he drops to his knees in the middle of the dance floor and grabs my heels, and even though I want to protest, the image of him kneeling in front of me makes my mind blank for a few moments.
Important moments, because he manages to slip off my shoes and signals Stefan with his hand, who comes to take the heels from him, before lifting me gently so each of my feet rests on top of his shoes.
"I'm heavy, Damien," I mutter without looking at him.
"You're perfect." And he kisses my cheeks while his arms hold me tight against him.
I have to admit this sensation, after having my feet tortured for hours in those heels, feels almost like an orgasm, and maybe that's why I start kissing and biting his neck with more passion than would be appropriate for a public interaction.
I don't even know how long we stay like that, swaying to the music, but my heart feels like it might burst from warmth.
At some point, I'm lifted up and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
My dress rides up even more, but before I can process that thought, Damien's carrying me toward his office.
"Hey, Luna and Roman are still out there," I tell him, laughing.
"I guarantee Roman has the same thoughts about his fiancée as I have about you. Except, unlike him, I have a private office here that I intend to use thoroughly."
We enter his office, and Damien slams the door loudly, walking with me in his arms toward the couch.
I see my heels left by Damien's chair, but I forget about them when my husband sits down with me in his lap on the couch.
His hand goes into my hair, and I can't help but kiss him. He tastes like whiskey, leather, and musk—a taste I've apparently become addicted to, because there's nothing reserved about the way I consume him right now.
A guttural sound escapes Damien when my hand positions itself on his neck and I deepen the kiss.
His erection presses against my center, and because I remember he hid the whole Marco story from me, I decide a little torture will be good as a lesson.
I start moving my hips, and when I find a rhythm that satisfies me, I put all my ambition into maintaining it. I know my underwear is soaked and it would be so easy to satisfy this need, but no.
"Roxanne, I need to be inside you and I need to do it now," he tells me, almost breathless, with dark eyes.
A smile takes over my entire face and without taking my eyes off him, I speed up my movements. I'm so close, so close, and I know he sees it by the way he clenches his jaw.
"You're not going to come on my jeans, Roxanne," he tells me through gritted teeth, but I don't think he realizes his hands are gripping me harder, following the rhythm I set, actually helping me grind against him.
Because no matter how conflicted he is, no matter what threats he makes, his body will always choose my pleasure before his own.
I feel my back growing slightly sweaty beneath my dress, feel my thighs starting to tremble with the effort and the building pleasure. The pulsations start becoming more and more accelerated, my breathing turning ragged.
I bring my lips close to his, hovering just out of reach.
"Next time you keep a secret," I whisper against his mouth, "remember how it feels to watch me like this when you could be inside me right now, feeling me squeeze you."
His eyes gain a gleam, satisfaction.
"Oh, baby, you think this is punishment?" he asks, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my stomach flip. "Let me help you."
Before I can respond, before I can process what he means, two of his fingers push the soaked fabric of my underwear aside and penetrate me in the same rhythm I set. Deep and sure and exactly where I need him.
My mouth opens involuntarily and a sharp gasp escapes between my teeth. The sudden fullness, the way his fingers curl to hit that perfect spot, steals whatever smart retort I had prepared.
"This is torture," he tells me, his voice rough and strained. "Feeling my fingers inside you, feeling how warm you are, how fucking wet you are for me, and not being able to do anything else. You want me to come in my jeans for you? Want to feel me lose control?"
His fingers don't stop for even a second, pumping in and out with practiced precision. And I don't make any move to stop him either, don't even pretend to resist, because I'm right there. So close I can taste it.
"Yes," I answer with an innocent smile.
His mouth captures mine, and I don't even know my own name anymore when his tongue makes contact with mine.
Within moments we're both breathing hard, and my body starts trembling when the orgasm hits me suddenly.
When I manage to catch my breath, I look down at the wet spot on his jeans and his satisfied smile.
"Happy?" he asks.
"A little," I answer, but my smile says otherwise.
"Just a little? Hmm, that won't do. What do I need to do to make you completely happy?"
"I have a few ideas that involve your desk," I answer, laughing, and for a split second this happiness scares me.
Because I'm not used to feeling this much warmth in my chest, feeling like I could explode with love. But all I can do is pray this isn't the calm before the storm.