39. Emma
Chapter thirty-nine
Emma
The night air hit my cheeks as we stepped off Rosie's porch—cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain that hadn't quite arrived yet.
Damien's hand settled at the small of my back as we walked toward the car, warm and steady through the fabric of my dress.
"Your mother," I said, still half-laughing, "is a force of nature."
He grinned. "That's one word for it."
"She threatened to send me home with six containers of sauce."
"Only six?" He raised an eyebrow. "She must be warming up to you slowly."
I swatted his arm. He caught my hand, brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss to my knuckles.
The car beeped as he unlocked it. He opened my door with a subtle flourish, and I slid into the passenger seat. Damien folded himself behind the wheel but didn't start the engine.
He just sat there.
Looking at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." His mouth curved. "Just thinking about how good you looked at that table."
"Covered in pasta sauce and doily lint?"
"Laughing," he said quietly. "You looked good laughing."
I turned away, biting the inside of my cheek. Through the curtains Rosie's kitchen glowed around Sebastian and Candace's shadows.
"They're cute," I said after a moment.
Damien followed my gaze. Through the window, Sebastian gestured wildly while Candace covered her face with both hands—shoulders shaking with what had to be laughter.
"Disgustingly cute," Damien agreed.
"He's so nervous around her."
"He's been nervous around her since the hospital." Damien shook his head, something fond and exasperated in his expression. "Mom said he changed shirts four times before Candace arrived. Four."
I snorted. "He was wearing a hoodie."
"Exactly. Ma' told me the whole story. He put on a button-down first. Then decided it was trying too hard. Then a polo. Then back to the button-down. Then the hoodie, because—and I quote—'it's casual but still shows I care about my appearance.'"
"Oh my god."
"He also cornered me in the bathroom asking if his hair looked stupid. Twice."
I pressed my hand to my mouth, giggles escaping between my fingers. "That's... that's adorable."
"It's pathetic."
"It's you," I said, voice still shaking. "That's exactly what you do."
Damien went still. A flush crept up his neck.
"I don't change shirts four times."
"No, you just rehearse conversation topics in the shower and pretend you came up with them spontaneously."
His jaw dropped. "How do you—"
"Ava loves to talk shit." I grinned.
The flush deepened. Spread to his ears.
I leaned across the console to press a kiss to his cheek. "Now, take me home."
He shot me a look as he started the engine. "What did I tell you about giving me orders?"
I held up a finger. "That's rules. I'm not allowed to make rules for you. You said nothing about giving orders."
"Oh, love," he sighed, shaking his head. "What am I going to do with you?"
A wicked smile curved my mouth as ideas flooded my mind. "Speaking of that..." I looked up at him through my lashes. "I've been meaning to request something."
"Request?" He considered the word, rolling it around like wine on his tongue. "I like that much more than order or rule. What did you have in mind?"
"Remember at the club?" I said, voice threaded with embarrassment. "Remember that woman in the ropes?"
"The couple doing shibari?"
I nodded, looking away. "I've been wondering..."
He angled his head, eyes darkening. "Are you asking me what I think you are?"
My pulse spiked. "Maybe…"
"Oh, love." His smile grew hungry, gaze raking over my body. "Do you know how many times I've envisioned you in my ropes?" He leaned closer, voice dropping. "The things I would do to you?"
I squirmed in my seat at the intent in his gaze, the promise that echoed through the car.
Then the air changed—the familiar charge that filled the space whenever Damien stepped into his role. He seemed bigger somehow. Taller. Sharper.
My breath left me in a shaky exhale.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned across the console, one hand braced beside my head. His lips brushed the curve of my neck, tongue tracing slowly to my ear. He caught the skin lightly between his teeth.
"Let's get you home."
The drive was torture.
Every red light an eternity. Every slow driver a personal offense. Damien's hand rested on my thigh—warm, heavy, possessive—his thumb tracing idle circles that sent sparks shooting up my spine.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was charged. Electric. The quiet that came before a storm you'd been waiting for.
Memories of the Veil flooded my mind—the woman suspended in air, collar dangling from her throat. The serenity on her face. She'd looked like she was flying.
By the time we pulled into the parking garage beneath his building, my heart was hammering.
Damien killed the engine but didn't move.
His hand tightened on my thigh.
"Emma."
I turned to look at him.
His expression had shifted—still hungry, still dark, but layered now with something softer. Something careful.
"I need you to understand something before we go upstairs."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Shibari isn't just about the ropes." His thumb resumed its slow circles. "It's about trust. Surrender. Letting go of control completely." His gaze searched mine. "Are you ready for that?"
Was I?
"Yes," I whispered, the need overpowering all thought.
Damien studied me. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he nodded once—slow and deliberate.
"Good."
The words hit me like a drug, warmth flooding through my veins.
Damien stood behind me as the elevator climbed, close enough that the heat of his chest warmed my back. His hands stayed at his sides—not touching, just there—and somehow the restraint was more overwhelming than any touch.
The doors opened.
His apartment stretched before us—dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering beyond like scattered diamonds.
But Damien didn't lead me toward the living room.
He led me down the hall.
Past his bedroom.
To a room I'd only seen once before.
He paused with his hand on the spine of the book, glancing back at me over his shoulder. Pride and hunger flickered in his expression before he pulled it.
The hidden door swung open.
It was different than I remembered.
There was still leather furniture. The spanking bench. The soft lighting and rows of cabinets lining the walls.
But what caught my attention—what made my lungs forget their job—was what hung from the ceiling.
Ropes.
Burgundy ropes, coiled with precision, waiting.
"I had a feeling," Damien said quietly, closing the door behind us, "that you might ask eventually."
I stared at the ropes, unable to look away.
"You seemed interested at the club." He shrugged. "You know how I like to be prepared."
A shiver rolled through me.
"Speaking of preparedness. I have a surprise for you."
"Me?" The question stuttered out on an exhale, adrenaline flooding my veins.
He dropped his hand to mine and pulled me through the room to a carpeted area near the metal framed bed. The lighting above flickered on as we approached, illuminating the space like a spotlight on a stage.
And there, resting in the center of the light, was a pillow.
Long. Firm. Wrapped in supple black leather.
I almost missed it at first—the detail stitched across its surface in elegant gold thread.
Emma.
My name.
"Damien..."
"I had it made months ago," he said quietly. "Before I knew if you'd ever want this." His thumb swept across my knuckles. "I wanted you to have a place in this room that belonged only to you. Somewhere you could come back to, every time, and know—"
His voice roughened.
"Know that you're safe. That you're wanted. That you're mine."
I blinked hard against the burn at the edges of my vision.
"When you kneel here," he continued, "you leave the world outside. The board meetings. The pressure. The noise in your head." His lips brushed my temple. "You give it all to me. And I hold it for you until you're ready to take it back."
"Do you understand?" he whispered in my ear.
"Yes," I managed. "I understand."
"Good girl." He stepped back, releasing my hand. "Now. Undress for me—slowly—and when you're ready, kneel on your pillow. Palms on your thighs. Eyes down."
His gaze held mine.
"And wait."
He stepped back, sliding his hands into his pockets.
I reached for the hem of my dress.
My fingers trembled. Every other time we'd been together, there had been urgency. Heat. A frantic need to touch and be touched.
This was different.
This was deliberate.
I pulled the dress over my head and let it fall to the floor.
Cool air kissed my skin. I resisted the urge to cover myself, to hunch my shoulders, to make myself smaller.
Damien didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched—expression intent, drinking in every inch of exposed skin.
My panties slid down my hips. Pooled at my ankles. I stepped out of them.
I unclasped my bra. Let it fall.
Naked.
Completely bare.
Standing in the amber glow of this room, in front of a man who'd seen every part of me—body and soul—and wanted me anyway.
"Beautiful," Damien breathed—the word rough. Reverent. "Now kneel."
I moved to the pillow.
My pillow.
The leather was cool against my knees as I lowered myself. Smooth. Supple. Perfectly positioned to cradle my weight.
Palms on my thighs.
Eyes down.
Wait.
The world narrowed.
The memories of the day blurred into soft smears of gold. The thoughts faded. Even my own heartbeat seemed to slow.
I heard Damien move—footsteps soft against the carpet—but I didn't look up.
Eyes down.
He circled me once. Twice. I tracked his movements by sound alone—the whisper of his shoes on the plush carpet.
He stopped behind me.
The warmth of him radiated against my bare back.
"How do you feel?"
"Quiet," I whispered. Honestly. "My head feels... quiet."
"Good." I heard the smile in his voice. "That's exactly right."
His knees popped as he dropped to his haunches.
"Now, I'll explain our ritual."