Chapter 51
Chapter fifty-one
Emma
The night air was cool against my skin as we stepped out of Marina's.
Damien's hand found the small of my back, guiding me toward the car waiting at the curb. He opened the passenger door for me, and I slid inside, the leather seat cool against my bare legs.
He rounded the hood and settled into the driver's seat. Beneath us, the engine purred to life.
Damien pulled into traffic. Marina's warm glow faded in the side mirror.
I watched it go—the restaurant that had broken me once and healed me tonight.
The last time I'd made this drive, I'd been alone.
Shattered.
Tears streaming as I tried to hold the pieces together long enough to make it home.
I remembered thinking it was over—that whatever fragile, beautiful thing I'd been building with a stranger named Read had died the moment Damien Holt stepped around that corner.
Now his hand rested on my thigh.
"What?" he asked, catching me staring.
"Nothing." I smiled. "I just like looking at you."
"That's my line."
"Maybe I'm stealing it."
His laugh was low, warm. "You can steal anything you want."
Streetlights caught the planes of Damien's face—strong jaw, unfairly handsome even in profile.
Heat curled beneath my skin.
"Damien," I purred. "How far are we from home?"
"About eight minutes, why?" Damien glanced over, and I let him look—let him see every nefarious intention written across my face.
His lips parted, grip tightening on the steering wheel.
"Ms. Sinclair," he said, my name a whisper on his lips. "If you keep looking at me like—"
"Like what?" I teased.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
I leaned over the console, my dress dipping to show the tops of my breasts. I let a small moan fall from my lips.
He stilled, chest rising and falling in a quick cadence.
My hand slid across the console, finding his thigh.
The muscle tense beneath my palm as I traced slow circles, inching higher.
"Emma." His voice had dropped an octave. A warning.
I smiled and didn't stop.
My hand traveled higher until I found exactly what I was looking for. Hard. Straining against his slacks.
A low groan slipped from him.
The car swerved into the next lane, earning a blaring horn.
"You're going to get us killed," he hissed.
I leaned close, seatbelt straining as I angled toward him, lips brushing his ear.
"That would be unfortunate," I murmured, low against his neck.
We pulled up to a stoplight.
He lunged for me, stealing my mouth.
There was nothing gentle about it.
His hand slid into my hair, angling my mouth against his, and I leaned into him—weeks of tension, months of wanting, all of it catching fire at once. I fisted his shirt and pulled him closer, console be damned. His teeth caught my lower lip, and I made a sound I'd be embarrassed about later.
The car behind us laid on its horn.
Damien broke away with a ragged exhale.
The light was green.
"Hold that thought," he managed.
I didn't.
Damien
My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, every nerve pulled taut toward the woman beside me.
Her palm pressed through my slacks. It took everything I had not to pull over and fuck her right then and there.
Home. Get her home.
The light ahead flickered yellow.
I didn't slow down.
We shot through the intersection as it turned red, and Emma's laugh rang out beside me—bright, wicked, entirely too pleased with herself.
"That was illegal," she murmured, her breath warm against my ear.
"Your fault."
"Mm."
Her hand pressed harder against me, fingers curling, and a sound tore out of my throat that I'd deny later.
"I don't feel guilty."
Christ. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Every synapse in my brain had migrated south, leaving nothing but the pressure of her palm and the desperate need to get us home before I did something inadvisable on a public street.
"Two more blocks," I managed.
She squeezed again. "Better hurry."
I whipped into the parking garage.
The car barely stopped before I was moving.
I didn't remember cutting the engine.
Or opening her door.
One second she was laughing in the passenger seat. The next she was in my arms—legs dangling, hands catching my shoulders, a surprised gasp escaping her lips.
"Damien!"
"I don't want you running away from me, Sinclair."
She settled against my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
"And if I wanted to run?"
I tightened my grip, carrying her toward the elevator. "Then I'd catch you."
The elevator doors slid shut, and we began our glacial ascent.
"This elevator has never been slower," Emma complained, squirming in my arms.
I tightened my grip. "Patience."
"You don't get to say that after driving ninety through Midtown."
I dipped my head, teeth catching the soft curve of her ear.
She gasped, digging her fingers into my shoulder.
"Damien—"
"Shh." I traced the shell of her ear with my tongue. "My turn."
She wiggled again, trying to create friction, trying to take back control.
I held her tighter, one hand sliding up her thigh, keeping her pinned against me.
"You tortured me for six blocks," I murmured against her neck, lips dragging down to her pulse point. "I think I'm owed a little payback."
"This isn't—" A sound escaped her as I sucked gently at the spot below her jaw. "This isn't fair."
"No," I agreed, smiling against her skin. "It isn't."
The elevator chimed.
I didn't wait for the doors to open fully—just turned sideways and strode through, Emma bouncing in my arms with a surprised laugh.
Bedroom. Bedroom. Bedroom.
The thought like a metronome pulsing in my cock.
I crossed the living room in long strides, her giggles echoing off the walls.
The sound burrowed into my bones.
This Emma was mine.
Only mine.
I shouldered the bedroom door open and tossed her onto the bed. She landed with a bounce and a breathless shriek, hair fanning across the pillows, emerald green dress riding up her thighs.
Her gaze found mine—dark, wanting, dancing with laughter.
"You're insane," she said.
"Probably," I agreed, caging her beneath me. "Are you complaining?"
She explored my chest with her hands. Her fingers curled over my shoulder, pulling me down toward her. "Not even a little."
I kissed her smile first—quick, playful, matching the energy still sparking between us.
Then I dipped lower.
My lips found her jaw. Her throat. The soft skin just above her collarbone.
And then—the collar.
I traced it with my tongue, following the delicate links to where the pendant rested in the hollow of her throat.
The metal was warm from her skin, carrying her heat. Her pulse.
Mine.
The word moved through me like a ritual.
Devotion in its rawest form.
I pressed my mouth to the pendant, lips grazing its edge.
She shivered beneath me.
"Do you know what this does to me?" My voice came out rough. "Seeing this on you?"
"Tell me." A whisper.
I lifted my head, finding her eyes—dark and liquid in the low light.
"It makes me want to worship you," I said.
A vow spoken out loud.
She went languid beneath me, the urgent want dissolving.
There was no urgency.
No desperate need to chase release.
Just her—warm and willing beneath me—and the need to make her feel what I couldn't say.
I braced above her, taking my time.
"You're mine," I murmured against her skin. "All mine."
She answered with a groan, fingers threading in my hair.
My mouth traced her collarbone while my fingers found the zipper at her side. I dragged it down slowly, watching the fabric loosen, feeling her ribs rise beneath my palm with each unsteady breath.
"Lift your hips."
She did. I worked the dress down her body—past the softness of her stomach, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the length of her thighs—then tossed it off the edge of the bed.
I sat back on my heels just to look.
Lace and skin and the glint of the collar at her throat. Lamplight painting her gold.
Perfection.
"You're staring," she whispered.
"I'm memorizing."
I lowered myself again, my mouth finding her sternum, kissing the space between her breasts.
Her fingers slid into my hair as I worked lower—the curve of her ribs, the dip of her navel, the edge of her lace.
I slid it down her thighs. I followed with my mouth.
Kissing. Tasting. Breathing her in.
By the time I settled between her legs, she was shaking—fingers twisted in the sheets, chest heaving.
"Look at me," I commanded.
Her eyes met mine as I lowered my mouth to her, the taste of her pussy like communion wine.
The sound she made—a moan so raw.
A gift I hadn't yet earned.
Her hand found my hair, fingers threading through, holding me close.
I took my time. Slow, reverent strokes of my tongue through her folds. Ones I knew would make her gasp. Make her hips roll.
Mine.
This wasn't about control.
Wasn't about power.
It was about showing her—with my hands, my mouth, my whole goddamn heart—that she was worth my worship.
I slid one finger inside her.
The world narrowed to her warmth. Her wetness. The way she clenched around me like she never wanted to let go.
The stuff of dreams.
"Damien—" Her voice cracked.
"I know." I curled my finger, finding the spot that made her hips jerk.
I added a second finger and watched her come undone.
Love.
I loved the way she squirmed beneath me, chasing pleasure she didn't have to earn.
Loved the sounds she made—breathless, desperate, trusting.
Loved that she let me see her like this. Open. Wanting.
I loved her.
The taste of her lingered on my tongue—sweet as nectar.
I licked in tandem with my fingers, building her higher.
Her thighs trembled against my shoulders.
Her fingers twisted in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting.
She was close. I could feel it in the flutter around my fingers.
Then—soft as a prayer.
"Please, Master. Can I come?"
Master.
The word hit my chest like a fist.
I groaned against her, the sound vibrating through us both.
"Yes. Come for me, Emma."
She came apart beautifully.
The release crashed through her in waves—her cry filling the room.
Then the flood. Hot and sweet, soaking my chin, my hand, the sheets.
I didn't pull away.
I drank her in, lapping at everything she gave me, groaning at the taste of her pleasure.
She trembled through it, aftershocks rolling through her as I gentled my touch, easing her down.
Love.
All of this—every sound, every shudder, every drop.
I kept my touch light, fingers slowing but not stopping, holding her in that fragile space between recovery and wanting.
Then I moved.
I kissed my way up her body—her stomach trembling beneath my lips, her ribs rising and falling with shaky breaths.
The tips of her breasts were pulled tight.
"Oh—" Her voice broke, as I stole one with my mouth. "Damien, I can't—"
She could.
She would.
I sucked gently, tongue circling the peaked bud while my fingers continued their slow rhythm below. She was drenched—soaking my hand, my clothes—and I loved it.
Loved her.
Her hands found my shirt, yanking uselessly at the fabric.
"Off," she demanded. "Now."
I released her nipple with a soft pop, pushed to my knees and ripped it off.
It hit the floor with a thud, heavy with her arousal.
Her cheeks tinged pink at the sound. "Sorry, that's—"
"The best thing I've ever tasted," I cut in.
She looked up at me, a grin spreading wide.
Not the wicked grin from the car. Not the breathless, pleasure-drunk expression from moments ago.
Just… warm. Open. Happy.
I felt my soul split down the middle, soaking in the view.
Her smile.
This smile.
Fuck the empires.
Fuck the company I'd built from the ground.
This was my everything.
Everything I'd thought I wanted and never found.
I'd burn the world down for that smile.
I'd build it back up just to see it again.
"What?" she asked softly.
I love you. Say it now.
I begged my voice, the words to come out.
Coward.
I shook my head, defeated.
So I lowered myself over her and kissed her instead, pouring everything I couldn't say into the press of my mouth against hers.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
She broke the kiss first. "Please, Damien, I need you."
I couldn't have denied her if I'd tried.
My hands fumbled with my belt—clumsy, urgent—shoving my pants down just enough to free myself. I was aching, desperate, harder than I'd ever been in my life.
I pulled her closer, closing the distance between us in one slow, devastating motion.
My head fell to her shoulder. A low groan ripping from my throat.
She was warm and wet and perfect, her body welcoming mine.
Mine.
"Emma—"
Her arms wrapped around me, nails scraping the skin of my back.
"I've got you," she said.
We moved together.
Slow. Deep.
I kissed her shoulder. Her collarbone. The swell of her breast. Every part of her I could reach while still moving inside her.
"You feel so good," she whispered against my skin. "So good, Damien."
I couldn't respond. Could barely think.
All I knew was her.
The feel. The taste. The touch.
My hips rolled into hers, and she gasped, nails biting into my shoulders.
I did it again. Slower this time. Deeper. Watching her face, cataloging every flicker of pleasure.
We'd been together dozens of times—rough, tender, everything in between.
But this was different than before.
Her hand cupped my face, her thumb stroking my cheek.
"I love you," she whispered.
I love you too, I begged—but the words still wouldn't come.
Instead, I turned my head and pressed a kiss to her palm.
"Always," the only word I could muster.
The tension built slowly—a tide rising between us, inevitable and unstoppable.
Her breathing changed first. Shorter. Sharper.
Her body tightening around mine in ways that made restraint impossible.
"Damien—" Her voice broke. "I'm close."
"I know." I could feel it. Every flutter. Every tremor. Every desperate clench.
Our rhythm quickened—more urgent now. Her nails dug into my back as her hips rose to meet mine, chasing the same edge I was racing toward.
I cupped her face, drawing her gaze to mine.
"Together," I breathed. "Come with me."
She shattered first—by half a second—her cry breaking against my lips as her body clamped around mine. Then I was falling too, the release tearing through me with a force that whited out everything except her.
Her name. Her face. Her arms held me as I came, as I spilled myself inside of her.
Mine.
We trembled through it together, bodies tangled, momentum blurring into a soul-altering rhythm.
And when it ended, I stayed buried inside.
I never want to let this go.
Not the sex. Not just this moment. Her. This life.
I wanted it forever.
Mine.