Chapter 22
LILA
I put my clothes on with shaky fingers while he exits the bathroom in his office, running a confident hand over his fly.
As disturbing as this sounds, I just want to grind on him again.
I have no idea what he has in mind for us for the rest of the evening. My proposition feels like a thing of the past, while I feel like I failed a job interview.
He picks up his key fob.
“I’ll take you home.”
“What about starting my new job?”
Peering down, he smiles. “Consider yourself hired. You’ll start tomorrow night. I only need you for a couple nights.”
“All right.”
I look around the room, a bit confused.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I just didn’t think I’d go home so soon.”
He slides his hands into his pockets.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Uh… Working?”
“We don’t have to go home.”
“No?”
“Nah-huh.”
He picks up his phone, and his expression swiftly changes.
A frown mars his brow as he reads a message.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He mulls over something for a few good seconds, his blank stare pinned on the screen.
He might be affected by what he just read on the screen, but nothing hints at what that text might be about.
“Damon?”
He powers off his phone, and the screen goes dark.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” he says, not answering my question.
Minutes later, we’re in his car, heading west.
I have no idea where we’re going. He hasn’t said a word since we left his club.
The night is peaceful, and in a different life this would probably be the best time of our lives.
In reality, I’ll be attending classes two months from now. A year from now, I’ll be out of college, and Henrietta’s life, and I’ll have my money.
I never seriously considered what to do with it.
My plan has always been to live a normal life. Get a job, find a place to live, and have a serious boyfriend.
I had him pictured in my mind down to the smallest details, and let me tell you, he didn’t look like Damon.
Now that I study him, his fist tense on the steering wheel, his stare pinned on the road ahead of us, I realize why I always loved timid men. They come with less danger, drama, uncertainty, and pain.
And you, as their girlfriend, can only benefit from it.
My eyes stay fixed on his profile while I wonder if it’s not too late to go back to my favorite type of man.
My father was like that, and see where it’s gotten him.
He fell for someone like Henrietta after spending a lifetime with my mother, a woman just like him.
There are no guarantees in life, and that should put me at ease.
No one knows what the future holds.
“Where are we going?” I ask eventually.
“We’re paying someone a visit,” he says mysteriously, and I muse whether it’s the type of visit from which we’ll leave with a suitcase filled with cash or body parts.
He doesn’t offer more information, so I glance away and stare into the night, sunk in thought.
Before long, we enter a rural area with scattered modest homes. A few lit windows pop up here and there.
Ten-year-old trucks sit in the driveways.
Tree swings hang from the branches of old trees. And dogs bark from time to time.
It’s the last place I thought we’d be visiting tonight.
It seems like he picks a house at random when he steers his car right. We enter a long gravel driveway and approach a small house with a porch.
A white old truck is parked to the side.
The kitchen window is lit. The rest of the house is cloaked in darkness.
That changes, though, when we pull up in front of the house. Light floods the porch and the door opens.
A tall, gray-haired man steps out. He wears jeans and a plaid shirt. His boots hit the wooden floor hard, as if he hides a bony, muscular frame under his clothes.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“My great-great-uncle,” he says, not looking at me.
He makes the introductions later.
“Randal West,” the man says as our hands connect.
Wrinkles deepen around his eyes as he flashes a smile. He quickly shifts his focus to Damon and invites us to sit.
“I haven’t seen you in a while. Are things okay?”
“Things are fine,” Damon says in the voice of someone holding a different opinion about the matter.
“What would you like to drink?”
He looks at me.
“I’ve made some fresh lemonade,” he says.
“Sounds good.”
“And you?”
Damon says nothing, a faint smile curling his lips as he slides into a wicker armchair.
“Bourbon?” Randall suggests.
“Cold beer?”
‘Cold beer it is.”
The man vanishes into the house while Damon and I sit outside.
It strikes me how cozy the place is.
“Nice house,” I say.
“You like it?”
“Yes, I do.”
Glancing around, I brush a hand over the wicker armrest.
“I like the porch,” I say. “It’s perfect for this weather.”
A few moments later, Randal joins us and sets a wooden tray on the table.
“Your lemonade,” the man says before placing the cold cans of beer on the table.
“I figure one won’t be enough,” he murmurs. “I keep them in the cooler,” he adds.
The cans and glass of lemon drip with condensation.
He claims a seat, and they both open their beers and sip.
I pick up my lemonade and taste it. A fresh tangy aroma tickles my palate.
“Thank you,” I murmur, although no one pays attention to me.
“So, what brought you here?” the man asks.
Damon’s answer comes after a few moments of silence.
“We drove through the area,” he says softly, looking into the distance.
Randal shifts his focus to me and studies me in silence.
A question seems to bother him, yet he presses his lips together and pushes it back.
“I haven’t stopped by in a while,” Damon says.
“I noticed that,” Randal replies with a smile.
“I figured you were busy.”
Damon and his generic answers.
“I’m always busy,” the man says.
“It’s not only that,” Damon continues. “I wanted you to meet Lila Skye, in case you know…”
Worry slides over the man’s face as his smile and cheerful disposition completely vanish.
“Something happened?” he asks as if they have an old understanding, one that now also concerns me.
“No,” Damon says dryly. “Not yet,” he adds, unfazed, yet he can’t fool anyone.
I have no idea what they’re talking about, yet one thing is clear to me. Something has happened over this past hour.
Damon was in a different mood when I walked into his office.
I tense up while Randall sets his drink down.
“What happened to Henrietta?” the man asks.
He gives Randall a cold smile.
“Nothing. Things have stayed the same.”
A prickle of unease moves through me.
Randal flicks his eyes to me as if having an epiphany.
“Some things will never change,” he murmurs before drinking beer again.
A few moments pass, thickening the silence, and then Damon speaks again.
“If anything happens, you know what to do.”
Randall freezes in contemplation while I move my eyes between the two of them.
What is Damon talking about? If anything happens in general? To him? To me?
It can’t be me.
Eventually, Randall lifts up a soft hand.
“Nothing will happen. You’ve been through this before. Things like this come and go.” He pushes a smile to his lips. “Storms have always come and gone, and yet, we’re still here standing.”
With that cryptic conclusion, their secret conversation ends before they chat about the weather, Randall’s health, his work around the house, and family members I’m not familiar with.
We leave an hour later.
Damon is even quieter than before. Broodier. And more concerned.
He is worried about something.
Something other than Henrietta, my boyfriends, or the fact that someone might see me at the pool naked in the middle of the night.
I fuss in my seat, not knowing what to say as we’re heading back. He doesn’t look at me or talk to me.
I’m convinced we’re going back, but right before we’re supposed to enter the main road, he veers left and rolls his car onto a secondary road.
We move across an area with a few homes before the scenic view becomes a little busier, and we stop in front of a motel.
“Wait here,” he says, turning off the engine.
He climbs out.
Maybe he needs to pick up something or to meet someone.
He vanishes inside the lobby while I freeze in my seat and peer out the window.
It’s not exactly a raggedy place. It has a manicured lawn and a pool that looks clean and inviting under the strings of lights dangling from the trees.
No one is outside, though.
The door to the motel opens, and Damon walks out.
He signals to me to climb out, and I set myself in motion, harboring mixed feelings.
Are we doing something for work? What exactly is this?
I catch up with him as he walks to what looks like a bungalow. It’s a separate structure with a small lawn, a couple of stairs, and a nice front. He slides a card through the reader, pushes the door open, and invites me in.
I walk in, not knowing what to expect.
It’s a small, cozy place with a big comfy bed, clean sheets, a fully stocked bar, and a table and two chairs.
The AC is on, and the sheets and covers smell like flowers. It’s like we’re in someone’s home. The wooden floors are polished and creak under our steps.
A pang of apprehension floats in my chest.
This can’t be only about work.
And it can’t be about me only.
It makes me think it’s about what he just said to that old man, about him being worried about something that might or might not happen.
About him needing some reprieve. And that reprieve might just be sex. Fear nibbles on the edge of my awareness when I turn around to face him.
“Are we spending the night here?”
He nods, already removing his suit jacket and unbuttoning his dress shirt.
Evading my eyes, he moves to the bar.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks.
“Nothing for me. I need to use the bathroom. Can I use the bathroom?”
“Yes, sure. You can shower, too. Make yourself comfortable,” he says absently.
I stare at his back as he pours himself a drink before I make a beeline for the bathroom door.
Moments later, I’m in the shower, welcoming the stream of warm water over my skin.
A few minutes pass before I pat myself dry, turn off the water, and slip on a bathrobe.
I walk out, running my fingers through my hair. It smells like jasmine and a little hope.
He sits on the bed, his head propped against the headboard, his eyes closed, his torso naked, a drink in his hand.
He only has his dress pants on. The belt is open, his zipper lowered.
I stop not far away from him and move my eyes over his broad shoulders, the tattoos on his muscular arms, his beautiful V-shaped torso.
Only then do I realize that he’s opened his eyes and he’s studying me.
“Come to me,” he says quietly, sliding his drink onto the nightstand.
This reminds me of that first time in his office when he asked me not to leave. It dawns on me that he needs me.
Usually, I have no idea when he needs me, how he needs me, and what lies behind those beautiful smoldering eyes.
Although now, I do.
I also know that he doesn’t need my questions, my worries, my distrust.
I know that he needs my body, my silence, my understanding, and my patience.
As new as this is to me, I follow my instinct and softly untie my belt and let my robe fall to the floor before moving to him.
His eyes stay fixed on me as I stop next to the bed, reach for his belt, and undo his fly completely.
As he pushes his pants down and removes them completely, his erection springs free, and his muscular thighs are on full display.
He runs a hand into the back of my hair and pulls me down. I fall to him before he wraps his other arm around me and makes me slide next to him.
His tongue pushes through my lips with urgency as everything seems to unfold so quickly.
Just as I expected it to happen.
He lifts my thigh to his hip and slides his cock into me, kissing me with hunger. My arms wind around his neck as he pulls me into his chest––he kisses me and fucks me.
The difference is noticeable.
He wants what he wants, and while he’s trying to pace himself and not entirely spook me, his needs are frantic, simmering just beneath the surface of his touch.
He grabs me more harshly, pounds into me with intense need, and sinks his teeth into my lip as if he’s set to destroy me.
I hold my own, kissing him back, running my nails down his spine, sucking on his tongue, and rocking my hips to meet his thrusts.
He likes it and makes things harder for me. A hand cups my ass as he moves into me with force.
It all feels like a takeover. A blind conquest. A desperate race against time.
Something big must be bothering him, but I can’t read the story of his soul.
Henrietta is out. I’m here. This can’t be about me.
There’s no time to ponder as my body responds to him with spikes of pulsing, and a voracious need to have him.
This is reckless.
No one fucks like that without at least thinking about having a future together.
Yet we can’t be together. We both know that. So this must be it. This is all we have.
And since things are out of my hands, I dedicate myself to him in these moments, fucking him and also loving him, showing him how much I need him.
How much I need him to fuck me like this and allow me to have the memory of us imprinted in my brain for later when our lives will break apart, and we’ll follow our own stories.
When I’ll probably have a different man in my life, and different life plans. When he’ll go back to his life and find a different Henrietta. Or maybe someone mellower than her.
Or someone worse than her.
With that thought in mind, I move my hands over him, saying words that no other man has ever heard from me.
“I love you, Damon,” I say in the heat of passion, and he fucks me harder and kisses me harder, his hands melting my skin off, his pounding making me throb my way into a swirl of pleasure.
We both come, and he keeps kissing me until he’s hard again.
We have sex the entire night with only a few breaks to take a shower and have coffee in the morning.
Last time he fucks me, I’m on all fours, and he’s pounding into me from behind until my hips and legs are numb and my pussy is sore.
Without having a wink of sleep, we head home. He drops me off in front of the house. He’s tired, quiet, and barely smiles.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says, and with that he veers his car away and soon after I watch the brake lights turn red as he stops in front of the gate.
The gate opens, and he vanishes in, while I still wonder whether I’ll work for him tonight.