Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Damon
I see her before she sees me. Lucy. My obsession. My addiction. She enters the restaurant in a simple dress that clings to her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry and my hands clench. She has no idea how beautiful she is, how every man in this room just sat up straighter. But they can look all they want. They can't have her. She's mine. Only mine.
Normally I have her with me at all times, but I had a meeting across town and I left her at the office while I went to it with instructions that she meet me here for dinner. I know I’m going to sound dramatic, but the hours without her have been torture. I could barely fucking focus thinking about her.
The restaurant hums with conversations and the clink of silverware against plates. Waiters dressed in crisp white shirts weave between tables with practiced ease. I'm seated in the back, in my regular booth that offers the perfect view of the entire space. The table before me is covered with contracts and spreadsheets that I should be reviewing, but the moment she walks in, those papers might as well be blank.
Lucy scans the room, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with that nervous gesture that always makes something in my chest tighten. She doesn't spot me yet. Good. I like watching her unobserved, cataloging every microexpression on her face. The way her teeth worry her bottom lip. The way her fingers fidget with the small purse hanging from her shoulder.
Our age gap should bother me. It doesn't. Nothing about us follows the rules anyway.
Two weeks we've been together. Two weeks since I had her move in with me. Two weeks of making her come so hard she cries. Two weeks of possessing every inch of her body. Two weeks—and I'm already more obsessed than I've been with any woman in my entire life.
My phone buzzes with a call I should take, but I silence it without looking. Nothing is more important than watching her right now.
Nothing.
She moves toward the bar, probably looking for me there since that's where I told her to meet me. And that's when I see him. Carter Fucking Reynolds. My most ruthless competitor. The man who's been trying to take down my tech company for the past three years.
He's moving toward Lucy like a shark scenting blood in the water.
My body goes rigid, every muscle locking into place. The pen in my hand snaps, blue ink bleeding across my palm like a wound. I don't feel it. I don't feel anything but white-hot fury flaring through my veins.
Reynolds reaches her before I can stand. His hand—his fucking hand—touches the small of her back, casual, proprietary. As if he has any right. As if anyone but me has the right to touch her there. I can't hear what he's saying over the noise of the restaurant and the blood pounding in my ears, but I see Lucy's polite smile. The same smile she gives to strangers. She doesn't know who he is. That he's my enemy.
But that doesn’t matter because an irrational part of me wouldn’t give a fuck who it was. The fact remains that she’s smiling at someone else and selfish bastard that I am, I want all her smiles
All of her.
She’s motherfucking mine .
I stand so abruptly that my chair crashes backward. A few diners glance my way, but I don't care. I can't tear my eyes from the way Reynolds leans in closer to Lucy, the way his lips curve in a predatory smile as she laughs at something he says. A laugh that should be mine. Only mine.
My body is moving before my brain catches up. I shoulder past waiters and diners without apology. All I see is Reynolds' hand sliding down from Lucy's back to rest at the curve of her hip. All I hear is her laugh, light and unfamiliar, given to someone who isn't me.
I'm close enough now to hear his voice, smooth and practiced. "—always happy to help promising students. My foundation offers several scholarships."
Of course. Of fucking course he'd dangle money in front of her. He knows exactly which buttons to push.
"That's very generous," Lucy responds, her voice warm but professionally distant.
"Perhaps over dinner sometime?" Reynolds suggests, his fingers tightening on her hip, and something in me snaps.
I'm between them in an instant, my hand closing around Lucy's wrist. She startles, eyes widening when she sees me, lips parting in surprise. "Damon?—"
"We're leaving," I say, my voice a low growl that makes her pupils dilate. I don't look at Reynolds. I don't trust myself not to put my fist through his perfectly capped teeth.
"I believe the lady and I were having a conversation," Reynolds says, his voice cool and amused. Baiting me.
Now I do look at him, and whatever he sees in my face makes him take an involuntary step back. "Touch her again and you'll lose the hand," I say, quiet enough that only he can hear.
His smile doesn't falter, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. "Careful, Blackwell. Your shares dropped three points today. You can't afford enemies right now."
"And you can't afford a trip to the emergency room," I say pleasantly, then turn my back on him, dismissing him entirely as I guide—drag—Lucy through the crowded restaurant.
I feel her resistance, the slight stiffening of her spine. She doesn't like being manhandled in public. I don't care. Not right now. Not when I'm still seeing Reynolds' hand on her body. Not when I'm still imagining all the ways he could have lured her away from me.
"Damon, what are you doing?" she hisses as I pull her past tables of startled diners. "Who was that man?"
I don't answer. Can't answer through the fog of rage and fear clouding my brain. Fear. That's new. I've never feared losing anything in my life. I've always known I could buy or build whatever I wanted. But Lucy... Lucy can't be replaced. Can't be duplicated.
I find what I'm looking for near the restrooms. A small alcove, dark and private, where the noise of the restaurant is muffled. I back her against the wall, caging her in with my arms on either side of her head. Our bodies aren't touching, but I can feel the heat of her, smell the vanilla scent of her shampoo mixed with something warmer, something uniquely Lucy.
Her eyes are wide but not frightened. Never frightened of me. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her cheeks flushed. Anger? Excitement? Both?
"You want to test me, sweetheart?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
She blinks, genuine confusion crossing her features. "What are you talking about?"
"You were flirting with him." The accusation tastes bitter on my tongue. I know it's not true even as I say it. Know I'm being irrational. But the image of Reynolds touching her, making her laugh, won't leave my head.
"I was being polite to a stranger who approached me," she says, a hint of steel entering her voice. "I didn't even know who he was. I still don't."
"He's a snake," I say, leaning closer, close enough that our foreheads almost touch. "He's my competitor. My enemy. And he was touching you."
Something changes in her expression then. Understanding dawns, followed by something softer, something that makes my chest ache. "You're jealous," she says, not a question.
"Fuck yes, I’m jealous" I admit. But the truth is, I've never been jealous before Lucy. Never cared enough about any woman to feel this murderous rage at the sight of another man's hands on her.
Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my hammering heart. "Damon, I didn't know who he was. I was just waiting for you."
"He knew exactly who you were," I say, my voice rough. "He approached you to get to me. To take what's mine."
Her eyes flash at that. "I'm not property, Damon. I'm not something to be taken or owned."
But she is. She's mine in a way I can't explain, in a way that defies logic or reason. Mine in a way that terrifies me with its intensity.
I lean in closer, my lips a breath away from hers. "Tell me you don't feel it too," I demand. "Tell me you don't know you're mine."
Her pupils dilate, swallowing the warm brown of her irises. Her lips part, her breath hitching. She doesn't answer, but her body does—leaning toward me, seeking contact.
And fucking hell, who am I to deny her.
I curse and push her pretty little dress up before I unzip my trousers. My cock springs out, fat and aching, moisture already beading the tip.
Ready, always ready for her.
“Dammit, baby, see how hard you keep me? All the damn time.”
I don't give her time to respond before I'm lifting her against the wall, hands gripping her thighs, spreading them to make room for my body. I tear her panties aside with one harsh jerk, the delicate fabric giving way easily. She gasps, the sound driving me even more insane.
"Damon, we can't—not here—" But her body betrays her words. She's soaked, her pussy slick and ready for me. Always ready.
"We can. We will." I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging against her wet heat. "You're mine. Say it."
"Damon..." She breathes my name like a prayer, like a curse. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in even through the expensive fabric of my suit.
I push just the tip inside her, then stop, demanding, "Say it, Lucy."
Her head falls back against the wall, eyes half-closed with desire. "I'm yours," she whispers, the words unleashing something primal in me.
I thrust into her fully, burying myself to the hilt in one powerful stroke. She cries out, the sound muffled against my shoulder as I start to move, hard and fast, taking her right here in this dark corner where anyone could walk by. I don't care. Let them see. Let them all see who she belongs to.
"No one touches you," I growl into her ear, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. "No one but me."
Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back as she meets each thrust. "No one," she agrees, breathless, her inner walls clenching around me so perfectly I nearly lose myself right then.
I take her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her moans as I pound into her. Her body takes me so perfectly, like she was made for me. Only me. I fuck her against the wall with brutal efficiency, every thrust a claim, every grunt a declaration. Mine. Mine. Mine.
"You make me insane," I growl against her lips. "Do you understand that? You make me fucking insane, Lucy."
Her eyes are glazed with pleasure, but I see the clarity in them too. The understanding. She knows exactly what she does to me.
"I didn't mean to," she whispers, her voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust.
"Doesn't matter," I tell her, adjusting my grip on her thighs, spreading her wider for me. "You're still going to take it. Take all of me."
I feel her tightening around my cock, those telltale flutters that mean she's close. Her breathing quickens, those little gasps that drive me wild coming faster and faster.
"That's it, baby. Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to."
She shatters in my arms, her back arching off the wall. Her whole body trembles as she comes, inner walls gripping me so tight I see stars. I clamp my hand over her mouth to muffle her cry, but I don't slow my pace. I fuck her through her orgasm, watching her face contort with pleasure, her eyes rolling back. There's nothing more beautiful than Lucy coming apart for me.
"Only I get to see you like this," I growl against her ear. "Only I get to feel you come."
I'm close now, the pressure building at the base of my spine. But I'm not done with her yet. Not by a long shot. I pull out abruptly, ignoring her whimper of protest, and set her down on shaky legs.
"We're going home," I tell her, tucking myself back into my pants with difficulty. My cock is still rock hard, aching for release, but I'll wait. I want her in my bed, spread out beneath me, where I can take my time reminding her exactly who she belongs to.
I straighten her dress with jerky movements, my hands not quite steady. The sight of her—flushed, disheveled, her lips swollen from my kisses—nearly makes me change my mind. But no. I want to take her properly. Want to watch her fall apart over and over in our bed.
I take her hand, leading her through the restaurant. I don't stop to pay the bill. They know me here. They'll add it to my account.
Reynolds is still at the bar, his eyes following us as we leave. I meet his gaze directly, letting him see exactly what we've been doing. Let him see that she's thoroughly fucked and claimed. Mine.
Lucy stumbles slightly as we exit, her legs still weak from her orgasm. I catch her easily, pulling her against my side. Outside, my driver is already waiting, the back door of the Bentley open before we reach it.
I push her inside, following immediately after. The privacy partition is already up.
"Penthouse," I bark at the driver, then press the button to close the divider completely.
Lucy sits across from me, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. Her hair is mussed, lipstick smeared. She's never looked more beautiful.
"Was that really necessary?" she finally asks, her voice still husky with arousal.
"Yes." I don't elaborate. Don't explain. Just stare at her with an intensity that makes her shift in her seat. I can smell her arousal from here, see the way her thighs press together. She's still needy. Still wanting.
Good.
We don’t speak for the remainder of the car ride, and the elevator ride to my penthouse is silent as well, charged with electricity that raises the hair on my arms. Lucy stands a foot away, but I feel her as if she's pressed against me. Her scent fills the small space. Vanilla and heat. The doors slide open too slowly, and I usher her inside my home with a hand at the small of her back. The same spot Reynolds touched. I want to erase his fingerprints from her skin. Want to mark her so thoroughly that no man would dare approach her again. The thought should frighten me—this possessiveness isn't rational—but nothing about how I feel for Lucy follows any rules I've ever known.
She walks into the living room, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering cityscape below us, but Lucy is the only view I care about. She sets her purse down on the glass coffee table and turns to face me, arms crossed over her chest.
"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" she asks, chin tilted up in that defiant way that makes me want to push her against the nearest wall. "Who was that man, and why did he make you so angry?"
I shrug out of my suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over a chair. "Carter Reynolds. CEO of Reynolds Tech. He's been trying to tank my company for years."
"And you think he was talking to me as some kind of...corporate espionage?"
I loosen my tie, watching how her eyes track the movement of my fingers. "He knew exactly who you were. Who you are to me."
Her eyebrows lift. "And who am I to you, Damon?"
The question hangs in the air between us, dangerous and weighted. Two weeks we've been doing this—fucking, spending nights together, sharing meals—but we've never defined it. Never put a label on what burns between us. She's twenty-two. In college. I'm thirty-six with an empire to run. On paper, we make no sense.
But sense has nothing to do with the way my pulse accelerates when she's near. The way I can't focus on work because I'm counting the minutes until I can have her again.
"You're mine," I say simply, because it's the only truth I know.
Her eyes darken, pupils expanding. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, and my cock hardens painfully in response.
"I don't belong to anyone," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. Her body is already leaning toward mine, betraying her words.
I cross the distance between us in three long strides. Our fingers brush, and we both feel the spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts us nonetheless. I curl my hand around the nape of her neck, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse.
"Say it again," I challenge her, my voice a low rumble. "Tell me you're not mine while looking me in the eyes."
Her breath catches. She opens her mouth, closes it again. I can see the war in her eyes—pride versus desire, independence versus the undeniable thing that's grown between us these past weeks.
Instead of answering, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine.
The kiss ignites like a match to gasoline. There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing sweet. My hands grip her waist, yanking her against me with enough force to make her gasp into my mouth. Her arms wind around my neck, fingers threading through my hair, tugging hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain down my spine.
I walk her backward until she hits the wall, pinning her there with my body. My hands find hers, lifting them above her head, fingers interlaced. I break the kiss to look at her—eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen, cheeks flushed with desire. Mine. No matter what she says, no matter how she fights it, she's mine.
"Tell me what you want," I demand, even though I can read her body like a familiar book. Know exactly what makes her tremble, what makes her beg.
Her eyes flash, a reminder that for all her youth, Lucy is no pushover. No meek little girl to be commanded. It's one of the things that drove me crazy about her from the start.
"I want you to stop acting like a caveman," she says, but the breathless quality of her voice undermines her words. "I wasn't flirting with him."
"I know." I press my forehead to hers, a gesture more intimate than any kiss. "That's what makes this so fucking insane, Lucy. I know you weren't. I know you would never. And I still wanted to tear his throat out for touching you." I release her hands to cup her face between my palms. "I've never felt this way. Never lost control like this. Do you understand what you do to me?"
Something softens in her expression. Her hand comes up to cover mine, turns her face to press a kiss to my palm. The tenderness of the gesture makes my chest ache.
"Show me," she whispers.
The words snap the last thread of my restraint. I capture her mouth again, tongue demanding entrance, tasting the sweetness of her. My hands find the zipper of her dress, dragging it down with one smooth motion. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a pale pink bra and matching panties. I drink in the sight of her—all smooth skin and gentle curves, the constellation of freckles across her collarbone that I've memorized with my tongue.
"Beautiful," I murmur, and she flushes under my gaze. For all her fire and spine, Lucy still doesn't see herself clearly. Doesn't understand just how breathtaking she is.
I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. I carry her to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us. The city lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her skin in silver and shadow as I lay her on the bed.
I strip efficiently, aware of her eyes tracking every movement. When I'm naked, I kneel on the bed beside her, trailing my fingers along the lace edge of her bra. "These need to go," I say, and she arches her back in silent invitation.
I unhook her bra, sliding it down her arms, revealing her perfect breasts to my hungry gaze. Her nipples pucker in the cool air, and I lower my head to take one into my mouth. She gasps, back arching further, hands clutching my shoulders.
"Damon," she moans, the sound of my name on her lips sending a jolt of primal satisfaction through me.
I move lower, trailing kisses down her stomach, hooking my fingers in her panties and drawing them down her legs with torturous slowness. When she's completely naked, I take a moment just to look at her—sprawled across my bed, skin flushed, eyes dark with desire. For me. Only for me.
"Stop staring and touch me," she demands, voice breathless but commanding.
I grin, sharp and predatory. "Impatient, sweetheart?" But I oblige, settling between her thighs, spreading her legs wider. She's already wet for me, already needy. I run a finger through her folds, collecting her arousal, before pressing two fingers inside her heat. Her sharp intake of breath is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
"So wet," I murmur against her inner thigh, placing open-mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin there. "So ready for me."
"Please," she whispers, hips lifting to meet my touch.
I work my fingers in and out of her, adding a third when she whimpers for more. My thumb finds her clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make her squirm. But it's not enough. Not today. Not when I can still see Reynolds touching her, making her laugh. Not when I need to claim her completely.
I withdraw my fingers, ignoring her mewl of protest, and move up her body. I settle between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. I capture her gaze, holding it as I push inside her in one smooth thrust.
We both groan at the sensation. She's tight and hot and perfect around me. Made for me. I start to move, setting a punishing rhythm that has her clutching at my shoulders, nails digging into my skin.
"Mine," I growl against her neck, unable to stop the possessive word from escaping. "Say it, Lucy. Say you're mine."
Her eyes flash, that stubborn streak showing through even as her body welcomes me, takes everything I give her. "I don't belong to you," she gasps, even as her legs wrap tighter around my waist, urging me deeper.
The contradiction between her words and her actions drives me wild. I hook an arm under one of her knees, changing the angle, driving deeper into her. She cries out, eyes rolling back in pleasure.
"Say it," I demand again, slowing my thrusts to a torturous pace that has her whimpering. "Tell me what we both know."
"Damon, please," she begs, trying to move her hips to force a faster rhythm.
I pin her with my weight, keeping my thrusts maddeningly slow, deep but not enough to push her over the edge. "Say it, and I'll give you what you need. What only I can give you."
She glares up at me, that fire I love blazing in her eyes. "You're such an asshole."
I can't help but laugh, even as my body screams for release. "Yes, I am. But I'm your asshole. Just like you're mine."
Something shifts in her expression then—a softening, a surrender that has nothing to do with weakness. "Yes," she whispers, her hand coming up to cup my cheek in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. "I'm yours. And you're mine."
The last two words hit me with unexpected force. You're mine. I've been so focused on possessing her, on claiming her, that I never considered the reverse—that she might have claimed me just as thoroughly. The realization should terrify me. Instead, it breaks something open inside my chest.
I capture her mouth in a kiss that's suddenly more gentle than anything we've shared before. My hips start moving again, but the rhythm has changed—still intense but less frantic, less about proving a point and more about connection.
Lucy responds immediately, her body softening under mine, her kisses turning deeper, more intimate. Her hands trace patterns on my back, no longer clawing but caressing. The shift is subtle but profound, transforming what began as an act of possession into something that feels dangerously close to making love.
I feel her body tightening around me, her breaths coming faster. "Come for me," I murmur against her lips. "Let go, Lucy. I've got you."
She does, her body arching beneath mine, a cry tearing from her throat as pleasure crashes over her. The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her pulsing around me, pushes me over the edge. I bury my face in her neck as I come, pouring myself into her with a groan that might have been her name.
For long moments afterward, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. I roll to the side, taking her with me so she's sprawled across my chest. Her hair tickles my chin, and I brush it back, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture far too tender for a man who prides himself on ruthlessness.
"You make me insane," I admit into the quiet darkness, words I never thought I'd say to anyone. "I saw him touch you, and something in me just...snapped. I've never felt this way before. Never lost control like this."
She props her chin on my chest, looking up at me with those eyes that see too much. "I wasn't flirting with him," she says again, softly this time.
"I know." I trace the curve of her cheek with my thumb. "That's what scares me. I know you weren't. I know you wouldn't. And I still couldn't control myself. You've done something to me, Lucy. Made me into someone I don't recognize."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then, she lays her head on my chest and nuzzles close to me.
I hold her close, listening to her breathing even out, feeling the steady beat of her heart against my chest. Mine , I think again, but the word has shifted somehow, expanded to include something beyond mere possession. Something that feels dangerously like belonging.
To her, as much as she belongs to me.