“Yes,” I whisper, my arms winding around his neck as he positions himself at my entrance.
This time, when he enters me, it’s with careful restraint, his movements measured and deep. My legs wrap around his waist, drawing him closer as my fingers dig into the strong muscles of his shoulders.
“You have to understand the consequences of your actions—of putting yourself in danger.” His movements start to gain momentum. “Don’t ever fucking do that to me again.” He reaches one hand up, pressing it against the mirror behind us.
He takes me slowly, thoroughly, his gaze never leaving mine. There’s an intimacy between us that was absent in the way he took me at the warehouse—a connection that feels almost more invasive than the physical possession.
When my pleasure builds again, he seems to sense it, his rhythm changing to bring me to the edge. “Let go,” he urges, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit. “Let me see you come apart for me again.”
My second release is more intense than the first, tearing a cry from my throat that Damien captures with his mouth.
“That’s right. Just like that, baby.” His voice begins to shake. “Fuck me, yes, just like that.” He barely gets the last words out before his release follows behind mine a moment later, his body tensing as he empties himself deep inside me.
We stay like that for a few moments, our breathing gradually slowing, our bodies still joined. Damien’s forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed like he’s savoring the moment.
When he finally withdraws, it’s with obvious reluctance. He lifts me from the counter with casual strength, carrying me to his bed, where he lays me down with surprising gentleness.
“Rest,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with another towel, which he uses to dry my hair with careful attention. The domesticity of the gesture almost undoes me more than the sex . . . this powerful, dangerous man tending to me with such care after what I witnessed tonight.
When he finishes, he stretches out beside me, gathering me against his chest. I should feel trapped, but instead, I find myself relaxing into his warmth.
“Why me?” I ask into the comfortable silence. “Why have you been watching me? How do you know about my parents?”
He tenses slightly beneath me, his hand pausing where it had been stroking my back. “That’s a longer story,” he says finally. “One I’m not sure you’re ready to hear tonight.”
“I want to know,” I insist, pushing myself up to look at his face. “Whatever it is, I can handle it. After what I’ve seen tonight, there’s nothing that could shock me more.”
His expression suggests otherwise, but after a moment’s consideration, he nods. “All right. But first, let’s get dressed. This conversation requires a different setting.”
He rises, moving to a dresser where he retrieves sweatpants and a T-shirt for himself, and similar items for me. The soft cotton feels comforting against my skin after the intensity of the night.
Damien takes my hand, leading me through corridors I haven’t seen before, down to what appears to be his private office. Unlike the intimidating space at Knox Tower, this room feels more personal—bookshelves lining the walls, computer screens arranged like picture frames, and another fireplace. Each step I take deeper into Damien’s world feels like a deliberate stepping away from the light, from what I’ve always considered “right.” Yet the darkness calls to me, promising something more honest than the virtuous half-life I’ve been living.
He gestures for me to sit on the sofa while he moves to a filing cabinet in the corner. After unlocking it with a key from his desk, he removes a thick folder and brings it to me.
“This is everything,” he says, placing it in my hands. “The complete truth about your parents, about Victor Messini, about why I’ve been watching you for so long.”
He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself. His shoulders square, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see uncertainty flicker across his face—a hairline fracture in his perfect control.
“Victor Messini was my mentor,” he begins, his voice steady despite the tension visible in his jaw. “He was the man who brought me into the business world, who groomed me to take over his company, which I turned into Knox Industries.” He pauses, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “He was also the one driving the car that killed your parents eight years ago.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and sending ice through my veins. The room tilts around me, the walls suddenly too close, the air too thin.
“What?” I whisper, the single word barely audible even to my own ears. My fingers grip the edge of his desk, needing something solid to anchor me as the foundation of my reality shifts beneath my feet.
“He was drunk,” Damien continues, his expression carefully neutral even though his eyes never leave my face, cataloging every microexpression of my unraveling. “It was raining. He’d been at a private club downtown, celebrating a successful acquisition. He’d had at least four double Scotches by the time he got behind the wheel.”
My chest constricts, making each breath a struggle. The details I’ve wondered about for years, the circumstances that stole my parents, are now being recited almost callously by the man I’ve allowed into my bed . . . and into my body only moments ago.
“The accident happened on Lakeshore Drive,” he says, his voice factual, detached. “Victor took the curve too fast. He was in the wrong lane. Your parents didn’t have time to react.”
A strangled sound escapes me—part gasp, part whimper. The police report flashes in my mind, the clinical description of a “head-on collision,” the “rainy conditions,” the “driver losing control.” All these years, I’d imagined a faceless stranger, a random tragedy. Never this. Never a deliberate cover-up by the man standing before me.
“When he realized what he’d done,” Damien says, “he called me to handle it. I was his second-in-command, so it was only natural for me to clean up his mistakes.”
Mistakes.My stomach lurches at the word.
