I beamed with excitement. Damian studied me, admiration flickering in his eyes.
“You really understand,” he said. “Most people see only broken junk. You see the beauty, the meaning. You look deeper—for the stories behind them.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s rare. I’ve never shared this side of myself with a woman I was also… intimate with.”
“I think that’s what connects us. Our love for the past.”
He released my hand, lifting his glass for a slow sip of wine. “We can watch the film in bed. There’s a TV in my room.”
“That sounds tempting, but I’d like to take a shower first.”
He stood, lifting me effortlessly in one swift motion. I squealed, laughing. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you to the shower.”
He set me down in the large glass stall, his eyes locked on mine. Slowly, he slid my skirt down, his hands tracing up my legs. I lifted my arms as he pulled my top over my head.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, tugging his shirt off in the next breath. He leaned forward, reached past me, and turned on the water. Then he slid my panties down and kicked off his pants.
A blue light filled the stall. Water poured from above. It hit his chest. Drops slid down, tracing every hard line of muscle.
Alive.
Too alive.
My fingers twitched. The urge to touch him was unbearable.
“Damian…” I began, but the word died under the intensity in his gaze.
He turned me. Lather. Warm hands. Too gentle. Too sure.
Possession disguised as care.
His hands were everywhere, and the pull low in my belly grew sharp and urgent. I wanted him inside me.
“Put your hands on the glass,” he ordered.
I obeyed.
“Good. Now spread your legs.” He leaned in, his cock hard against me. “Do you want me inside you?” he whispered, rubbing himself against my ass.
“Yes.”
The word had barely left my mouth before he pushed into me—greedily, without hesitation. I moaned, full and taken. He thrust hard, paused, then drove deeper again, pinning me to the glass. Every movement was brutal, relentless, deliberate.
“Do you like that? Do you like it when I fuck you slow and hard?”
“Yes—” I gasped, breaking on his rhythm. Every thrust tore another sound from me.
Damian grabbed the shower head and aimed the stream at my clit. The shock of heat ripped through me, instant and consuming. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, as if he meant to claim me from the inside out.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispered, voice rough in my ear.
And I shattered. Heat and water—his fingers on my hip, his voice like a command carved into my body—I broke apart. My back arched, my muscles clenched around him, my body convulsed as I came, hard, shameless, wrecked. Wave after wave, drowning me in fire and dark water. And through it all, there was only him. Damian. My downfall. My home.
“Shit, Daisy,” he groaned, jerking as he spilled deep inside me. His forehead dropped to my neck, breath ragged.
Slowly, he pulled out. No word. No kiss.
I turned, searching for his face. But it was wrong—tight, frayed, close to breaking. I reached for him. He recoiled as if burned. Something inside me splintered.
