"I can't stand seeing you like this," he tells me, his voice broken and raw with emotion. "So soft, so humble andsubmissive in front of them. And that sausage-looking idiot..." His jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind together. "If he looks in your direction one more time, Roxanne, I swear to God we'll show them how fast you can arrange a funeral."
I hear the disappointment lacing his voice when he says "humble" and "submissive," like the words physically pain him. Because normally, I'm not like this. I'm fire and sharp edges and a tongue that cuts deeper than any blade.
His hand lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. The intensity there makes my breath catch.
"Screw them," he continues, each word deliberate and fierce. "They didn't deserve you, don't deserve you, and never will deserve you. But please..." His thumb strokes along my jaw, tender despite the fury radiating from him. "Never lower your head in front of them again. Bring out your claws, bring out that fire in you, baby, and don't let them walk all over you."
I feel him vibrating with fury for me, with rage for every word addressed to me at that table. Every dismissive comment, every backhanded compliment, every subtle dig. My heart hurts from all the emotions I'm feeling right now, from gratitude and anger and something deeper I can't quite name.
His hands slide down to the skirt I'm wearing and lift it up, bunching the fabric at my waist.
"Damien, what are you doing?" I ask, my voice trembling with anticipation more than fear.
"You don't believe me when I tell you you're exceptional," he says, his fingers tracing the edge of my tights. "You don't believe me when I tell you the world should be on its knees at your feet. You don't believe me when I tell you there's a fire in you that none of those idiots in that room can extinguish." He leans in,his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Not as long as I'm still breathing."
In one motion, he turns me so my back is to him, positioning me in front of the mirror. The next thing I feel is my tights pooling at my knees, the cool air hitting my exposed skin.
I look in the mirror at my own reflection and God, my eyes. I've never seen my pupils this dilated, nearly swallowing the color completely. My cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen from his kiss, my hair slightly disheveled. I look wrecked, and we haven't even started yet.
For a moment, our gazes meet in the reflection, and he smiles. Like a predator. Like a wolf who knows he's about to feast on his prey and is savoring every second of the hunt.
"I'm going to need you to scream my name," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "so that loser at the table understands that he can have a thousand fantasies about you, can jerk off in the bathroom thinking about your breasts, but he'll never, ever get his hands on the real thing."
I hear him unbuckle his belt, the clink of metal and the whisper of leather pulling free from loops. This feeling of anticipation, of wrongness at doing this here, with my family just beyond that door, makes me clench my thighs together. The improperness only heightens the need.
In moments, I feel his tip make contact with my center, and I can't help but shudder at the sensation, at how ready I am for him.
"So fucking wet for me,slonko," he murmurs, running himself through my slickness. "Or did watching that sausage-looking moron drool over what's mine do this to you?"
I shake my head frantically. It's him. It's always him. The way he looks at me like I'm untouchable, powerful, his. The way heactually makes me feel like I'm the sun in his life, like my very existence brings him warmth and light.
"Words, baby." His lips skim along my neck, each kiss stealing a little more of my strength, making my knees weak.
"It's you," I breathe out. "It's always you."
Something flickers in his eyes, something vulnerable and raw that he quickly masks. But in the next second his hand flexes on my waist, his grip possessive and grounding, and when he enters me in one hard thrust, my moan is all that's heard in this bathroom. The sound echoes off the tiles, far too loud for how close we are to the dining room.
I try to put my hand over my mouth to muffle any other sounds, but Damien takes my wrist and kisses each finger in turn, reverent and slow, never stopping his movements inside me.
"Your hair isn't frizzy, it's perfect," he tells me between thrusts, his voice clear and firm. "Your skin has no imperfections, and even if it did, it would still glow. The work you put into every event you organize shows in the hundreds of clients fighting to book you for their parties, so get this word through your head: PERFECT!" His eyes lock with mine in the mirror. "That's what you are."
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by his words, by the sincerity in them, by the way he sees me so differently than everyone else does.
I don't think he understands the weight of what he's doing. How every word he says is stitching together something in me that's been broken for so long, piece by fragile piece. I can be strong. God, I can be fearless when it comes to fighting for my work or protecting the people I love. I'll go to war for them without hesitation. But with myself? When those voices starttheir endless loop of criticism and doubt, when they whisper that I'm not enough, never enough, I'm merciless. I say things to myself I'd never let anyone else say to me. I tear myself apart with a cruelty I'd never show another soul.
"Damn, baby!" His voice breaks through my thoughts, ragged and desperate.
I don't know how much time passes. Minutes? Hours? Time loses meaning. I just feel his hands leaving their mark on my skin, branding me with every touch. I feel his breath at the base of my neck, hot and uneven. I hear his guttural sounds, those raw masculine noises that send shivers down my spine, and I know that right now, in this moment, I feel perfect.
Because I'm giving this to him. This pleasure coursing through his body. I'm the one drawing these moans from him, I'm the one making his gaze cloud with pleasure, making him lose control. Me. Not anyone else, but me.
His rhythm shifts, becomes more deliberate. Slower. Each thrust deeper than the last, making me feel every inch of him. One hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise while the other slides up my torso, palm hot against my ribs, my sternum, before cupping my breast. His thumb brushes over my nipple and I arch into the touch, a whimper escaping my lips.
"Look at yourself," he commands, his voice rough in my ear. "Look at how beautiful you are when you're falling apart for me."
I force my eyes open, meeting my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, lips parted as I pant, eyes glazed with pleasure. I look wrecked, thoroughly claimed, and the sight of it sends another wave of heat through me.
Behind me, Damien is pure intensity. His jaw is tight, muscles flexed, that vein in his neck prominent with the effort ofmaintaining control. His eyes are locked on mine in the mirror, watching every reaction, cataloging every gasp and moan.
