No wonder Amber wants him back.
I slide my leg over his hip, the motion unhurried, inviting. His breath changes immediately—sharp inhale, quiet exhale—and his hand tightens on my throat. Not squeezing. Claiming.
When he arches his back and angles himself just right, pleasure bursts in my core. I didn’t see it coming, and it makes me gasp. Then he switches it up again, his pubic bone pressing against my clit. I can’t keep up. Not from this angle, not if he keeps going.
He leans down to my ear, says in a voice made of raw heat, “That’s it, isn’t it, Red? Just like that?”
I manage a nod before he moves again and my eyes roll back. The bed shifts beneath us as he rolls us, positioning himself without breaking contact. I register details in flashes—the headboard, the window, the moonlight catching on his silver hair—but my focus keeps snapping back to him. To the weight of his body, the warmth, the way his presence fills the space like it was always meant to.
The way his cock does too. My body locks down, and I can’t do much more than let him have his way with me. A hand on my throat, him playing my body with his… It’s too much. I’m going to come?—
I never come, not with a man. With toys by myself? All the time. But Damian hunts my orgasm like a predator, working me over and over again until I can’t see straight. He locks eyes with me, murmuring, “Come for?—”
I tip over the edge, following his order as I let out an ugly sound. He kisses me, his tongue taking over like he owns my mouth as much as my body. Jason’s bed creaks softly beneath us, and the thought sends a rough thrill straight through me.
Damian presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed, breath uneven. “You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
I smile against his mouth, weak and loose-minded. “You followed me upstairs.”
A soft laugh leaves him, more breath than sound. “I did.”
We move together again, heat building, the night narrowing to sensation and sound and the unspoken agreement that this is happening because we both want it to. Because we’ve both chosen not to care about tomorrow.
I let myself sink into it completely.
He pulls out, flipping me over until he’s behind me and my face is buried in the pillows just before he plows into me. I’ll wake up with fingerprint bruises on my hips tomorrow, and the thought makes me grin into the five-hundred-thread-count blue pillowcase.
Damian is far more than I expected.
His body smacks mine so hard that my clit vibrates every time he hammers into me. I’m on the edge again before I know it, and then I turn my head to breathe, catching a photo of Jason’s college graduation on the nightstand.
I come again right then and there.
The world blurs. The music downstairs is nothing—I can’t hear it over the sound of our bodies coming together. Time stretches and then disappears entirely, leaving only the aftermath—the quiet, the shared breath, the sense of something completed without being concluded.
Damian growls behind me, “Fuck, I’m coming!”
I purr encouragement, bouncing back to meet his movements. He grips me harder still when he comes inside me, and his body keeps going even as he softens. When we finally slow, we stay close. And that somehow feels more intimate than anything that came before.
Eventually, though, I overheat, like always. So I lie on my side, propped on one elbow, watching Damian like he’s a painting I’m not allowed to touch anymore but refuse to stop looking at.
He’s on his back, one arm bent behind his head, chest rising and falling evenly. Even his chest hair—what little there is—is silver. The lines of him are softer now. Less guarded. His hair catches the moonlight from the window, and I have the absurd thought that he looks younger like this—lighter. Content.
That does something strange to me, but I ignore it.
“This is usually where names come out, I think,” he says, voice casual, eyes still closed.
I smile. “Usually.”
He opens one eye, glancing at me. “You’re very committed to the bit. There’s no need for that.”
“Mystery ages well in the memory, and I want to remember tonight for what it is.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s testing that answer against something inside himself. Then he nods once, decisive.
We lapse into a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. My gaze drifts around the room again. The bed. The pillows. The deliberate neatness that’s been undone just enough to tell a story. That picture on the nightstand makes me smile.
Jason will sleep here tonight.
