His chuckle rumbled low in his chest. “Careful,” he murmured, smoothing lotion into my skin with slow, practiced strokes, “I’m the one in charge of your aftercare.” A pause. “Speaking of which—eat this.”
I felt his fingers near my mouth before I opened it. A piece of chocolate was placed on my tongue—dark, rich, melting gradually across my taste buds. I let it dissolve, grounding myself in the tiny spark of sweetness.
“So,” he asked gently, “what did you think?”
“I think that’s a loaded question.”
“That’s fair.” He laughed quietly. “But it’s something I need to know so I can dial in for next time.”
Next time.
My whole body went still.
The throbbing under the blanket pulsed hard—hot, pounding, a raw reminder of everything he’d done to me. Pain bloomed again, sharper now that I was awake enough to feel it fully.
Did I want this again? My brain screamed no. My bruises howled no. My muscles vibrated no.
But the floating…
God, the floating.
The silence. The absolute quiet. That I wanted. That I craved.
That I would chase into fire.
My voice came out small. Honest. “I loved it.”
He stilled. A subtle shift. His posture straightened, as if the words fed something inside him. “Good,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “That makes me… very happy, Emma.”
Chapter 52
***
Damien
I’d dreamt the whole night.
But I didn’t sleep.
Not a single wink.
I stayed awake—not out of obligation, but because I couldn’t stop watching her breathe. Like some feral, obsessive Edward Cullen variant—the same one she’d mocked for being creepy.
But I didn’t care.
Not last night. Not after everything that happened.
I tended to her in still intervals—lidocaine every two hours, Advil every four.
She never stirred. Not really.
A little sound here, the faint shift of her fingers there—tiny movements that told me she was okay. But nothing that hinted at regret. Nothing that resembled fear.
She’d given me everything. Trusted me with everything. And she’d loved it.
Not tolerated it. Not merely liked it.
Loved it.
