Twenty-Two

Dahlia

 

“I hate you!” I shouted, running several feet behind him. “I hope you break your knee!”

His laughter echoed through the desert air.

“I hope you choke on your laughter, you sick bastard!”

More laughter.

“Sadist! Satan is your friend, you shit!”

That did it. Damien stopped and bent over, hands on his knees. His arms were tensed, and the utter bastard didn’t have as much as a roll of fat on his stomach, even bent forward.

The worst part was his laughter.

I’d died at least five times. I’d visited Hell each and every time, and Satan had laughed at—wait, no. That wasn’t Satan. It was his long-lost cousin, Damien freaking Fox.

“Stop laughing at me.” I was aware I was whining. But, I was also wheezing, and I couldn’t stop. My lungs were on fire. My hair was plastered to my skin. My skin was weeping sweat the way teenage girls wept when One Direction broke up.

I hated my life.

I wanted to kill the hot, shirtless asshole who’d made me do this.

I collapsed onto the ground. It was dirty and sandy and dusty, but I was already looking like something out of a junkyard, so who cared? Not me. That much I knew.

“You don’t run, do you?” Damien asked through his laughter.

Gritting my teeth, I answered, “No. I cycle. I do yoga. Pilates. Spin class. I don’t run.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“The only appropriate rhetorical question right now is me asking you how painful you’d like your death to be. If I’m going, you’re coming with me.”

“The only place you’re going is back to the car. We’re back where we started.”

“Then I suggest you find water while I attempt to regain control of my breathing.”

He half-grinned and jogged over to the dusty parking area where his now not-shiny car was. Dust had decorated the front and sides the moment we’d arrived, and all I could think was that at least I matched the car.

I didn’t think he’d appreciate the dirt inside it very much but never mind.

Damien returned, carrying two of the towels from my closet and two bottles of water. Without speaking, he handed me one of each.

I drank that water faster than I’d ever drunk anything in my life.

I still felt like hell.

Ugh.

“Better?” Damien eyed me.

“No. I still hate you.”

“Some things never change.” He was fighting a grin if the twitching in his cheeks was anything to go by.

He came over, the towel around his neck, and held a hand out to me. Reluctantly, I took it. He heaved me up with a firm grip and a giant tug, right against his body, where he pressed a hard kiss against my mouth before dragging me after him.

“Let’s go,” he said. “But wipe your legs…Or sit on the towel.”

“No. I plan to smear dirt all over the inside of your car. It’s your punishment.”

He winced, his fingers momentarily tightening around mine. “Please don’t.”

“You owe me so much chocolate right now.”

“I’ll buy you an M&M factory. Will that suffice?”

“The entire factory? I’ll take a weekly subscription.”

Laughing, he unlocked the car and reached for the door. “Duly noted. Shower, then food?”

I peered back at him as I got into the car. “Yes, but you’re cooking.”

Even as he shut the door, his groan was audible.

And oh-so-satisfying.

 

***

 

The drive back to my house was taken in silence. I had to exchange several messages with Abby about a mistake in the order that meant my shower was delayed by fifteen minutes while I called the supplier to fix it.

They did, not without moaning, but my entirely bullshit threat to change suppliers soon changed their tune.

Now, I was thankfully, blissfully, in the shower. I planned to stay for at least an hour to make sure I washed off every inch of this damn dust. I was grimy and dirty, and those were two things I wasn’t used to being.

The water beat down on me. It was so refreshing, and I spent a good few minutes alternating between hot and cold water. The extremes were wildly refreshing against my dirty skin, and I felt cleaner than I had all day.

Dust and sweat were not a good combination. Ever.

I ran my hands through my wet hair, squeezing my eyes shut and screwing up my face as the water hit it.

The fact I was half drowning in hot water was the only explanation for why I realized I wasn’t alone until I felt hands grasping my hips.

“What are you doing?” I gasped and stepped out of the water.

Damien spun us both, putting himself under the showerhead so the water trickled over me, just enough to keep me warm. His fingers tightened on my skin as he pulled me back against him, tucking me against his body.

His cock hardened when it pressed against my ass and lower back. The heat that flushed through me had nothing to do with the water. Uncontrollable and feverish, desire swamped me, tingling through me until all I felt was want for him.

“Showering with you,” Damien murmured, his lips in my hair. “I’m killing two birds with one stone.”

“What birds are they?”

“Where I get clean and fuck you at the same time.”

My heart went crazy. It thumped furiously against my ribs, and I clenched my thighs together as his hands crept over my hips and closer to the apex of my thighs.

“It’s slippery in here.” My attempt at a refusal was laughable. My clit was aching, throbbing, begging me to give in to what he wanted.

“Turn around.” He brushed his lips over my earlobe.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I spun, pressing my bare body against his, turning into the stream of the hot water that cascaded over his body.

He slipped his hand up my back, cupping the side of my face. His fingers brushed my hair. His thumb pressed against my jaw as his lips found mine, taking my mouth in a sweet yet suggestive kiss that had his tongue sweeping across the seam of my mouth.

“Open your legs,” he said against my lips. “Let me touch that tight little cunt of yours.”

My thighs clenched again, this time, tighter than before.

“Dahlia.” His voice was smooth, sexy, deep. An order and a plea, all wrapped into my name, making it impossible to deny his demand. “I love when you do what I say.”

His hand found its way between my legs as he kissed me once more. His thumb circled my clit in seconds, pushing pleasure through my body easily. I was already turned on and ready for him, but a part of me wanted to make him work for it.

Make him want it like I wanted him.

Make him need it more than I did.

Moving away from him, I reached between us. My fingers trailed across his skin, searching for his cock. His wet, hot skin was smooth beneath my touch and there was nothing comparable to the way he twitched and flexed against my hand.

Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around his cock, grasping him gently but firmly. His cock throbbed against my grip, his fingers tightening on my neck and now, my hip.

The water was a lubricant, and slowly, I moved. Up and down, playing with him, rubbing my thumb over the head of his cock, relishing the way that one, thick vein that traveled the length of his shaft pulsed against my fingers.

I squeezed.

He snapped.

Damien pushed me against the cold, wet tiles. He ripped my hand from his cock and grasped my thighs, lifting me, bringing my pussy level with his erection.

The word “condom” flashed through my mind as he kissed me and pushed himself inside.

It was desperate and unapologetic, panic mostly canceled out by my own knowledge of my contraception. A fizzle of fear held, but there was something about the way his hot skin felt against my pussy, about the way his bare skin slid against mine, nothing but my wetness separating us.

I gripped him tightly. My fingers dug into his shoulder and upper back, but he made no complaints. My back slid against the wet wall, but he unfairly kept his balance, fucking me harder as my body succumbed to the pleasure he gave me.

His grip on me tightened.

My legs wrapped harder around his waist.

The water fell over us, closing my eyes, dampening the kiss in texture but not in passion.

Nothing mattered but the way he fucked me.

Grasped me.

Kissed me.

Pleaded me.

Held me.

Wanted me.

Needed me.

Begged me.

Nothing.

Not a fucking thing. Not even as I came, clenching and moaning and holding him.

Not even as he came, mouth on my neck, fingers grabbing my ass, and my name rasping from his lips.

It didn’t even matter that as I fell down the wall, I fell for him.

For the addiction that was Damien Fox.

For the one man I feared I would never get enough of.

It didn’t even matter that, after he pulled out of me, he softly lowered my feet to the ground. He still held me against him, but this time, more gently.

What did matter was the way he squeezed shampoo into his hands. The way he massaged my scalp as he lathered it in my hair and washed it out. The way he rubbed the sponge over my body, filling the air with the scent of hot steam and rich cranberry.

The way, after a hard, rough fuck against a solid wall, he treated me as though I were fragile and breakable—someone who could break at any second.

And the worst part?

I was.

Just as I feared, he held me together.

Just when I thought I’d break, he held my cracks together, far more tenderly than I’d ever imagined he was capable of.

Just when I thought it was done, I knew I was fucked.

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

As he ran his hands over my skin, across my shoulders and down the curves of my sides, he stole a piece of me like the thief I feared he was.

Stole it.

Hid it.

Somewhere I’d never find it.

He had to steal it.

Giving it to him freely…that scared me.

So much more than I could ever put into words.