*Isabella POV*
He didn't answer. He just smirked, that infuriatingly confident, cocky smirk that made my pussy clench with anticipation. He ripped the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom onto his hard, thick cock with a practiced ease.
And then he was moving. In one swift, powerful display of strength, he grabbed my hips, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. He positioned me over his dick and then pulled me down, impaling me on his length in one, brutal thrust.
A cry tore from my throat, a raw, husky sound of pure pleasure. He filled me completely, stretching me to my limits. There was no gentle adjustment period, no slow build-up. He set a punishing rhythm from the very beginning, his hands gripping my ass, lifting me up and slamming me back down onto his cock. The motion of the limo added to the intensity, each turn and bump in the road driving him deeper inside me.
His head dipped, his hot mouth closing over one of my nipples. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, sending a sharp, exquisite jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my core. He did the same to the other, his mouth a tormenting, wonderful weapon. The pressure inside me was building at an alarming rate, a tight, coiling knot of sensation that threatened to snap at any second.
I could feel it, the edge of the cliff, the promise of a mind-blowing orgasm. I was so close. "Damien," I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum."
But he just tightened his grip on my hips, stilling his movements for a fraction of a second, just long enough to pull me back from the brink. "Not yet," he growled against my skin.
He started moving again, his pace relentless, his hips bucking up to meet mine. He brought me to the edge again and again, each time denying me the release I craved. It was exquisite torture. I was a squirming, begging mess, my body slick with sweat, my mind a blank slate of pure, desperate need. He was in complete control, and I was powerless to do anything but feel.
Finally, when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, when I was a sobbing, incoherent mess in his arms, he leaned in and whispered against my ear, his voice a low, dominant command. "Cum for me, Isabella. Now."
And I did. My orgasm shattered through me with the force of a fucking hurricane, a violent, all-consuming wave of pleasure that left me screaming his name, my vision going white. My pussy clenched around his dick, milking him as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over me. With a final, guttural groan, he followed me over the precipice, his body shuddering as he found his own release, emptying himself deep inside me.
We collapsed against each other, a tangled, sweaty heap of limbs in the back of the moving limo. The only sounds were our ragged breaths and the faint hum of the tires on the asphalt. I was boneless, spent, and utterly, completely his.
"That was..." he began, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as the limo glided through the darkened streets.
"Fucking amazing, just like you," I finished for him, a smug little grin on my face. I leaned in and gave him one last, quick kiss before we started the awkward, fumbling process of pulling our clothes back on in the confined space. The rustle of fabric and the soft clicks of belts were the only sounds, a stark contrast to the frantic passion from moments before.
"Why the limo?" I asked, breaking the silence as I smoothed down my shirt.
"My car is at the shop," he said, his tone casual. But then he paused, his eyes finding mine in the dim light, a knowing, calculating look in them. "Did you have sex with me because you didn't know what to say to me?" he asked, his voice quiet but sharp, cutting right through my bullshit.
I rolled my eyes, but on the inside, my stomach did a nervous little flip. "I had sex with you because I wanted to," I said, my voice a little too defensive. And because I am a dumbass, I added silently, a wave of self-loathing washing over me.
We got home, and the quiet, imposing house felt like a judgment. I was partially exhausted, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming guilt and nervousness mixing inside me. I felt like a fraud.
"Isabella, is there something wrong?" Damien asked, his voice gentle but perceptive.
I froze, my back to him, not daring to turn around. If I looked at him, I knew I'd fall apart.
"Come on, we're past the silent treatment," he said softly. "You know I can feel you're on the edge of crying."
And as soon as he said that, the tears fell. Hot, silent, unstoppable tracks down my cheeks before I could even think to stop them.
"Come here," he said. He turned me to face him, his expression full of a tender concern that just made me cry harder. He pulled me into his arms, and I buried my face in his shirt, the fabric soaking up my tears.
"I shouldn't break down in front of you like that, I'm an idiot," I sobbed, my voice muffled by the soft cotton. "I don't know why, I don't want to, but I end up crying in front of you. I'm sorry."
"Don't ever say sorry, my love," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur against my hair. He held me tighter, one hand stroking my back in slow, calming circles. "If anything, I feel honoured that you trust me enough to be yourself in front of me."
His words echoed in my head for a moment, the kindness in them so disarming it almost hurt. And then the realization hit me, sharp and undeniable. I did enjoy my time in New York. Everything was fun and games. Jacob was a ray of sunshine, like he always is. But the truth is that I always joke with him to have the upper hand. I feel he is so childish, and I need to be bold, brave, witty, and sarcastic just to keep him in check. It's a constant performance.
But not with Damien. With him, all the emotions I've kept hidden for years are now surfacing, and I'm breaking down in front of him. And that's because he is the one who gets me the most. My partner. My home. My love.