The penthouse was cold.
Katherine noticed that first. The marble floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the furniture that looked like nobody ever sat on it. Everything pristine. Everything untouched. Like a museum nobody visited.
She stood by the entrance, still in the wedding dress, watching Damien move through the space like he'd forgotten she was there.
He dropped his jacket on the back of a chair. Rolled his sleeves up. Went to the bar and poured Macallan into a glass without offering her anything.
Fine. She wasn't thirsty anyway.
She was tired. Her feet ached from the Louboutins Elena's mother had forced her into. The corset built into the dress was crushing her ribs. She'd smiled so much her cheeks felt bruised.
But she couldn't stop looking at him.
She'd seen handsome men before. Velvet was full of them—rich guys with nice faces and wandering hands who thought a hundred-dollar tip bought them something it didn't. Damien wasn't like them.
He was tall. Dark hair pushed back, clean fade at the sides. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. The kind of face that didn't need to try.
And his hands.
She watched him hold the glass. Long fingers, clean nails, veins visible on the back. Hands that had done things she didn't want to think about.
Hands she was thinking about anyway.
He took a sip. Still hadn't looked at her.
"You're staring."
She didn't look away. "You're interesting to look at."
Now he looked.
He turned, leaned against the bar, and studied her the way he'd been studying at the altar.
"You look prettier in person."
Then he set his glass down and crossed the room.
Katherine's heart did something stupid.
He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back. Close enough that she could smell him—sandalwood, whiskey,he smelled so expensive.
His hand came up. he touched her shoulder. Traced the strap of the dress with one finger, slow, down to where it met the bodice.
"This is uncomfortable," he said.
"Very."
"Turn around."
She turned.
The buttons started at the nape of her neck. Tiny silk-covered things that took forever at the fitting. His fingers worked through them quicker than she expected, but still slow enough that she felt every single one release.
The dress loosened around her ribs. She took her first real breath in hours.
His knuckles brushed her spine as he worked lower. She shivered.
"Cold?" he asked.
"No."
He undid the last button. The dress fell.
Eight thousand dollars of Italian silk pooled around her feet like it was nothing. She stood in La Perla she didn't pay for, staring at the city lights below.
His hand flattened against her lower back. Warm. Firm.
"You're not shaking," he said.
"Should I be?"
His hand slid around to her stomach. Pulled her back against him. She felt his chest against her bare shoulders. Felt him hard against her ass through his trousers.
"No." His mouth touched her ear. "You shouldn't."
He kissed her neck . His lips found her pulse point, lingered there, then moved lower.
She leaned back into him without meaning to.
His hand traveled up her stomach. Over her ribs. Cupped her breast through the thin lace of the bra. His thumb dragged across her nipple and she inhaled sharply.
"Sensitive," he noted.
"Shut up."
He laughed. Low, quiet, against her skin. Then his hand moved down.
Past her stomach. Under the waistband of her underwear. Between her legs.
She grabbed his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to hold onto something.
He stroked her slow. Two fingers parting her, sliding through the wetness that had been building since he kissed her neck.
"Already?" he murmured.
"You started it."
"I haven't started anything yet."
He found her clit. Circled it once. Twice. Her hips jerked.
He kept going. Slow circles, steady pressure, his other arm wrapped around her waist holding her upright because her knees were getting unreliable.
She could see their reflection in the window. Her in white lace, head tipped back against his shoulder. Him still fully dressed, one hand down her underwear, watching her face in the glass.
"Damien—"
"Mm."
"I need—"
"I know what you need."
He pushed two fingers inside her.
She gasped. Grabbed his arm harder. He didn't stop.
He fucked her with his fingers while his thumb worked her clit and she stopped caring about the window, stopped caring about the reflection, stopped caring about anything except the pressure building between her legs.
"That's it," he said against her ear. "Don't hold back."
She came hard. Her whole body seized up, clenching around his fingers, a moan escaping that she couldn't have stopped if she tried.
He worked her through it. Slower strokes, easing her down, until her legs stopped shaking.
Then he pulled his hand out and brought his fingers to his mouth.
She watched him lick them clean.
"Bedroom," he said. "Now."
She walked ahead of him because he told her to.
The bedroom was like the rest of the penthouse.A massive bed dominated the space. The sheets looked like they'd never been slept in.
She stopped at the foot of the bed. Heard him behind her, heard the click of his belt being undone.
"Take off the rest."
She unhooked her bra. Let it fall. Slid the underwear down and stepped out of it.
Naked now. Still facing away from him.
She turned.
He was shirtless. She hadn't heard him take it off. His chest was broad, defined, a scar on his left side she wanted to ask about and knew better than to mention.
His pants were undone but still on. He was stroking himself, slow, watching her.
"On the bed."
She climbed on. Sat on the edge. He walked toward her and she instinctively laid back, legs falling open.
He stood between them. Looked down at her like he was deciding something.
Then he dropped to his knees.
She didn't expect that.
His hands gripped her thighs, yanked her to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on her before she could think.
His tongue licked through her folds, circled her clit, pushed inside her. She grabbed the sheets and tried not to scream.
He ate her out like he was hungry. Like he'd been thinking about this. His fingers dug into her thighs hard enough to bruise and she didn't care, couldn't care, not when his mouth was doing that.
She came again. Faster than before. Practically sobbed through it.
He didn't stop.
"Too much—" she gasped.
He looked up at her from between her legs, mouth wet, eyes dark.
"You can take it."
He kept going until she came a third time, until she was shaking and oversensitive and grabbing his hair trying to pull him away.
Only then did he stand up.
He pushed his pants down. Rolled on a condom from somewhere—she didn't see where, didn't care.
He lined himself up and pushed in.
One stroke. All the way.
Her back arched off the bed. He was big enough to feel everywhere, stretching her, filling her until there was no space left.
He didn't wait.
He fucked her hard from the first stroke. No warmup, no checking if she was okay. Just deep, relentless thrusts that made the headboard slam against the wall.
She wrapped her legs around him. Pulled him deeper. He groaned, grabbed her hips, and went harder.
"Fuck—" Her nails raked down his back. He hissed and fucked her faster.
The sounds were obscene. Skin on skin, the wet noise of him sliding in and out, her moans mixing with his grunts.
He grabbed her jaw. Made her look at him.
"Who do you belong to?"
She couldn't think. Could barely breathe. He slammed into her harder.
"Answer me."
"You—"
"Say my name."
"Damien—fuck—Damien—"
He kissed her,She could tasted herself on his lips.
When she came this time, he came with her. His whole body went rigid, his hips stuttered, and he groaned against her mouth like she'd pulled it out of him.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out. Disposed of the condom. Lay beside her, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
She stared at the ceiling too. Legs still trembling. Heart still pounding.
"Your room is down the hall," he said eventually. "Third door on the left."
"Kicking me out already?"
He turned his head. Looked at her.
"My bed. My rules. You can stay until you can walk."
She laughed. Surprised herself.
She woke up alone in her own bed.
Sunlight through the curtains. Silk sheets tangled around her legs.
She stretched. Felt the ache between her thighs. Smiled at the ceiling like an idiot.
Last night happened. It actually happened.
She sat up slow, letting the silk sheets pool around her waist.
On the dresser, a black Amex. A note beside it.
Don't bore me.
She picked up the card. Turned it over in her hand.
This was going to be fun.