Page 62 of Pleasure Payback

Then he started to undress me. Unable to remain still through the thick gravity of whatever was happening, I reached for his clothes. The moment my dress was off, he was sheathed and crouched over me, his face a rigid mask of desire and need, the force of his fingers digging into my hips as he stared deep into my eyes and thrust, hard and deep, into me.

My muffled cry was lost in the crescendo of the aria as I shook from head to toe. Firm hands held me still as he buried himself to the hilt and let out a thick groan.

Filled to capacity, brimming with sensations that baffled and awed, I surrendered to the sensual riptide Damian created. Even as I met him thrust for thrust, even as the crescendo rose around us, I knew I wouldn’t emerge from this experience the same.

But I did nothing to stop the drowning. Far from it.

I threw myself into it, letting go completely as Damian dropped his forehead to mine; sharing my air, he drove us both relentlessly to the edge.

He pounded into me as the aria ended and the beautiful sound of violins filled the room.

I came with a scream, not caring who heard, and he followed close behind, his cry thick and affected as he emptied himself inside me.

We collapsed onto soaked sheets, our bodies glistening with sweat as the ballroom fell silent.

‘So what do you think of Vivaldi?’ he muttered hoarsely in my ear after my breathing was back to somewhat normal.

‘He’s...amazing.’

‘Yeah, Spring wasn’t bad but Winter is definitely my favourite.’

My laughter triggered his. When he nudged me into his arms I went freely, draping myself over his chest and splaying my hand over where his heart beat in steady rhythm.

Time ticked by with lethargic sweetness.

Damian picked up my hand and kissed my palm. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked after a few minutes.

‘No, but I could murder a glass of champers,’ I replied in a posh British accent.

‘Hmm, that’s not a bad imitation for a Yank.’

I slapped his chest. ‘A half Yank. I’ll have you know I have English blood running through my veins.’

He froze. ‘You’re half English?’

I nodded. ‘I was born in England and lived there until I was five. My mother didn’t like it there either so my father relocated us to Connecticut.’

‘Is he still around?’ he asked with a note in his voice I could have sworn was wistful. When I looked up, his expression was interested but guarded.

As I recalled his spiky tale of his own parents my heart squeezed. This time I didn’t stop the flood of compassion. Or fight the tide of pain for my own loss. ‘No. He died a few years after he returned to England.’

‘So he left you?’ he said tightly.

‘I don’t think he had a choice in the end. My mother wasn’t exactly easy to live with. And...’ I stopped when I couldn’t exhale around the ache in my chest.

Damian cupped my chin. ‘And?’

‘He drew the line at her infidelity. He filed for divorce and custody. He won the first and lost the second.’

Damian’s eyes darkened and the kiss he placed on my lips and the arms that drew me closer were gentle. And I was weak enough to embrace both.

‘Do you visit England often?’ he asked after a long stretch.

‘Not for a while now. I’ve been busy running Nevirna.’

‘What about your plans to expand Nevirna overseas?’ he probed.

‘It was my intention two years ago. In fact I was all set to open new branches of the resort in three countries across Europe.’

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