Page 29 of Fragile Twisted Vows

As soon as I finally, finally get to taste Damien Reed, he stops it all.

And slaps me hard across the face as soon as he rips his mouth from mine.

I’m breathing deep, my heart erratically pounding against my chest as I drop my head and refuse to meet his eyes.

I am not only ashamed and embarrassed, I’m fucking mortified.

“Don’t ever do that shit again,” he says blatantly, and it takes everything in my power not to cry as he releases me and drops me to the floor.

I cover my mouth with a shaking hand, feeling not only dejected, but worthless.

And how pathetic is that?

I feel like the monster for kissing the man that’s holding me captive.

He walks away and rips open the bathroom door, but my eyes lock onto his shoes because they pause. He pauses.

And so I let my eyes travel all the way up to his body to his face, and what I find there is staggering.

Because as soon as I lock eyes with him, I am met with complete, unrelenting lust.

But he doesn’t say anything then. Doesn’t try to explain it or address it, which is typical for him.

He just shakes his head slowly at me and straightens the collar of his shirt that’s still undone at the top, revealing that gold chain against his dark skin.

And then he walks out and leaves me on the bathroom floor.

ten

Damien

I can still taste her on my lips as I walk out of the restaurant and towards my car. My cellphone is pressed tightly against my ear as I try to wipe her off my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Pick her up at Mario’s in five,” I hiss into the phone as Bruno picks up the call.

I paid the tab, snagged the contract, and ordered Adrian to be at my house at eight AM sharp tomorrow before I walked out of the restaurant and left Lucille on the bathroom floor in her tight, body-hugging purple dress.

The car ride back to the penthouse truly consisted of me gripping the steering wheel until the knuckles of my left hand turned white while my right hand grew numb from continuously rubbing my forehead in frustration.

It’s not that I don’t find Lucille attractive. Hell, I knew I was fucked as soon as she walked out of the changing room wearing that fucking dress with her hair all perfectly curled. To be honest, I was fucked the minute Bruno threw her unconscious body down on my couch yesterday.

Lucille Fairchild is nothing at all like her sister. And while I was under the impression that she was still the meek, quiet and easily hidden girl I once knew her to be, it seems that now I am gravely mistaken.

Lucille Fairchild is a spitfire.

She’s sassy, witty and intellectual. And downright bratty. But she’s also sultry, seductive and completely inexperienced. I can tell by the way her lips were eagerly waiting for me to claim them. I can tell by the nervous tremor I felt in her hands as I pinned them above her head. I don’t think she’s ever known the intimate, sensuous touch of a man. Never felt or experienced the beautiful feeling of being filled, of thoroughly and carefully fucked-

“Jesus Christ!” I slam my hand on the steering wheel as I park my Audi in the garage.

I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the time to sit here and imagine the contrast of my dark hand sliding up her pale, creamy thigh. Shouldn’t be wasting my day sitting in a car garage, hard, wondering what her moans sound like. If they’re loud and wanton. If they’re wild and carefree. Or if they’re soft and raspy.

And the world is quick to remind me that I truly don’t need to be thinking about this right now. The ring of my phone is a loud shrill as it blasts through my car speakers.

“What?” I bark into it.

“We found the asshole that broke into your store on Ninth,” Bruno says and I sigh in relief.

Finally, a fucking distraction.

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