by L. J. Woods
“I’m getting you home.” Rattling off instructions to Henry, I throw his arm around me.
“Don’t want to go to Cabo with your fallback?” he snorts.
“Apparently not.” Accepting my fate, I’m owning my decision. “We’re spending Christmas together.”
When he’s on his feet he looks at me and I meet his droopy gaze. “Don’t,” he says. “I’m not partial to tradition. If you come with me it won’t be the Christmas you’re thinking of.”
“With you? I don’t expect it to be.”
Seventeen
“Morning, Medusa.”
Damien’s voice wakes me, reminding me of my most recent choice.
I’m spending the holidays with the devil.
Something cold hits my chin and I sit up. We’re in the living room. Fell asleep here after school when I realized Damien wasn’t making it up the stairs.
I’m not sure what time it is. I can tell it’s still dark since there’s no light peeking in, but Damien has the black curtains closed.
“Ready for Christmas with the King?” Cold hits my chin again and when my vision stops blurring, Damien’s standing beside the sofa. He’s holding a square glass bottle in his hand.
Scotch.
“Christmas is in a week,” I groan, pushing hair out of my face. Damien has his own bottle in another hand, cap already off. He’s in a black silk robe, hair wet like he got himself a shower. And damn, does he look good. “Are you still drinking?”
“Are you still surprised?” He tosses the bottle next to me on the sofa, it bounces against the cushion before it settles. “Thought you wanted a Christmas with the King. If so, you’ll have to keep up.”
“What time is it?”
“You ask way too many questions, Rowland.”
“No. Actually, I don’t ask enough. Not like you’d tell me.”
“Not like you’d trust me.” He pulls a joint from his ear.
“Trust is earned, Damien,” I groan, sitting up.
When Damien dozed off around five, I stayed up, my mind swirling with thoughts. Dread. Did I make the right decision?
“Well, let’s start building that trust,” he says, taking a swig from his bottle and walking out the room. “Take a shot and meet me in the kitchen.”
Without another word, he walks away. And yeah, I do need a drink.
Pulling the cork out, I take a look around the room. A bottle of water sits on the black marble coffee table next to a piece of bread. They remain there from last night and that reminds me, Damien sent Isobel home for the holidays yesterday. At least he’s nice to her in his drunken stupor.
I’m still in my uniform, a heavy black blanket around me that wasn’t there before. Throwing it around my shoulders I walk through the dark living room, across the foyer and into the kitchen. Damien’s playing some punk rock I don’t recognize before I’m floored when I see what’s in front of me.
Damien’s transformed his usually bare kitchen into some sort of picnic. Candles flicker all over the room, on the counters, on a big rug on the floor that wasn’t there before. Also on the rug sit brown bags, more bottles of alcohol, candy and chocolates. It’s romantic. Romantic for Damien, anyway.
“What’s all this?” I ask, eyeing the candles, I see how close they are to the rug. Fire has already caused enough trauma in my life.
“First meal of Christmas break,” he says this as if I should know before he takes a seat on the rug, lighting a joint with the flame of a candle. “Now are you coming or am I gonna smoke this on my own?”
He’s not getting out of this. “If you weren’t an absolute dickhead, I’d think this was an apology.”
“Do you want an apology?”
“I want you to own up to your shit. You act like the world owes you everything but when it comes down to the people you love, you’re a coward.”
He chuckles, “Always telling me like it is. No wonder I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“An—wait, what?” Did he just admit that?
“Consider this me owning up to my shit, Rowland.” He holds out the joint. “Now, do you want some? Gotta work up that appetite.”
Taking another swig of the bottle in my hand, I walk over to where he’s sitting. He holds out the joint between two fingers and I snatch it before I’m taking a long pull.
“You’re sexy when you do that,” he says with a bite of his lip and god, my stomach’s wrenching.
I need another swig. “You’re insane.”
He chuckles. That deep rolling, intoxicating chuckle. I take another pull and I can feel my nerves starting to relax. My eyes dart around the bags, the smell of fried food in the air. While my stomach is yelling at me to eat, my appetite’s still not there. “We shouldn’t have all these candles out.”
Ignoring me, Damien pulls a black bag from behind him. There’s red tissue paper sticking out, the bag sparkly. It’s not too big, not too small. “Another one of your freaky little gifts?”
A devilish smirk creeps across his face and I’m likely right. “I know how much you like my toys deep inside you, as much as I like my cock deep inside you but no, this is something else.”
I reach for it but he grabs it and pulls it away. My head drops to the side, tangled curls going with it, “Really, Damien?” He’s still playing games and now I’m wondering what I’ll have to do to find out what’s inside. Damn my curiosity.
“You can have it. It’s for you, just … ” He reaches over and starts taking things out of one of the bags of food. “You gotta eat.”
He’s one to talk. “Damien, my appetite’s fucked.”
“I ordered everything I could think of. Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Indian … I know you like that exotic shit. I have pub grub too.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that, weed settling into my lungs and mind. “Pub grub? Do you even know what that is?”
“And,” he continues. “If all else fails, I got you some pho.” He takes a large plastic bowl out of the last bag. “But the spring rolls are mine.”
My shoulders fall when I see he’s remembered the one thing I’d eat when I was recovering from that gunshot in The Grove. The one I took for him. I can smell the broth from that Vietnamese soup from here. My tummy grumbles and it’s like he hears it because that smirk grows, but I still don’t think my appetite’s ready.
Sitting on the soft, fluffy rug I can feel the ice melting around my heart. Damien’s good at that. Putting up walls and tearing them down. “Thanks. But I still don’t feel that hungry.”
“You’re withering away, Rowland,” he growls, tipping a bag over like his frustration is building. “Eat or I’ll make you.”
That makes something stir in my stomach but I ignore it. “You haven’t been eating either.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t?” I arch an eyebrow and when he doesn’t answer, the joint coming to his lips, my jaw clenches. I don’t know if it’s the whiskey or the pent-up aggression but I lay in. “I do, Damien. I notice every fucking thing about you. I notice when you’re sober or totally fucked up. I notice the little jaw twitch you get when someone’s pissed you off because I get the same. And I notice when you’re too much of a pussy to admit when you care about someone. It’s like you self-destruct or something.” I take another swig, not losing our eye contact.
I take a breath, Damien eyeing me with narrow eyes. He doesn’t say anything, dead air going between us as the song ends and I’m starting to wish I hadn’t said anything at all. Starting to wish I didn’t come here until he says, “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”
My brows lower. “Are you really being a cocky fuck right now?”
“Are you really not gonna eat?”
“No! No, I’m not.” Crossing my arms like a brat, I don’t ignore him ignoring me.
“Looks like I’m going to have to work up that appetite.” He moves the food out of the way, moving closer to me on his knees like a wolf on the hunt. He looks primal. Animalist
ic as always.
“Damien, wait.” I’m starting to back away, my heart racing as I make contact with that lusty look in his eyes.
“Is that what you want?” He slows when he reaches my slender leg, tossing it open like I’m a weightless doll. “You want to stop me from eating the one thing I have an appetite for?”
“I—”
“Why are you here, Medusa?” He walks his finger up my thigh and each touch makes me shiver.
“Not to fight with you.”
“Isn’t this what we do, Jo? We fight. We say we hate each other’s guts when we don’t so we can fuck away the pain. Like animals.” My kilt moves up with his movements, blanket dropping down to my elbows. It’s like my body knows what I want, the feeling between my legs getting harder to ignore.
“You are pain,” I reply.
“And you like it.” He stops by my lips, his soft pout only inches away. “You’re as twisted as I am. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Is that true? Is he onto something? Is that why I’m not with Christian in Cabo right now? Instead, I’m on Damien King’s kitchen floor while he reads me to filth in that sexy tone. With that sexy face.
“I-I still don’t trust you,” I whisper and I hate how my voice sounds. Hate that it gives me away. “And I don’t know if you trust me.”
“You sure about that?” He’s between my legs and I’m letting him push me to the floor. “You don’t trust me with my tongue in your sweet, juicy, hole? You trust me with your body, Joelle. That speaks volumes. And by the end of these two weeks, you’ll be begging for mercy.”
His lips collide with mine and fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m letting him. They’re too soft to resist. Too warm and perfect. I’ve always had trouble saying no to his lips on mine and this time is no different. He pulls on my kilt like he’s tearing through a gift, like I’m his only gift and it’s not long before I’m naked in front of him again.
He leans back, taking me in until his brows furrow. “Did Christian see you like this?”
“What?”
His nostrils flare before he takes me by the hand, pulling me onto his lap, ass in the air. His hands roam my cheeks before he follows it with a deep growl, “I thought I told you no one sees you like this but me.”
“Wh—”
SLAP!
My eyes shoot open, a sting running through my cheek. It sends a rippling sensation through me. And fuck, that felt … good. He’s rubbing my other cheek. “Did he see you like this?”
SMACK!
A moan escapes my lips, one that surprises me. The feeling of that warm sting on my skin only heightens my desire. Only makes me want more.
“Are you trying to make me jealous, Joelle?”
SLAP!
“N-no,” I moan.
“You sure?” Each slap he gives is better than the last, my cheeks burning to his touch before he pulls me by my hair. He brings my ear to his lips, his fingers at the entrance of my folds. “Because it worked.”
He pushes his fingers inside me and there’s no resistance. Little burn. My body wants him and who the fuck am I kidding? I want this too. I always do. His fingers find my spot with little effort and he’s quick to attack it, pumping in and out, using his rage to please me. I’m moaning into his lap, another smack coming to my cheeks as he pushes and probes. He’s right. I do like this. I like Damien King dominating me with his strong hands. Nothing compares to his firm touch.
I’ve only been with a few guys from The Grove, Zane included, but no one’s ever handled me like Damien. He’s always urgent like he wants me in that very moment and when he takes me, I’m proud to be his prize.
I’m already almost there. Just a few more pumps, my body writhing and squirming under his hold. I can feel his cock getting firm underneath me and it makes me let out a loud moan. It’s easy to feel like a pornstar when I’m with the King.
“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he says. “Say you’re mine.” He smacks my ass again and I’m seeing stars, almost at the edge when he stops his movements. He pulls on my hair, his voice in my ear again, “Say it, Joelle.”
But I don’t know if I can give him that, again. How’s he supposed to be mine, or how am I supposed to be his when we don’t trust each other? When I don’t answer quick enough he growls, laying me on my back before he’s climbing on top of me. “I guess I’ll have to show you how mine you are.”
He unbuckles his belt in record time, slipping a condom on his hard, glistening length before he climbs on top of me. When he pushes his raging cock inside me, it’s like that rush of heroin. That sweet, sweet release. Damien King is my addiction. The remedy.
“Yesss,” I moan, my legs wrapping around him, keeping me in place while he thrusts inside me like a maniac. Like a man who’s gone without food for far too long. It’s only been a couple of weeks since the last time but the way we’re attacking each other makes it feel like years.
We’re animals with each other. Animals without each other. It’s what I want. What I need.
“Harder,” I’m moaning against his lips, his body smooth and hard on top of me. It’s true. He’s fucking away the pain, blurring my dark memories.
“Say it, Jo,” he’s panting, his thrusts more frantic and needy, his hand under my chin, forcing me to look in his eyes. His other hand grips my ass as he pounds into me, my body ricocheting off his. “Say it!”
“Damien!” My loud moan surprises me but I’m too in pleasure to care. He keeps my chin tilted towards him, that look of sheer lust on his reddened, sweaty face. It only helps me ride this wave like a skilled surfer. Fast and hard and it keeps rippling through me the more he thrusts until …
“Fuuuck,” he lets out a loud monstrous groan, Damien pumping hard into me. “Fuck, Jo.” His motions slow to hard, deep, thrusts until he’s able to catch his breath.
When he does, he kisses my smirk, his teeth sinking into my lip as he pulls away before he grins. He’s staring at me like a prized painting. Like a gold medal. “You know you’re mine. And I’ll get you to believe that. You just wait.”
* * *
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I’m holding up the contents of what was inside that black sparkly bag.
We’re laying on the rug, Damien eating a fry from one of the many bags around us, a smirk on his face. He did work up an appetite. A good one. I’ve devoured the soup, moved onto the burrito before Damien rewarded me with … this.
Between my fingers is a black silk robe. It looks luxurious. Smooth and expensive. It’s even monogrammed. Though I’m not impressed at the word he picked.
“What?” He smirks and it makes me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
“It says Medusa.” I throw it at his face in a playful gesture but he catches it with his ninja reflexes and tucks it beside him.
“Would you prefer if it said ‘King’s’?” he takes another fry out of the bag, chewing it while it hangs out of the corner of his mouth.
“I’d prefer it if it said my name,” I purse my lips. “Or nothing at all.”
“Put it on.”
“No.”
“Put it on, Jo.”
“You’re so goddamn pushy.”
“You like it.”
I’m starting to wonder if I should have given in to what we just did. It was hot. Raw. Totally us. But did I just admit to liking this twisted torture?
Now I’m ignoring his comments. “Why do you still call me that? You want me to say I’m yours, yet you don’t even use my real name.”
“I just did.”
“Yeah, you pick and choose.”
Damien chuckles, “Wish you weren’t so fucking delicious when you’re mad.” I glare at him but that only makes him smirk. “That’s why I call you Medusa.” He stares at me while he continues, “The day I met you. At the train station … ”
“So you do remember that.”
“Your hair was wild. And that look in those … weird golden eyes, it reminded me of
Medusa. A look that could kill.”
I’m speechless. That explanation gives a whole new meaning to the name that’s tormented me for weeks. I’m not even sure if some people at school know my real name. It’s either Medusa or the Grim Reaper. Now that I know the true meaning of that name, it’ll carry less of a sting. In fact, it warms my little icy heart.
“You’re such a dick,” I say, a smile growing on my face.
“Now, will you put that thing on?” he asks. “You’re ruining Christmas.”
With only this blanket around me, it would be nice to get a little more comfortable. So I do, Damien watches me drop the blanket to the rug, fry dropping from his mouth when I do, and I give him that look.
“Wait a second before you wear that,” he says. “I’m ready for dessert.
A thrill of excitement runs through me but my legs are sore, ass still stings. Leaning over so I can rub a cheek, I shake my head. “I need a break.”
He laughs and it’s intoxicating. “I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough. Now bring that sweet ass over here.” With a glance at the counter, he starts to rise from the rug. “On second thought … ”
I don’t have to move my shaky legs before Damien’s picking me up and bending me over the kitchen island. He reaches for a cloth, pulling my arms behind me before he’s tying my wrists with it.
Then he goes to town.
With another condom on, he has a hand on my wrist, the other pulling my hair, lifting my head off the counter. Damien pounds into me again, my loud cries and moans only fuelling his power.
Another orgasm doesn’t stop him and he holds me in place while my legs threaten to give out. The kitchen is a blur. The sounds of our moans, groans, and skin slapping together accompanies the heavy guitar coming out of the speakers.
Pushing my head against the island, he keeps going, keeps up his onslaught while he smacks my ass and makes him exactly what he says I am.