by Skye Warren
“I haven’t touched anyone since.”
“God, Damon. Why are you telling me this?”
“You know. Do you want me to beg? I deserve that. And I’ll do it.”
I make a sound of fierce denial. “Stop.”
“I’m not mocking you.” He laughs, self-deprecating. “I wasn’t mocking you then, not really. Do you know how I dream about you? About serving you? I’m always at your feet, Penny. Always beneath you.”
“So you want to serve me? You want to obey me?”
“Yes,” he says, so fervently I almost believe him.
“Come here then.”
It’s hard to be this close to him and not curl into his chest. Hard to see him smile and wonder if it’s real. It would be so easy to believe every word that comes out of his handsome mouth, but I’ve learned to be careful. If nothing else, dealing with Jonathan Scott has taught me that. With a dark sense of wonder I realize he’s left that legacy.
Damon stands and crosses the room in two long strides. There’s a man in my room. Not just any man, but one who owns a whole city. One who’s done terrible things.
One who’s saved my life.
It would be such a relief to say yes, to absolve him of everything. To hold him to my chest. To fall into his arms and let him take care of me, but I’m not that girl anymore.
“Beg,” I say instead.
Damon Scott does not hesitate. He falls to his knees in front of my small bed, his head lowered. He’s as much a supplicant now as he was a king before. “Let me touch you. Let me hold you. Let me love you the only way I know how.”
There’s a tremor in my chest, but it’s been too long. A semester since I left him. Weeks since he told me he loved me. Years since I first loved him. “What if it’s not enough?”
His voice when he speaks holds a note of fervent prayer, as if I’m more than a person. “When you were small, I loved you as a child—smart and generous. When you were a teenager, I loved you as a young woman, strong enough to face anything.”
I watch him, unable to look away, almost unable to breathe.
“When I saw you walk into the Den, I knew you were more than I could survive. You were the death of me. Every fake smile and stupid fucking laugh. Every time someone thought they were seeing the real Damon Scott. You broke everything.”
“Do you want me to apologize?”
“I want you come home,” he says, looking up. The impact of his black gaze meeting mine makes me shiver. “I’ve dreamed about you, every night that you’re not with me. I’ve wanted you for longer than is strictly legal. I need you beyond what I can endure. But that’s not why you should go.”
My voice is a whisper. “Why then?”
“Because you belong there. And if you do, I’ll spend every breath in my body protecting you, cherishing you, making sure you never need anything because you already have it.”
I have to close my eyes against the wave of desire that hits me. The promise in his voice reverberates deep in my core. “Cherishing me. That makes it sound like I’m fragile.”
“Not fragile,” he says, low and deep. “Strong.”
“Strong enough to handle what you gave me before.” In the bed and against the door. “Strong enough to want you to do it again.”
His large body jerks, as if the words are a physical blow. “Now?” he asks.
“Forever,” I tell him, and he meets me at the end of the word with his lips to mine. His body pushing me back against the bed. His erection hard against the inside of my thigh.
He kisses me as if we’ve been apart for twenty years, like we might not see each other for another twenty. He kisses me as if we have every day for eternity, slow and deep and thorough. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs between nips and licks as he kisses his way across my jaw and down my neck. “I swear I will.”
“There’s nothing to make up,” I say on a gasp, arching my body upward.
“Everything,” he says, tugging the shorts to my pajama set down. “Everything, everything.”
I grasp his hair, pulling him so he’s forced to look at me. His eyes are hazy with lust. I clench my fist, the pain in his scalp enough to make him gasp. He focuses on me.
“Nothing to make up,” I repeat. “This isn’t an apology. I don’t want that. This is every day. This is you and me. This is the way you love me and the way I love you back.”
“God, yes,” he mutters, and only when I release him does he lower his head.
He presses his face between my legs, breathing in as if surfacing after a long time underwater. His mouth makes open kisses on the inside of my thigh, moving closer and closer to the center before switching to the other side. When he reaches the center, he sighs—a sound so replete I feel it vibrate in my clit. He licks long and wide through my core, a languid move that makes me buck my hips.
“I love you,” he whispers, and this time I hear him.
This time I can whisper it back. “I love you too.”
He kisses me for agonizing minutes, endless hours. Until his lips are slick and his eyes dazed. When at last he enters me, I’m so swollen it feels like he barely fits. So tight that there’s strain on his face as he pushes inside. Even with the slickness of my arousal it’s hard to accept him. He rocks against me, slow and persistent.
Until finally my flesh spreads for him. I didn’t save my virginity for him. I saved it for myself. To experience this with a man who loved me, who had the courage to prove it.
The way he thrusts inside me is both worship and possession.
A private altar at which he can pray.
He pushes inside me until I’m the one begging, incoherent, made supple by his tender assault, close enough to orgasm that it hurts. He doesn’t speed up, no matter how much I urge him or rock my hips up. It’s a steady march that he uses, bringing us both to the peak. Holding my wrists down on the bed when I want to touch him. Forcing himself inside me when it’s too much. Going on forever even when I spasm and clench and cry out, breaking apart the way I broke him, becoming something new.
Epilogue
“Play with me,” Avery begs.
Gabriel demurs for about half a second before sitting down across from her. He couldn’t deny her much before, but the larger her tummy grows, the more he anticipates her every whim. I think he’d build a castle on a cloud if she asks for it by the time we get to nine months.
A large crystal-cut chess set presides over the room, available for anyone to play. They begin their game, sparring with words as well as pieces.
The Den is still a private club in the city, but less about sex or gambling. Now it’s a place where the citizens of Tanglewood can gather to discuss sex and mathematics, to eye fuck and play chess.
The city still has poverty and violence. There isn’t an equation that fixes that, no matter how late I stay awake and work. But it has hope, too. I finally found Jessica and her baby, moved to a rural town outside the city. Brennan’s going out with a schoolteacher at our old elementary school. Even my father called last week to tell me he found a new place, that he would keep in touch as much as he could.
Damon appears at my side, his hand on my shoulder. “Need anything?” he asks.
“Only you.”
He leans against the side of the chair, casual and alert. There’s a peace he’s found since Jonathan Scott died in that asylum, but he’s still more wary than normal people. More dangerous and cunning and powerful than normal people. Normalcy is overrated, anyway.
There are a lot more chairs around than when he ran the place alone. All kinds of chairs—modern leather pieces with silver bases, old antiques with velour fabric, quirky armchairs with patchwork material. A place for everyone who wants a seat, but I have to say I’m partial to the chair that Damon Scott used as his throne. And when I sit here, Damon tends not to sit at all. Instead he stands beside me, both above me and below, owning me and owned.
And if we’re alone, he’ll kneel and use his mouth for something else.
/>
“She’s going to win,” he comments, glancing at the chessboard.
“She usually does.”
“Pretty sure Gabriel thinks she’s going to leave him if he doesn’t win some of the time.”
I hide my smile. “Avery loves him. But she does like a challenge.”
“As do you, sweet girl.”
My eyes widen in pretend surprise. “Is that what you are? A challenge?”
He laughs softly. “Would you want me any other way?”
I take his hand in mine, squeezing gently. “Dangerous. Handsome. Kind of an asshole. I’ll take you a lot of ways, but never easy.”
He squeezes back. “I never thought I could have this, you know.”
Part of me knows what he means. The love we have together. The sex and the laughter. And more than that, the peace of it. But I want to know which part his heart longed for, so I ask, “Have what?”
“Everything,” he says, leaning down for a kiss.
* * *
THANK YOU for reading The Queen! I hope you absolutely loved Damon and Penny’s story. It was an honor to write it. You can sign up for my VIP reader list so you don’t miss a new release. And if you haven’t yet read Gabriel and Avery’s books, start with THE PAWN.
If you loved The Queen, you’ll love the sensual, dark, and dangerous USA Today bestselling Stripped series. The prequel novella Tough Love is FREE to one-click!
A story about the sacrifices we make for love…
I sneak out of my room every night. My father’s guards don’t see me. My sister doesn’t see me. No one sees me, except him.
He’s the son of a mafia foot soldier. My father is the boss. I shouldn’t even know Giovanni. And I definitely shouldn’t kiss him. Our relationship is doomed to fail, but that won’t stop me from trying.
Not every girl wants to be a princess. I just want to be free.
Download TOUGH LOVE now!
And don’t miss the rough + sexy bestselling Chicago Underground series, starting with ROUGH, available for free! I never thought a man that rough could be my prince…
You can also join my Facebook group, Skye Warren’s Dark Room, for exclusive giveaways and sneak peeks of future books.
I appreciate your help in spreading the word, including telling a friend. Reviews help readers find books! Please leave a review on your favorite book site.
Turn the page for an excerpt from Tough Love…
Excerpt from Tough Love
The moon sits high above the tree line. Somewhere beyond those woods is an electric fence. And beyond that is an entire city of people living and working and loving each other. I may as well be on the moon for how close I am to them.
A guard walks by my window at 10:05 p.m. Right on time.
I wait a few minutes until he’s out of earshot; then I flip the latch. From there it’s quick work to push up the pane with its bulletproof glass. I broke the lock a year ago. And almost every night since then I’ve sneaked down the ornate metal trellis—like a thief, stealing a moment to myself.
The grass is still damp from the rain, the ground beneath like a sponge, sucking me in. I cross the lawn, heart beating against my chest. I know exactly where the guards are on their rounds. I know exactly where the trip wires are that will set off the alarms. My father is too busy in his office to even glance outside.
The office I broke into this morning.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the pool. I’m still out in the open, but the bright underwater lights make it hard to see anything on the patio. They make it hard to see me as I curve around the edge and reach the pool house.
The door opens before I touch the handle. “Clara,” comes the whisper.
I can’t help but smile as I slip into the dark. Giovanni always opens the door for me. It’s like some old-world chivalry thing, even though we’re just two kids sneaking around. At least, that’s how everyone treats me. Like a kid. But when I’m with him, I feel less like a girl, more like a woman.
He looks out the door for a beat before shutting and locking it. “Are you sure no one saw you?”
“You’re such a worrywart, Gio.” I let myself fall onto the couch, facing up.
“If your father ever found out…”
We’d be in so much trouble. My father is a member of the mob. Giovanni’s father is a foot soldier who works security on the grounds. Both our dads are seriously dangerous, not to mention a little unhinged. I can’t even think about how bad it would be if they caught us sneaking around after dark.
I push those thoughts away. “Did you bring it?”
Reluctantly, Giovanni nods. He gestures to the side table, where a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels gleams in the faint light. “Did you?”
I reach into the pockets of my jeans and pull out two cigars. I hold them up and grin. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”
He rolls his eyes, but I think he’s relieved. “This was a bad idea.”
“It was my idea,” I remind him, and his cheeks turn dark.
Of course the little homework assignment was my idea. I’m the one ridiculously sheltered up in my room with the tutors and the gilded locks. Fifteen years old and I’ve never even been out to the movies. Giovanni gets to go to regular school. He’s too young to get inducted, but I know he gets to be at some of the sit-ins.
“I just want to try them,” I say. “I’m not going to get addicted or anything.”
He snorts. “More likely you’ll get a hangover. How are you going to explain puking to your padre?”
“Honor will cover for me.” My sister always covers for me. She takes the brunt of my father’s anger. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I love the way she protects me. But one percent of the time, it feels like a straitjacket. That’s why I started coming to the pool house. And I’m glad I did. This is where I met Giovanni.
He examines the cigar, eyes narrowed.
“How do you even light it?” I ask. I’ve seen my father do it a hundred times, but I’m still not clear on how the whole thing doesn’t just catch fire. Isn’t it made from dried plants?
He puts the cigar to his lips experimentally. It looks strange seeing his full lips around something I’ve mostly seen my father use. Then he blows out a breath, miming how it would be. I imagine white smoke curling in front of his tanned skin.
“They don’t let you use them when they do?” I ask.
He gives me a dark look. I’m not supposed to talk about the side jobs he does for his father. “I mostly sit in a corner and hope no one notices me. It’s boring.”
“If it’s boring, then why won’t you talk about it?” I know it’s not a good thing to be noticed by men like our father, to be groomed by them, but sometimes that seems better than being ignored. I’m the younger one. And a girl. And there are rumors that I’m not even my father’s legitimate child. In other words, I’m lucky my sister remembers to feed me.
He swears in Italian. “That’s no life for you, Clara.”
“And it’s a life for you?”
“I would leave if I could,” he says. “You know that.”
“You turn eighteen in a year. Will you leave then?” My stomach clenches at the thought of him gone. I’m two years younger than him. And even when I turn eighteen, I won’t be leaving. By then I’ll be engaged to whoever my father picks for me.
Just like my sister. I shudder at the thought of her fiancé.
He shrugs. “We’ll see.”
I roll my eyes. I suspect he’s making plans, but he isn’t sharing them with me. That’s how the men around here operate, keeping girls in the dark. Honor only found out she was engaged when Byron was invited over for dinner. He has the money and the power. She doesn’t get a choice. Neither will I.
“If you go, you should take me with you,” I say.
“I don’t think Honor would appreciate me taking you away.”
No, she wouldn’t. And the thought of being without my sister makes my heart ache. Sometimes I give her a hard time, but
I love her. I’d never leave her behind. “She can come with us. It will be like an adventure.”
“Don’t talk stupid, Clara.” His eyes flash with anger and something else I can’t define.
I jerk back, hurt. “It was just an idea.”
“Well, it’s a bad idea. Your father is never gonna let you leave.”
Deep inside, I turn cold. I know that’s true. Of course it is. Giovanni doesn’t have the money or the resources to take us away from here. And even if he did, why would he want to?
I hate myself for even suggesting it. How desperate can I look?
Shaking inside, I stand up and grab the bottle of Jack Daniels. It’s heavier than I would have expected, but I carry it over to a wet bar still stocked with decanters and wine glasses. No liquor though. There used to be huge parties here. When my mother died, they stopped.
We’re supposed to have a party in a few days, though, to celebrate my sister’s engagement. I’m not even allowed to go. I’ll just be able to see the fireworks from the window.
Without a word Giovanni joins me, his heat both comforting and stark. He takes the glass from my shaking hand. He opens the bottle and pours the deep amber liquid inside. Then takes another cup for himself, twice as full.
“Why do you get more?” I protest, mostly because I like teasing him.
His expression is amused. “I’m bigger than you.”
He is bigger. Taller and broader, though still skinny. His hands are bigger than mine too. They hold the glass with confidence, whereas I almost drop mine.
I take a sip before I can second-guess myself. “Oh my God.”
It burns my throat, battery acid scalding me all the way down.
His lips firm, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Good stuff?”
“Oh, shut up.” Then it doesn’t matter because I’m laughing too. That stuff is awful.
He grins and takes a drink—more like a gulp. And he doesn’t cough or wince after. “You get used to it.”
“How much do I have to drink to get used to it?”