by Leigh, Tara
Damon gently sweeps a finger beneath my chin. I lift my head to meet his concerned gaze, blinking back tears. “It’s fine. I’m fine, really.”
But the tears don’t dry up. They keep coming, overflowing my lashes and spilling down my cheeks. Damon’s hands move to my cheeks, his thumbs swiping at the wetness until my tears run down his palms, dampening the cuffs of his sleeves. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I mean, nothing has really changed. Right?”
It’s true. I know it’s true. But James Granville is the man who raised me. Whether or not we share the same DNA doesn’t matter to me. I’d wanted my father at my wedding.
So much has happened these past two weeks. My life has been turned upside down. I’ve faced uncomfortable truths about my parents, about my parentage. I’ve been assaulted and kidnapped. I’ve seen men killed. I’ve killed a man. The man I once believed to be my enemy became my lover. And soon, my husband.
I’ve faced all of that with barely a blink of an eye.
But this one thing—my father’s disgusted dismissal—is too much. The final lash of a storm that sends me sprawling.
“Sometimes there’s little difference between nothing and everything, princess.” Damon gives up on trying to dry my tears and instead pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around my back, his fingers running through my hair in a gentle, soothing rhythm.
A soggy laugh gurgles from my throat as I push my face into the crisp cotton of Damon’s shirt. The statement makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time.
A rush of gratitude washes over me. Damon has the ability to make me feel like everything will be okay, even though my life has completely fallen apart. Not long ago, I hated him. Now, I can’t imagine my life without him.
I’ve craved attention my whole life. Craved it like a flower stretching toward the sun. But I’ve lived in the shadow of my famous father and his political ambitions for so long, I don’t even know what to do with the unrelenting rays Damon shines my way.
It feels too strong. Too intense. But also, so damn good. I am warmed all the way to my bones.
Making it easier to ignore the ice pick still niggling at my brain. Does my husband-to-be love me?
I turn in Damon’s arms so I can face him. “So, where do we go from here?”
27
DAMON
“I do.”
Those two tiny words take on considerably more significance when said in front of a judge.
“Then, by the power invested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” A hot surge of protectiveness rises up in my chest as I look into Aislinn’s face. “You may now kiss the bride.”
We’re not in a church. And she’s not wearing a wedding gown.
But I am certain no one has ever spoken more sacred vows.
Aislinn and I have kissed many times, but this time feels different. It is different. Aislinn Granville is now Aislinn King. My wife.
My queen.
I drag her body against mine, swallowing her low moan with a louder groan. Soft and willowy, Aislinn yields to me, her spine as supple as her spirit is fierce.
Burke and Finley, our two witnesses, applaud as the judge looks on impatiently. My summons was an unwanted surprise. He is clearly eager to leave and wash his hands of the whole business. Which he does, the second we break apart.
Not that it matters. He’s served his purpose. Aislinn is now mine. No man will ever touch her or kiss her or hurt her—ever again. All this bullshit about Aislinn marrying Sebastián Cruz to forge a bond between their families is now a moot point.
This girl belongs to me. Forever.
After the judge rushes out, Burke pops a bottle of champagne. A Krug Clos D’Ambonnay I bought at auction several years ago. I’d been saving it for a special occasion, and this definitely qualifies.
Finley passes out the brimming flutes. I open my mouth to make a toast but Burke beats me to it. “To an enchanting bride and her rather undeserving king. May you both live happily ever after.”
My scowl is slightly softened by the flash of the enormous diamond on Aislinn’s finger as she lifts her glass, the open smile on her face more brilliant than any gemstone.
Once Aislinn agreed to marry me, Burke was sent to retrieve the judge while Finley brought a jeweler. Not just any jeweler, of course. Harry Winston. The best.
My instructions were specific. A ring suitable for a spitfire. Jewels that radiate fire and sun and light and beauty.
He came with a suitcase of rings, and I found the one I wanted instantly. A deep, canary yellow emerald-cut diamond, surrounded by burnt amber trillions. It is bold and beautiful. Unique.
Just like Aislinn.
“All right, you crazy kids, where’s the honeymoon?”
I glare at Burke. “I think we have our hands full here in New York for the moment.”
“All work and no play.” He looks at Aislinn. “Please tell me you’ll take him away sometime soon. Finley and I can hold down the fort while you two sip umbrella drinks in the sun.”
I watch as Aislinn takes a sip of her champagne, a solitary bubble lingering tantalizingly on her upper lip until she swipes it with her tongue. A pang of desire hits south of my belt buckle.
“I don’t know if my new husband is an umbrella drink kind of guy.” She turns to me with an adorably arched brow. “Is he?”
“No. I can assure you, he is not,” I respond in the third person.
She makes a we’ll see sound and winks at Burke. “He’ll be the first one in line for a piña colada, I just know it.”
Finley adds, “Umbrella or not, I don’t see you going anywhere you’ll have to wait in line.”
I lift my glass. Finley knows me well. “True.” I toss back what remains of my champagne and set down the glass.
And then I sweep my bride into my arms, carrying her back to my bed.
Our bed.
28
AISLINN
I am on fire from the inside out. Our vows were tinder, primed to explode into flames from the first brush of Damon’s lips against mine. From the sparks lighting up at every point of contact.
This ache inside me can only be soothed by one man.
My man.
My monster.
My king.
My husband.
“Wife,” Damon growls, just as he drops me into the center of the bed. “It’s time to consummate our marriage.”
God, even the word consummate sounds sexy coming from Damon’s lips. And the way he looks at me, his dark, burning eyes sweeping over every inch of my body, his lips curling up in a possessive smile as if I’m a gift. A gift he’s longed for.
His gift.
I rise up on my knees, unbuttoning buttons, unclasping clasps, pushing down straps. Until there’s not a single piece of fabric covering my body. Until the desperate buds of my nipples peek through the mounds of hair falling over my shoulders in rippling blonde waves.
Damon makes quick work of his clothes, each movement smoothly efficient. The muscles beneath his skin flex and bunch in a graceful display of power, a living work of art. He sets one knee down on the mattress, then the other, the tips of his fingers lightly stroking the flare of my waist, the length of my thighs, the teardrop curves of my breasts.
And then they slide up to my face, his palms cradling my cheeks. “I am going to worship you, every day of my life.”
“For better or worse?” There’s a hint of a tease in my voice, because I don’t know how to respond to the raw passion bleeding from his.
“No. There will only be better. Every day we share will be better than the one that’s come before.”
And maybe because we’ve already faced so many bad days together, I believe him.
His hands shift slightly, his fingers pushing past my temples so that he’s supporting my weight as I arch back, my breasts grazing his chest with each gulped inhale.
Electricity crackles between us, a potent energy that sizzles over my skin.
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My mouth is already open when his face descends to mine, a meeting of lips and teeth and tongues that feels like the secret door to another dimension. Because I am falling through a void, lost to everything but Damon’s kiss, Damon’s touch. Damon himself.
I moan as we melt into the bed, an intricate tangle of limbs loosely knotted together and yet permanent all the same. Because this, us, feels like forever.
I’m sure of it.
There are still threats. A thousand miles away, Hugo Cruz is plotting revenge. And just downstairs, someone in Damon’s organization is conspiring to take down my king.
Let them try.
Tonight, we will revel in our union, celebrate our victory.
Tomorrow, we will do what needs to be done. Together.
“Fuck, princess.” My hips roll as I wrap my legs around Damon’s narrow hips, interlocking my ankles as I press the thick bulge of his cock between my thighs. I am impatient and greedy and I want nothing more than to be joined physically, to be filled and stretched in the most delicious way.
“Fuck me, husband,” I demand. This time it’s my hands that curve around his face, my thumbs that sweep across the jutting blades of his cheekbones, my gaze that blazes with adoration. There is so much emotion inside my chest it’s cracking open from the volume of it. “Fuck me like my monster. Like my king.”
Fuck me like you love me.
Because on this night, our wedding night, I need to believe he does.
Damon enters me slowly, a luxuriously thick slide that has me curling my fingernails into the back of his neck as I arch up against him. He dips his head, pulling one nipple into his mouth, then the other.
Pleasure winds within me like a corkscrew. A sharp, pointed, almost painful press through my chest.
There is no beginning to this sensation, and I can’t fathom an end. Just an inexorable turning. Twisting. Breaking apart and fusing together.
Until I split entirely in two. A wide open crack that has me gasping and crying. The seam just long and wide enough for Damon to slip beneath my skin, lodging somewhere deep inside my chest, right beside my heart.
It is only hours later, with Damon’s arms wrapped around me and his sleepy breaths fanning my hair against my neck, knowing he won’t hear them, that I dare to breathe the words I’ve wanted to say all day. Maybe even longer.
I love you.
29
DAMON
I haven’t been in my office long when I’m told Aislinn is demanding to be allowed downstairs. I chuckle, hearing her irate tone in the background. “Mrs. King has free rein. She may go wherever she wishes.”
I’m leaning against one of the pillars opposite the elevator doors when she bursts through them. “You should have woken me.”
“Because that ring on your finger turned you into a morning person?”
“Because you need me.” She steps in close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Someone on your team is trying to take you down. You need my help.”
“I’ve already gone through everyone on my payroll. Sebastián lied to you.”
Her eyes flare. “That’s exactly why you need me. Your judgment is tainted.”
I grab Aislinn’s hand and pull her into my office, closing the door and tapping a few commands on my computer. An image of Burke appears on my screen. “Former Navy Seal. Been with me for years. Saved my life as many times as I’ve saved his.”
I press another key. “Justin and Tim. The guys you just railed at upstairs. Both former special forces. Justin’s kid has a rare blood disease, but he hasn’t seen a medical bill since the day he started working for me. Tim was recruited by Burke, they grew up on the same block and have known each other for thirty years.”
I pull up another image. “Juliana is the daughter of the first woman The Network relocated. Because of me, she grew up without having to watch her father beat the shit out of her mother every night.”
Aislinn inserts herself between me and the keyboard. “That’s not the way this works. I can’t clear someone based on a two-sentence bio from you. I need a complete list of your staff and a workstation that’s not linked to your network.”
“Fine. I’ll tell Finley.”
“No. You can’t tell anyone what I’m doing, especially Finley.”
“Especially Finley?” I repeat with a raised brow.
Aislinn stands her ground. “Yes.”
“I thought you two were getting along.”
“We are,” she says with a toss of her hair. “It’s nothing personal, Damon. This is business.”
I bristle. “My business.”
“Yes. And you should be thanking me for offering my services.”
“Why are you doing this, Aislinn? You’ve made it perfectly clear you disagree with my methods. That you hate corruption and crime and dirty politics. What’s changed?”
“I married you. I chose you. And just because I don’t agree with you, doesn’t mean I’m going to let someone hurt you.”
I have to bite my lip to hold back a pleased grin.
My spitfire is standing up to me … to protect me.
Not because I’m her boss. Not because she’s on my payroll.
But because I’m hers.
30
AISLINN
“You can change your mind, Aislinn. From what I understand, it’s a woman’s prerogative.” Damon’s knowing stare reads my discomfort as we stand outside a seedy, Lower East Side strip club.
But the sexy smirk twisting his lips has me squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine. Getting back into Damon’s car, cowering behind tinted windows until I can hide inside his luxury apartment, isn’t an option.
I spent most of the day working in Damon’s office. He was in and out throughout much of it, but when he tried to leave after a late dinner together, I insisted on joining him. I’m not backing out now.
My eyes flash. “Not this woman.” I step around his overprotective bulk. The bouncer guarding the door makes no move to open it until Damon’s standing beside me, then he does so with a deferential nod as if our entry was never in doubt.
My sole experience with strip clubs is what I’ve seen on TV and in the movies. Some characteristics are as I expect. A brightly lit narrow platform bisects the room, a silver pole at the end of it. The perimeter is in shadow, the male audience only vaguely discernible. A beautiful woman with long hair and lush curves gyrates enthusiastically to loud music.
Deep booths line one wall, a bar lines another, and high-top tables fill in the rest of the space.
But cameras can’t capture the smell of cheap perfume, heavy aftershave, and strong liquor that hits me like a foul, humid wall.
This place is unsettling—the loud music and harsh lights and deep shadows. The heady scents and underdressed women. The men staring intently at the stage, some with one hand beneath the table in front of them.
Damon’s palm is a comforting presence at my lower back, and I look up at him. The smirk that bothered me just moments earlier has softened slightly. More determined confidence than pure cockiness. Damon edges ahead of me, his hand sliding along my waist as he leads me toward a large corner booth.
My nerves jangle beneath my skin when he comes to a stop in front of it, the low rumble that emerges from his chest not a language I recognize. Russian, maybe. A minute passes as words are exchanged, and then Damon slides into one side of the booth, pulling me with him.
He doesn’t make any introductions, although five pairs of eyes flick to me, but only briefly. Damon reaches an arm across my thighs and practically growls before saying something that sounds a hell of a lot like she’s mine.
There is a bottle of vodka in the middle of the table and one of the men takes two fresh glasses, filling them to the brim. There are no mixers, no lime wedges. But I gulp at it anyway, trying not to cough as it sears a path down my esophagus. Damon pours it down his throat in one toss, not flinching at all.
As the conversation continues, my attention drifts to
the women who strut and crawl and dance in the center of the room. Their faces are impassive, their choreography not particularly artful. I can’t help but wonder what they are thinking as they dance to an audience of rapt, gaping men. The ones seated near the stage clutch cocktail glasses in one hand and wads of cash in their others, only setting down their drinks to stuff bills into tiny G-strings.
After a few songs, I realize that the dancers circulate among the crowd when they’re not on stage. Their faces now wearing bright smiles, as painted-on as their harsh makeup.
The vodka is strong, but the burn as it splashes down my throat decreases with each sip.
The guttural conversation flowing around me fades into the background as I imagine myself on stage. Dancing and stripping and flaunting myself—but only for an audience of one. Damon King.
My thighs edge apart as I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table, my hands balling into fists as I use them to prop up my chin. I am entirely too aware of Damon’s possessive hand covering my left knee, the sweep of his thumb on the bare skin of my inner thigh. I squirm beneath his touch, wishing he would move his fingers closer to my core, wanting him to feel my heat, drag his fingertips through my increasingly damp folds.
I am not drunk, merely buzzed. A buzz that softens the edges of the room, the blare of the music, the harshness of this day. Even so, there is a tawdry sadness to this place that hovers like dense smog.
One of the men Damon’s been talking to slams his hand on the table, startling me. I jump, sending Damon’s grip to mid-thigh. I don’t bother attempting to stifle my moan. It’s covered by the heavy bass that vibrates through the seat of the booth.
The action wasn’t done in anger though, as the men, Damon included, all lift their glasses and throw their heads back. I do the same, although I was clearly not a part of the toast.
At Damon’s nudge I slide out of the booth and am surprised when he leads me to the back instead of toward the front, the way we came in. “Where are we going?”