by Morgan Rae
I smile and nod.
His forehead relaxes and he smiles back.
“Well,” Damien says, “I think I best be off before I overstay my welcome.”
“One more!” Adriana begs. “Pleeeeease?”
Her mother shushes her. “He’s not a monkey, for goodness sakes.”
His eyes meet mine again, questioning. I smile. I don’t mind lingering in this moment just a little longer.
“Alright,” Damien says. “One more. What’s a rock star without his adoring fans?”
He smiles towards Adriana as he says it and the poor girl nearly swoons off the couch. I stifle back a laugh. He can’t help but be incredibly charming..
Damien turns his attention to the guitar and strokes the strings thoughtfully. “I haven’t actually sung this song for anyone yet, not even my manager. So, you will have to tell me what you think.” His fingers tickle the strings and low thrums respond through the room. “This song’s been eating away at me for months and, well, here it goes.”
His eyes flicker up to me briefly before they drop downward again. My heart is pounding in my chest, though I couldn’t say where this nervousness was coming from. I’m captivated by him, completely. After a couple chords, he opens his mouth and sings a gentle tune, his velvet voice thick and deep with raw emotion. He sings:
Your heart is as deep as the ocean,
I’m caught up in the riptide of your love, baby,
Caught in the riptide.
I’m parched, can’t get enough.
You leave me wanting more
Every time I crash over your shore
I wanna crack you open,
Find your hidden pearl.
You shine like the morning sun,
Oh, you shine like the morning sun.
Your heart is as deep as the ocean,
I’m caught up in the riptide of your love, baby,
Caught in the riptide.
I’ll be a fisherman and catch you in my net,
And I pray—oh, I pray every day,
Please don’t be the one that got away.
Damien’s voice is rich, his notes melodic and practiced, but there’s something different in him now. This isn’t one of his recordings, pumped up with a heavy beat and all the bells and whistles. He’s fragile here, exposed, and it makes his music all the more beautiful. I find myself completely in awe and, as I listen to his lyrics, my throat tightens.
Family. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I can drink wine and laugh with Roger, but I don’t need this, not like I thought I did. Not when my family is serenading me on his guitar. Damien’s love is bold, selfless, and unconditional and I feel it warm my heart and spread across my chest.
I’m a ball of emotion and I can’t stop the tears that slide down my face. Luckily, everyone’s attention is on Damien and when the room breaks out into applause, I take the second to quickly wipe my tears away.
“That was beautiful, Damien. Just beautiful,” Deb exclaims.
“Thank you, Mrs. Burton.” He removes the guitar from his lap and gently sets it back down on the stand beside him. His fingers linger on the neck as he turns to Roger. “And thank you, sir, for letting me borrow your baby.”
“Any time, son,” Roger says.
“We really should be off,” I announce. “Let you all get some rest.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Roger says.
We pry ourselves away with a couple long goodbyes, and Damien gets an especially tight hug from his young fan girl. As promised, Roger walks us to the door and lingers in the doorway as the women in the house begin to get themselves ready for bed.
“Come back any time,” Roger says. He’s looking directly at me when he says it. “We truly enjoyed your company, both of you.”
“Thank you,” I say as Damien and I link arms on the porch. “I’ll have to take you up on that.”
Even as I say it, however, I know I’m brushing against a lie. We’ll come again, maybe, or send Christmas card, but the Burtons aren’t my family. They never have been, they never will be. My family is linked arm and arm with me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: NANCY
Roger closes the door behind us and Damien and I make our way to the car. We walk side by side under the midnight sky and it seems LA has gone completely quiet for now.
“Seems like that went well,” he says, gently prying me for more information.
“Yeah…it did.”
His eyebrows lift at the hesitation in my voice. “Did you tell him?”
“I did.”
“So that’s it? You’re officially a Burton now?”
“No, that would’ve felt like another lie. I mean, yes, technically he’s my father, but that’s not my family. They have their own family, I would just be an interloper. The truth is, you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to family.”
His expression softens. “The woman I saw in there, I liked her. You’re perfect on your own, you know. You never have to pretend to be someone else.”
I let out a breath of a laugh. “I know that now. Thanks to you.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “I wish I’d known it sooner.”
Damien stops walking, so I pause along with him. He turns to me and extends his hand. “Then let’s get to know each other. Damien Blaze.”
A smile broadens over my lips. I take his hand and shake it. “Nancy Harper. Nice to meet you. So, should we get coffee or something?”
“To hell with coffee,” Damien says.
My breath catches as his lips claim mine. He’s holding me tight at the waist and I melt against his hard, strong body. His mouth is warm and he tastes me slowly, deliberately, like I’m a fine wine that deserves a skilled tongue. The intimacy of the kiss is so quiet, so private, just for us, and I savor him.
My Damien. He’s not putting on a show anymore. This is for me and me alone.
When he finally seals the kiss, he keeps me close against him. “There’s one thing I have to clear up,” he confesses. “I can’t move forward until I know.”
A lump forms in my throat. “What’s that?”
“Can you swim?”
Relief bursts through my chest and I laugh. “Yes. I can swim.”
“Good. Because there’s a pool at my parent’s estate outside Liverpool and as much as I love rescuing you…” His voice trails off.
I catch the lapel of his jacket in my fingers. “You already have rescued me.”
“No, Nancy.” He catches my face and strokes my cheek under his thumb. “You’re the one who’s rescued me.”
I’m short of breath. I wet my lips and find myself at a loss for words under his sharp blue eyes.
“I live nearby,” he continues. “Would you like to come over?”
My heart thumps rapidly in my chest and I nod. “Yes. Definitely.”
“I’ll drive.”
We break away from each other to get into the car. I hand Damien over the keys and the engine growls as he starts it up. It’s cool in here, I’m not wearing a coat, but I’ve suddenly grown incredibly hot. Damien is taking me home and that thought excites me more than it should. Tonight feels like a night of firsts, we’ve wiped the slate clean and we’re ready to go into this with open minds and hearts.
A memory clicks into place and I shift in my seat.
His eyes flicker over to me. “What are you doing?”
I lift my hips up just enough to hook the rim of my panties down my hips. Keeping my thighs closed so not to expose myself, I shimmy my panties down my legs and drop them at my ankles. “I’m wearing bows, I remember how much you hate them.”
Damien swallows so hard that I can see the visible bob in his Adam’s apple.
“Naughty girl,” he murmurs.
“Eyes on the road, Blaze,” I tell him as I pick my panties off the floor and tuck them into my purse. “And no speeding.”
He lightens up on the gas pedal. We make it to his place only m
inutes later. It’s not quite the mansion that the Burtons own, but it’s certainly an upgrade from my one-bedroom apartment. It’s a sizable home, two stories, with an attached garage. He clicks the garage door open and pulls my car into an empty slot. I’m not surprised to see he has a black sporty convertible waiting for him. I’m also not surprised by the band posters that line the garage walls. Not ResurrXtion, but artists he admires: Michael Jackson, Oasis, the Rolling Stones, the Velvet Underground…he probably has the whole rock ‘n roll hall of fame in here. He shuts down the engine and then glances over at me and says, “Stay right there.”
“Okay.”
Damien gets out, walks around the car, and opens the door for me. If he’s trying to impress me, job well done, sir. A gentleman in the streets, a beast in the sheets.
“Thank you,” I say as I take his hand and he helps me out of the car.
He guides me through the garage and into his place, where he disarms the alarm and flicks on the lights. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
I’m not sure what I expect from Damien’s house, an oversized hotel room, maybe? Instead, it’s surprisingly cozy. I get the feeling he doesn’t spend much time here, but the things he does have are very Damien. Off white walls give a backdrop to some pretty abstract and wild cover art. Giant speakers sit on the floor attached to his electric guitar. His living room is stuffed with plush furniture, mismatched leather and fabric seats, many ordained with throw blankets he got from somewhere in the world. Admittedly, his large, full wall bookshelf turns me on.
“Can I get you something? Wine? Water?” He steps into the adjoining kitchen to grab a glass.
“Water would be nice.”
His kitchen is pretty sparse, but I notice pictures on the fridge. An older couple in England, his parents, if those sky-blue eyes are a family trait. Plenty more pictures of him, Randall, and Randall’s wife. I can’t help but smile at one of he and Randall, younger, longer haired, raggedy jeans, sleeping on each other’s shoulders on a tour bus. Randall has whiskers and a dog nose drawn on his face, no doubt in his sleep.
He hands me a glass and I take a sip. He’s dumped ice in it, but the water is already cold. I suck on an ice cube anyway and crack it between my teeth.
“Nice place,” I tell him.
His eyes dart to the living room anxiously, as though he expects it to come alive and swallow him whole. “I’m afraid I don’t get to spend a lot of time here.” He moves his hand to my arm. His fingers are cold from my water glass and I feel goose bumps rise along my skin. “I’ll show you what made me fall in love with the place.”
I follow him up a spiral staircase to a closed door. When he opens the door the light from the hallway reveals windows and walls blocked off and reinforced with rippling foam. He flips on the light in the room and there are speakers on the floor, a couple microphones hanging from the ceiling, and a desk equipped with a computer and heavy-duty headphones. In the center of the room, under the microphone, sits a lonely stool.
“It’s a forever work in progress,” Damien says as he gestures to the wall. “I still need to reinforce the wall a little better to keep the sound out but…here it is. My own home studio.”
I draw my fingers across the walls and feel the foamy bumps. “Do you record in here?”
“I can.” Damien sits in the swivel chair by the desk and runs his hands over his slacks. “That’s the dream anyway.”
I lift my eyebrows and I feel a smile start on my lips. “What do rock stars dream about?”
“Freedom.” A fire lights behind Damien’s eyes at the word. “Complete creative control. With this I don’t need a manager to tell me what to do, who to do, or how to build my career.” His glances over at the stool longingly. “It’s not perfect. More probably than not, it’ll flop. But, I’d rather fail on my own terms than live my life enslaved to my reputation.”
I get that same feeling as I did when I saw Damian sing in front of the Burtons. He is spectacularly good at splitting himself open at the ribs and putting his heart on full display for everyone to see. I envy his fearlessness. It inspires me.
I sit on the stool in the middle of the room. “Show me how this works.”
A grin draws across his face. He puts on the huge, bulky headphones and then says, “Whisper something that you don’t think I’ll be able to hear.”
I think for a second, and then I finally whisper, quietly, under my breath, “Was the song about me?”
I see Damien’s smile stretch larger and his eyes meet mine. “Yes. I wrote most of it on the beach.”
“Okay, no, this is fun.” I hop off the stool and move over to Damien. There’s a scarf sitting on the edge of his desk, I imagine him running inside from the cold in a flurry of inspiration, ripping his fall clothes off and recording.
I take the scarf and wrap it around his eyes, tying it around the back of his head. Blindfolded now, he lets out a low chuckle. “I like where this is going.”
“Quiet.” I move to the middle of the room. I lean on the stool and rock it back and forth so the legs click against the floor. “What is that?”
“The stool.” He doesn’t hesitate.
“Alright.” I think for a moment and then reach back and unzip my dress. “And that?”
He pauses only a second. “A zipper.”
“You’re good at this.” I let my dress fall from my body and the fabric flutters to the ground. Completely naked now, I hop back on the stool.
Damien’s playful smile has diminished slightly, he’s focusing now. The room is cool, but the insulation keeps it warm enough that I’m not uncomfortable. Feeling bold with my blind audience of one, I spread my legs and reach between my legs.
I’m wet. I gasp when my fingertips spread the petals of my sex. I’m burning hot down there, my little bud aching painfully. I rub against my wet folds and feel my fingers slick and slide against the sensitive skin.
I bit my lip. “What do you hear now?”
Blindfolded in his seat, his chest rises and falls rapidly and I become mesmerized by the bare patch revealed by the open buttons of his shirt. He wets his lips. “Music to my ears.”
“Good answer.” He shifts in his seat but I say quickly, “Stay there. Just listen for a second.”
He settles back into his seat reluctantly. I grow a little bolder, brace my foot against a rung on the stool, and spread my legs a little wider. I press a finger inside myself.
“Oh god…” A moan leaves my lips before I can stop it. I plunge my finger deep inside myself, feeling the way my body tightens and pulses, and then pull it out again. I’m teasing myself and it’s driving me crazy, but it’s worth it for the way Damien’s fingers grow tight around the arms of his chair and his jaw clenches.
I gasp, whimper, and I can hear my breath come ragged. The stool squeaks underneath me as my pace picks up, my lust taking over. I’m still pent up from earlier, when Damien’s fingers stroked deep inside of me, and while I can’t reach quite as deep as he did, the memory is enough to make me pulse.
I’m lost in the throes of my own passion when Damien finally lets out a growl. “Enough,” he says. He rips off the headphones and the blindfold and stands in his chair.
Bizarrely, I start to cover myself. I’m fingering myself in his home studio, it’s a little late to get shy. However, it’s much easier to be bold when he’s blindfolded and still. Yet the look in his eyes, is nothing but adoration and hunger. He likes what he sees. And just like that, any awkwardness thaws and I’m his again.
“You’re beautiful, Nancy,” he says. He closes the gap between us with one step and claims my mouth in his. My lips feel swollen with need and I whine into his mouth. He unbuttons his shirt in record time and throws it over his shoulders, tossing it to the floor.
“A little pent up, Damien?” I grin against his lips.
“You’re the one soaking my seat.”
I nearly forgot how chiseled he is. His muscles are
practically sculpted like hard clay into his chest and stomach. He drops his mouth down to my throat, my breasts, and the center of my body.
“I need you,” I whisper.
“I love you like this.” Damien moves his hands to my thighs, forcing them to spread.
“Like what?”
“Exposed.” He drops down to his knees and, before I can catch my breath, his hot tongue swipes across my sex.
“Damien,” I gasp and my fingers immediately knot into his hair. He’s relentless, he did miss me. He wastes no time drinking me up, his hands keeping me open to him. Pleasure shoots through me like lightning, sizzling through my blood and burning away any clear thought in my head. All I can think about is him, those strong hands, and dear god, that tongue. He tastes my clitoris, drawing circles around it. Once I’m quaking with pleasure, only then does he press his tongue deep inside of me to lick me straight to the core.
I didn’t realize I was on the edge, but suddenly he’s pulled a loud shout from my throat. I slam one hand on his shoulder, my heels digging into his back, and grip his hair as I throb and spill over his tongue. My orgasm leaves me hot, sweating, and shaking.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. Damien presses one last kiss between my legs before he untangles himself from me.
I’m glad for the stool underneath me because my legs feel weak and wobbly. Damien wraps me in his arms, his lips graze the side of my face, the edge of my mouth, and then finally close over my own. I taste my desire on his tongue.
He takes his time with me.
“Are my moans going to end up on your next album?” I grin deviously.
Damien shakes his head. “No. Those are for my ears only.” He cups the side of my face in his hand. The look in his eyes is loving, warm, and completely possessive.
“Wrap your legs around my hips,” he demands. I do and he hoists me up against his bare chest. The warmth of his skin is intoxicating, and his pants hang lowly around his hips as he takes me out of the sound studio, down the hall, and into his room.
Damien flicks the light on and it floods his bedroom. The place is cluttered with records, books, and notebooks. A small glimpse at the constant thrum of noise inside of his head, incredibly devoid of a woman’s touch. Even when he lays me down on the mattress, I squirm and pull a pair of headphones out from under my back.