“I think it’s off the agenda,” she says.
“Why?” I expect the answer to have something to do with her nightmare of a travel schedule. Instead, she nods toward the dance floor where Jamie has her arms up in the air and her hips gyrating between Ryan and Ollie.
“I should hate her, you know,” Courtney says without malice, and that chill rushes over me once again.
“What are you saying, Courtney?” I ask, praying that I’m wrong.
I see the rise and fall of her chest. “I’m not going to marry him,” she says. “I don’t want to be that woman whose husband cheats on her, and I don’t want to get married because I’m a good choice. I can’t do that to myself. Hell, I can’t do that to him. We’d be miserable in a year and divorced in two.”
“Oh.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. I’m shocked by her words, and I feel bad for Ollie, who is going to know he fucked up, and that will make it all the worse. But at the same time, I’m glad. As pleased as I am that Ollie and I are on the mend, he did fuck this up with Courtney, and everything she’s said so far is dead on the money. “When are you telling him?”
“Soon. Maybe tonight. I just need to get up the courage.” She shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t love him. It’s just . . . ” She trails off, as if she doesn’t quite know how to say it.
“Don’t worry,” I say, clutching her hand. “Believe me, I know.”
I have had too many drinks and danced too many dances by the time Damien finally arrives at the club. Heads turn, as always, and the crowd parts. He strides straight toward me, and I watch, transfixed, as he moves across the dance floor, not quite able to believe that all of that power and grace belongs to me. That out of everyone in that club, I am the one who will see him naked. Who will feel the heat of his mouth upon my skin. Who will cry out when he thrusts himself deep inside me.
He hooks an arm around me and kisses me hard. I cling to him. I am somewhere in that place between buzzed and wasted, and I feel every beat of the loud music reverberating through me. I am sweaty with exertion, my skin slick, my clothes clinging to me. I lift myself up on tiptoes and press my lips to his ear. “I want you. Now.”
I am not exaggerating; I am desperate for him. But considering we’re on a dance floor, I hardly expect my wish to come true. So I am surprised when he grips my arm and steers me toward the back of the club, then tugs me into a small elevator that he calls with a card key.
Despite the fact that I’m in a haze, I can’t help but notice the tension in his face. The hardness of his eyes. Not to mention the fact that he has yet to speak one word to me.
“Damien? What is it?”
The elevator opens and we are in an office. One wall is entirely glass, and I remember seeing it from below. It is made of reflective glass and surrounded by lights so that anyone who looks up sees only the distorted reflection of dancers surrounded by the glare of colored lights.
But from up here, we have a perfectly clear view of the club.
It is to that wall that Damien pushes me, until my back is to the glass and the dancers writhe beneath us and there is nowhere else for us to go.
The heat in his eyes is unmistakable, and I feel the corresponding pull inside of me. I don’t know what has happened or why he needs this, but right now it doesn’t matter. I am his, and he can take me however he needs.
How he needs, is rough.
He shoves my skirt up and rips off my panties, making me gasp. He lifts my leg and hooks it around him, so that I am completely exposed. The air against my hot sex makes me tremble, but it is the rub of his jeans against me as he tugs me toward him that sends tremors running through me.
His erection strains under the denim, and I gyrate my hips, stroking myself along his denim-clad cock, wanting to feel it inside me, needing him to fill me.
I meet his eyes, and he stays silent, but the need I see on his face is as potent as my own.
I practically dive for the buttons of his fly, then watch enraptured as he springs free. I want to touch him, to stroke him, but I have no time. He holds me by the hips, shifts my weight, and impales me on him so hard and fast that I swallow my scream.
He thrusts us both backward, slamming me against the glass, and for a moment, I imagine us tumbling over, falling to the dance floor, still connected, still fucking, while the whole world looks on. The fantasy only makes me more wet.
His gaze locks on mine as the intensity of his thrusts builds. I see his release growing in his eyes, and tighten my leg around him to pull him closer at the moment he goes over.
He shudders, still deep inside me, and I reach between us, my fingers rubbing his cock as I stroke my clit, faster and faster until I come, too, and my muscles tighten around him, pulling from him the last waves of the orgasm that still rocks through both of us.
Finally, we sink to the ground, breathing hard, our clothes and limbs tangled around us.
When the ability to move returns, I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him “Do you want to tell me what that was about?” I ask softly.
He reaches for me, then cups my face, his thumb stroking lightly over my chin. “Nobody fucks with what is mine.”
I frown, not understanding. “What’s yours? You mean me?”
He doesn’t answer, but the darkening intensity of his eyes tells me what I want to know.
“What happened?”
“I paid a visit to Giselle earlier. You won’t be working with her again.”
His words propel me to a sitting position. “What the fuck?” I think about her text. “Goddammit, Damien, quit talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on.”
He lifts his hips so he can readjust his clothes. Then he stands. I scramble to do the same, and follow him back to that glass wall. “She was in the ATM footage. I confronted her, and she confessed she leaked the story about the portrait so she could get cash to help keep her business going after she and Bruce split. She also sold the story about Jamie and the Ferrari, not to mention the bullshit about our little love nest in Malibu.”
“What? No.” But even as I say it, I think about the intensity of her expression when I told her Jamie was staying in Malibu. And I think about all the financial trouble that she told me she was having as a result of her divorce.
Most of all, I think about that text. It was a confession, I now realize. A confession and an apology.
“But she’s the one who told me about the article in the Business Journal.”