Page 25 of Suite 7

“Stop managing my patience. It was never yours to manage. I have all night.”

I have nothing to say to that.

His hand leaves my hip and finds my cheek instead, his thumb tracing once along the bone.

“You’re not here to perform for me, Vera. You’re here to learn how to let go.” His voice drops, quieter. “So trust me. Let me get you there. Can you do that?”

“I can try.”

“Good girl.”

His hand leaves my cheek and moves lower, slow, tracing the line of my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast — steady, like he has nowhere else to be. Then lower still. His thumb finds my clit again and begins its slow, patient circle.

“Your body already knows how to do this.” His voice, even, certain. “It’s your mind that keeps getting in the way.” A pause, his thumb never breaking rhythm. “So stop listening to it. Let your body talk instead. It’s been trying to tell you something all night.”

I try.

I stop chasing the thought and go looking for the feeling instead — his thumb, the exact place it touches, the exact pressure. Nothing else. Just that.

And underneath the trying, something shifts. Heat gathers low and sudden, sharper than anything the last hour has given me.

His thumb doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hurry either.

His fingers curl and my whole body arches and the sound I make is nothing I’ve ever let anyone hear — dragged from somewhere I didn’t know he’d reached. His eyes stay on mine through all of it.

“There you are.” Rougher now, but steady. “That’s you, Vera. Just you.”

Just you.

The words reach somewhere Damon spent years hollowing out.

His fingers don’t stop. His thumb keeps its slow, relentless circle, and something in me that has been standing guard all night finally sways on its feet.

“That’s it.” His voice, low. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”

I am. I can feel it too. The building sensation tightens. My thighs are shaking. My arms pull against the silk.

His lips find my forehead. Soft. Unhurried. Nothing like the rest of tonight.

“Let go, Vee.”

It isn’t a command. It’s said like he already trusts I’ll do it. Like he’s not asking permission, just telling me what’s already true.

And I do.

I stop holding on.

The orgasm doesn’t build so much as arrive, and tears through me in a long, unbroken wave that leaves nothing of the room, nothing of Damon, nothing of the version of me that manages things. Just this. Just him. Just the sound of his name tearing out of my throat, raw and endless, my whole body seizing against the silk.

He doesn’t stop until it’s finished with me.

“I’ve got you.”

I can’t speak yet. I just breathe, and let the realization settle in — that this was the first real, full-body orgasm I’ve ever had. No part of me standing off to the side, monitoring, managing, waiting for it to be over so I could file it away as handled.

I don’t think I’ve ever actually felt one happen before. Only ever watched myself have one.

When the last wave crests and breaks, I go completely limp — arms still raised in the silk, head dropped forward, chest heaving, every muscle spent.