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“It’ll be fine.” Damian stands behind me in his dressing room, facing the mirror. He kisses my cheek and drags his hands over the silk of the evening dress, stopping on my hips. “You look beautiful.”
It’s a blue dress with no sleeves. Damian’s choice, of course.
“What are you afraid of?” he whispers in my ear.
“You know.”
He traces a finger along my arm, the pad caressing the bumpy lines. “The people who’ll be here all have scars. Worse ones. You just don’t see them.”
The longer I put this off, the longer I’m dragging out my apprehension. I take a breath and turn with determination. “Let’s get this over with.”
He blocks my way. “Not so fast. I’m not done.”
“Done with what?”
“Turn around and bend over.”
“Damian, no. We’re already running late.”
“I want you to remember who you belong to when you go down there.”
I show him the enormous rock on my finger. “How can I forget?”
“A ring doesn’t close a hole. Turn around.”
“You’re crass.”
Gripping my waist, he twirls me around and pushes my upper body down with a palm. I have to grab onto the vanity counter to keep steady. Before I have time to get to my senses, he flips the skirt up and tears off my thong. I brace myself at the sound of his zipper and look at his reflection in the mirror. He’s not undressing, just freeing his cock through his open fly. My period’s been over since yesterday, and of course, Damian knows it. He spits in his palm and rubs it over my slit. No time for foreplay. No time to make sure I’m wet, although my eager body is already preparing itself for his invasion.
He places the head of his cock at my entrance and makes eye contact. He reads my face as he slams in, too full and stretching me too fast. Too deliciously. What does he see that makes him grip my hip harder? My expression is a mixture of painful ecstasy and unbearable pleasure. My eyes are unfocussed and my grimace something straight from a porn movie. I burn under his hands. I bite my lip to keep the sounds in. There are caterers downstairs. The sound will drift through the open door.
When he pulls out slowly and pushes back roughly, I choke out a moan. His face flushes with satisfaction. He covers my mouth with a broad palm and brings the other around to the front of my body, between my legs. Pivoting his hips, he pinches my clit and catches my whimpers. I break apart, crying out my climax in his hand as he flexes his ass and comes. While emptying himself inside me, he watches me, witnessing my weakness, my body’s helpless surrender. When he’s done, he pulls out and cleans himself with a tissue, finally allowing me to straighten on shaky legs.
As I take a step toward the bathroom, he catches my arm. “Don’t clean up.”
I gape at him. “I won’t be able to sit.”
“Yes, you will. You just won’t be able to stand up, again.”
“Damian.”
“When my cum dribbles between your legs and dry on your thighs, remember who owns you.”
I can only stare at him.
“Fix your lipstick,” he says. “I smeared it all over your face.”
Looking in the mirror, I see he’s right. I wipe away the red traces and apply a fresh layer before brushing out my sex-ruffled hair. I’m already uncomfortable as I move to the door. His semen is running down my leg all the way to my evening shoe and I smell like sex. I just want this dinner to be over. The guests should be arriving any minute.
“There’s something else,” he says. “Come.”
Over-conscious of my state under the dress, I follow him to the bedroom. He stops in front of the linen chest at the foot-end of the bed and pushes it aside with his foot. Oh, my God. There, underneath the rug he rolls up, is the trapdoor I’ve been looking for. He lifts it to reveal a safe with an old-fashioned turning knob. I know the type. Harold had one in his home office. I can’t see the number sequence, because his back blocks my view, but I listen to the grating sound of the mechanism as it turns, and count the seconds. One. Three. Two. Four. I memorize the sequence for what it’s worth. My heart is in my throat. Everything I want may be hidden in that iron vault at the foot of his bed.
He carries a flat, velvet box toward me. Flipping the lid, he reveals a necklace of black diamonds. They’re the latest rage. Duller than white diamonds, they sparkle with an understated shine. They’re big, well cut, and perfectly set. Whoever made the necklace knew what he was doing.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful.” Not as expensive as their white cousins, but I have enough experience to recognize priceless when I see it. The quantity and craftsmanship alone should put it on the market for a few million.
