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.”
“Camouflage,” he says. “She sells the story, then tells you. You’re both surprised together, and she looks innocent.”