Chapter 3 Sex in You

Savannah studied the painting again; the expression of the woman was a desperate, almost painful, incredible glory in her release and all felt strangely intimate.

"It's intense," she said. "But raw, like you're trying to grapple with something bigger than you."

His mouth twitched. "Is that a criticism?"

She met his gaze there. "It's an observation." "You're a man obsessed with control." "But this?" she gestured to the canvas. This is chaos, emotion. You can't tame it."

Damien crossed the empty space between them in two strides, "Neither can you."

His mouth crashed down on hers before she could answer.

No warning, no soft beginning, only fire, savagely overwhelming.

His lips mated with hers, as if by right. His tongue slipped past the seamed lips, it demanded, tasted, explored. He knew how to take her kiss like a man starving, like he had waited far too long and wouldn't wait a second anymore.

Savannah moaned into his mouth and grabbed at his shirt, twisting the fabric around her fists.

He grumbled and lifted her, one arm below her thighs, the other pressed against her back, carrying her toward the heavy studio table, with a thud she landed cold onto it, scattering sketchbooks and jars with brushes.

Her dress rode up to her hips, and the silk slipped along her skin like a second breath.

Damien wasted no time. His hands roamed up her thighs, rough and sure fingers parting them without asking. He pulled her panties aside in one smooth stroke, knuckles grazing the heat that made her gasp.

"You're so wet," he growled against her neck, "You've been aching since the gallery, haven't you?"

Savannah bit down on her lip and threw her head back. She hated how right he was.

"Say it," he commanded, his fingers ghosting her entrance.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling. I wanted this. I want you."

"Good," he said, and then his mouth was on her again, kissing, biting, dragging pleasure down her throat as he thrust two fingers inside her.

She arched off the table, gasping.

His fingers were pumping deep, curling and hitting that sweet, devastating spot over and over again. With maddening precision, he circled her clit with his thumb as his hot breath brushed against her ear.

She was unraveling too quickly.

"Not yet," Damien rasped as he withdrew just before she went over the edge. "I want to feel you fall apart around me."

His strength was shocking as he turned her over and threw her across the table so that her bare thighs were pressed into the wood. His dress bunched around her waist, and cool air kissed her slick skin.

Then, she heard the sound of a belt being unfastened.

Her heart leapt.

She looked over her shoulder just in time to see Damien stroking himself thick and hard, glistening with precum. The sight alone had the effect of making her legs tremble.

"You don't get sweet with me, Savannah," he said, positioning himself behind her. "You get real."

Then he thrust into her with one brutal stroke.

She cried out as the pleasure seared through her.

He was thick. Hard. Stretching her to the breaking point.

No pause. No entry ease. Claim.

Each thrust was a proclamation; each slap of skin on skin was louder than words. She clung to the table, knuckling white as he hammered into her, both brutal and tender.

He held her hips as if daring everyone to argue with him, one hand sliding up her back, the other in her hair, pulling her head back so he could whisper filthy words in her ear.

"You feel like sin," he growled. "Like heaven I wasn't meant to touch."

Savannah moaned, eyes rolling back, her body tightening around him.

"Yes, Damien, please."

"Please what?"

"I want to come. Please."

"You will come," he promised, darkness in his voice. "But not until I say so."

He reached around, found her clit again, and rubbed it tight while driving fast circles on it in time with the pounding thrusts she was getting.

She shattered.

Her body convulsed around him, the orgasm washing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed his name, arching backwards, legs shaking.

Damien groaned as she pulsed around him, losing his rhythm briefly before tightening his grip on her and finishing hard with one last deep thrust. His growl turned feral as he spilled inside her, hips jerking, body taut with release.

The studio stood silent for a moment.

The only thing occupying that space was their breath, heavy and broken.

He slowly pulled out, gently turned her to face him.

She slumped against his chest, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

And then, just like that, he stepped back.

Composed and calm. Ice after the fire.

"No strings," he said, pulling up his trousers. "Just pleasure." That's the rule."

Savannah blinked at him.

And then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

"Then let's see how long you last before you break it."

Savannah was not meant to be here.

Not according to the impeccably printed itinerary Damien's assistant slipped under her door that day. Not according to the security panel whose code she knew she should not have. And certainly not according to the hushed warnings she had overheard from household staff: he does not like snooping. Especially not in the penthouse.

Which, of course, only made her want to do it more.

She padded barefoot across the warm tiles, the rooftop exploding in seductive opulence and shadow. Everything about this place was glass and steel and seduction. The moonlight shimmered over the edge of an infinity pool, melting into the black velvet of the sky.

A low jazz melody curled from hidden speakers, lazy and intimate.

Savannah stepped to the edge of the pool.

And then she saw him.

Damien.