“At the end of this, all I want you to do is not hate me.” I reach for her, pulling her onto my lap and grip her hips. “Promise me.” I’m pleading like a fucking asshole.
“What are you talking about?” She tips her head to the side, regarding me with such confusion it steals my breath. “I can’t hate you, Damien. Even if I tried.” Her hands cup my face, her heat searing my crotch, and her sweet smile worsening my guilt.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, attempting to calm the fuck down. I can work through this. Snaking my hand between her splayed thighs, I tease the silky material of her panties, feeling her wetness soak through. “Someone is thinking dirty thoughts.” I attempt to distract her, but I have a feeling Nesrin won’t be swayed easily.
“You touching me won’t change the fact that you’re worried about something.” Her voice breaks and her breathing hitches when I press against her clit. “Damien.” My name comes out a breathy murmur that only serves to make me hard beneath her.
“Like I said, tonight you will be mine. I’m going to dance with you, I’m going to drink champagne with you, and when I take you home, you’re going straight into my bedroom, and I’m going to rip this poor fucking excuse for a dress off, and I’m going to fuck you.”
Her eyes snap open, and her mouth parts into a perfectly formed O that would wrap perfectly around my dick. Her hips roll, her fingers dig into my shoulders, and her panties become slick with her arousal. One. Two. Three. And then she’s shaking above me, taking her pleasure, like I know she enjoys.
“Dirty fucking girl,” I growl, leaning in to inhale her perfume that’s been gently applied to her neck. “And don’t you dare forget who owns that pretty pussy that’s just soaked my fingers.” The reminder sends another wave of trembling through her before I set her down and straighten my jacket.
We pull up to the entrance of the large, looming castle, and before Nesrin can move, I lift my fingers to my nose and inhale her scent. Her shock is clear, and I can’t help but smile.
“All mine.” With a wink, I push open my door, as Hank pulls open Nesrin’s. We meet at the pathway toward the entrance, as she slides her arm through mine.
The perfect couple.
And a perfectly formed lie.
29
Nesrin
When I have a second to really take in the building before us, I’m astounded that it really does look like a castle. The windows are small; yet, they offer up yellow light that streams outward.
Each turret has a darkened hole where I can imagine you would get an impeccable view. Along the second floor are two long balconies that overlook the driveway, which I’m guessing come from a couple of bedrooms.
Built with dark brick, it reminds me of the historic castles in Scotland. Most of them are falling apart, merely ruins, but this one is immaculate. The door is a large archway drenched in golden light, as two butlers stand on either side receiving guests with a smile.
Damien and I adorn our masks; he helps me fasten a bow behind my head. He leans in, allowing the warmth of his breath to slide over me.
“I’m going to kill Cassian for allowing you to buy this dress,” he whispers suddenly. “And then I’m going to punish you for wearing it.” His promise has my stomach flip-flopping at the thought.
“You don’t own me, Damien.” I turn to smile at him, my mask firmly in place, but I know he can see the confidence in my eyes.
“We’ll see about that,” he hisses under his breath, but grins as if nothing is wrong. He places his fingers at the base of my spine, causing my skin to tingle at the contact, as we make our way through the entrance into a breathtaking foyer.
The floors are tiled with patterns better suited for a church. The ceiling is high, with a painting that would make Leonardo Da Vinci jealous. And a chandelier that reminds me of golden champagne flutes hanging above us.
Everything glitters. But doesn’t the saying go, all that glitters isn’t gold.
We’re led through the house, out toward a dining hall that has been set up with a table that looks to seat at least twenty people, probably more, but my attention is captured by three young men standing on the patio, just outside the large glass doors.
Wealth drips from them. The Havens. The girls, who loiter just behind them, are drenched in priceless jewels. The men in expensive tailored suits and the women in designer-cut dresses.
Style.
Beauty.
Money.
“I think you’re far more beautiful than any female in this place,” Damien whispers, conspiratorially, in my ear. He looks like the epitome of a playboy. Perfectly styled black hair and ice-blue eyes. His charcoal suit fits him like a glove, with a crisp white shirt that doesn’t have a single crease. The tie he’s wearing is a striking blue that matches my dress, and I have a feeling that Cassian had a hand in picking it out.