Page 25 of Mine to Tease

Damon smiles and shakes his head. “I think I’ve already had my way with you, Ms. Cross. This is more for me than for you. Although, it might not be such a bad idea. One glass of this and I doubt you’d remember much about what’s in here.” He lifts his sketchbook up before handing it to me. I take it and run my hands over the smooth cover as I place it on my lap.

“I know you’re not thrilled about this,” I say as he moves to sit beside me. “Which only makes me appreciate it even more.”

Damon nods as he places the glass and bottle on the coffee table in front of us. “Come here,” he says. I scoot closer to him as he pulls me in for a kiss. Bringing one hand to my neck, he pulls my legs up across his lap with the other. I giggle as he tugs me even closer to him. Slowly, he moves his hand up and down my leg—from my ankle up my exposed calf to underneath the fabric of my dress. As his fingers reach my midthigh, I moan, breaking our kiss. He stops his movements then while maintaining his grip on my thigh.

“It’s been too long since I’ve gotten to touch you,” he whispers. I nod and rest my forehead against his. “And you’re right, this does make me a bit uneasy. But I know this is what you need, and I know that this is what’s best for us. I just hope there’s still an us after it’s all said and done.” My brows furrow. Why wouldn’t there be? What could he have done that’s so horrible I couldn’t accept him?

I pull back from him then and bring my hand to his cheek. “Damon, whatever happened before me was before me. None of us are perfect. And, contrary to what you may believe, I’m more familiar with darkness than most.”

Damon nods. “Okay.” He removes his hands from me and quickly pours himself a drink. He downs the first one in two gulps, drawing a look of surprise from me. Then he proceeds to pour another. “Have you ever had bourbon?” I shake my head. He turns toward me, offering me the glass. “Then this is a rite of passage. Just one sip for me, unless you decide you want more.”

I roll my eyes and take the glass from him. As I lift it to my lips, I take a moment to inhale its sweet vanilla aroma. Hmm, it smells nice, almost like a boozy perfume. Though as I take a small sip, I find the sweetness quickly gives way to a bitter fire that leaves a scorched trail through my chest and abdomen. “Oh my God!” I cough. “How? You—” Damon laughs as shock and awe washes over me. He takes the glass from me and finishes off the rest just as quickly as the first. “Damon! How are you alive right now? How do you have any taste buds left? How—? I’m so confused.”

“I know.” He laughs, patting my legs as he sets the glass back on the coffee table. “It’s hilarious.”

“Well, after that I expect your nerves have disintegrated. Let’s get started, shall we?” I hold up the sketchbook, and Damon’s glassy eyes move to it, lingering there. His smile falls but he does not protest.

“As you wish.”

Damon relaxes into the couch, turning his attention to my feet. Gently, he removes my strappy heels and, as promised, gives me a foot massage. I lie back, resting my body against the arm of the sofa. As I settle in for what I expect to be my most interesting read yet, Damon’s touch soothes me, as does the warmth and crack of the fire. I take a deep breath and flip open the cover of the sketchbook. The singe from the amber liquid has worn off, leaving my insides just as warm and cozy as my skin—a calming sensation I’m thankful for as I flip through the emotional inner world of the man I crave.

The very first sketch in the book is of a woman’s face. She is beautiful with almond-shaped eyes, wavy dark hair, and a small beauty mark above her lip. Though sketched with a charcoal pencil, I imagine her eyes to be hazel. She stares back at me with thick dark brows, similar to Damon’s. Hmm. I look between the two of them to see if I notice any other similarities. In truth, I don’t see many except for the shape of their eyes and faces. She has a strong, sharp jawline and high cheekbones, the same as him. I’m not sure who she is. A past love? His mother? Whoever she is, she is important.

In the first drawing, she has a blank expression, but over the next several sketches, her facial features change. It’s as if she is…confused, worried. “Scared,” I say aloud as I take in the next sketch. Her eyes are wide with fear as tears drip from them. Her lip is bloody and her cheek is split. I move my eyes from the book to Damon then, but he does not look at me. Instead, he stares blankly ahead. His hands rest heavy on my legs as he’s given up his massage efforts. In all honesty, I have no idea when he stopped. I’ve been so entranced by the woman on these pages.

Returning my attention to her, I flip to the next page and hold in the gasp threatening to escape me. This drawing is more like a scene rather than a portrait. A man stands over the woman with his fist ready to throw a punch. All around them are toppled furniture, a broken vase, scattered books. I look closely at the man to see if it’s Damon. He’s always assured me he’d never hurt me—physically. But he’s been so afraid to open up to me. Could this shameful, dark moment in his past be the reason why? Alas, there aren’t enough details to truly detect the identity of the man.

I adjust myself on the couch, feeling a bit uneasy as I continue flipping through similar scenes of violence until, finally, a new character is introduced. The tension in my chest eases as I spot the tattoos on the arms of the new man. Damon. So then, who is the other man? The next sketch is of Damon holding the man up against a wall by his throat.

I flip through the pages with wide eyes and bated breath. I take my time examining all the little details and yet, I’m desperate to know what happens. Does he kill him? The final sketch of this scene is of Damon walking out of the house with the beaten, bruised, and bloody woman, leaving the man behind in similar condition, yet alive. I take a deep breath as sympathy riles inside of me. Though, just as I thought the violence was over, it was truly only beginning.

I lose track of the number of times the man depicting Damon goes back to the abuser, torturing him and killing him over and over again. The expression on Damon’s face changes each time. It’s as if he loses a part of himself with each kill. At first, he is sad with tears in his eyes. By the end, he wears a smile and that wicked glare I’ve seen a handful of times myself. Though something tells me what I’ve seen is only a glimpse of Damon’s dark potential. Did he kill the man or is this only therapeutic, seeing as you can kill someone only once?

The scenes transition for a while to some self-portraits, scenes with Damon dressed in a suit surrounded by other faceless men dressed similarly. That’s weird. I’ve never seen him in anything other than a black T-shirt or black long-sleeve tee and his leather jacket. There are a few drawings of random things—a gun, a ring, some sort of crest, some tattoo sketches I wonder if he did for himself, and finally, the name Delia. Seeing it makes me realize nothing in this book is random, which certainly leaves me with questions.

Who are the faceless men in the sketches? Are they faceless because who they are isn’t important, rather what they represent is? Or are they faceless because they’re too important and their identities must be protected? And the gun. My thoughts go back to Angelo and how Damon treated him—a man with a gun, dressed in a suit. He wasn’t fazed, but he also didn’t want me anywhere near him. Perhaps even more so, I consider the thoughts I had that night, about Damon, about Angelo. There’s no way he was or is involved with the mob or Mafia, and yet, these images…

My eyes return to Damon. It seems he’s pulled himself from his trance. His hands once more move up and down my legs as he shifts his attention to the flickering flames of the fire. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, just know that you’re safe with me. I know you have questions, just keep going until the end. I’ll explain everything when you’ve finished.”

I believe him. I have a thousand questions and yet my body feels safe next to him. Still, I’m not sure I have the stomach to continue. “I thought you said this book also holds your brightest moments. Everything so far has been?—”

“Dark, tragic, gruesome.” Damon nods as his hands still. Turning to me, he says, “My life was all of those things—until I met you.” My lips part as Damon takes the book from me. Quickly, he flips forward as I pull my legs from him and sit normally on the couch beside him.

As if he has the page memorized, he stops flipping on the exact page which bares my face. “What?” I lean into him and take a closer look. Similar to his drawings of the woman I can only assume is Delia, there are several sketches of my portrait. Though, unlike the woman before, my expressions aren’t of worry or fear. I wear a smile, a smirk. In one of them I’m rolling my eyes. In another I’m laughing. Yet another I’m yelling at Damon as he laughs. Then, the sketches shift to scenes—of me, of us. Some sweet, some steamy. They’re of all the key moments we’ve had together, from the first time he walked me home, to what followed after with me restrained on the kitchen island, to us eating lunch here on the sofa in between renovating my shop, various sexual scenes, and even Brinkley made the cut here and there.

As he flips through these drawings of his memories, I realize that everything here has occurred chronologically. Which means, even as he laid out the rules of our arrangement, feigning this emotional detachment, that night, our first night, still imprinted itself on him. I imprinted on him. Has he cared about me this whole time? He has wanted me this whole time?

Damon flips to the next page then. It’s blank, save for a few charcoal marks, which look like the makings of my shop. “I’ve never been happier than when I’m with you, Anastasia.” Damon puts the book on the coffee table, leaving it open to the half-done page. Turning to me, he takes my hands in his and says, “It doesn’t matter if we’re fighting or fucking, working or playing, eating at a fancy restaurant or out of a piece of tin foil, I am happy every second I’m in your presence.” At that, my lip quivers and tears well in my eyes. Damon brings his hand to my cheek to wipe one away as it falls and then moves his thumb to my lip. I savor his touch. “You are my brightest moment. And the reason that last page isn’t finished is because I wasn’t ready to go back to the darkness. I wasn’t ready to draw a permanent reminder of the end of us. So I got Brinkley and I ran to find you, because I don’t love anyone, Anastasia.” He shakes his head as more tears drip from my eyes. “But I love you.”

Damon’s words pull a gasp from me and yet, my lips quickly draw into a smile. “You do?” I ask, my voice cracking with emotion.

“Yes, I do, Ana. I promise you, I do.” At that, Damon pulls me onto his lap. I straddle him like I did our very first night together. Fresh tears fall but I quickly wipe them away, desperate to see him. I want to remember this moment forever and the look of love on his face I find the moment my vision clears. Aside from my father and brother, which is in no way the same, no man has ever said I love you to me before. No man has ever made me feel the way Damon does—happy, warm, and safe. Yes, he’s also made me feel other things too—confusion, heartache. Yet, somehow those three words make up for all of it.

“Show me.” I bring my hands to his face and my lips to his. I kiss him, as if it is the first time, the last time, a time to last for the rest of our lives. I’m not ready to say I love you yet. But what I feel in this moment certainly feels like love.

“What about the other drawings? Your questions?” he asks. I shake my head, kissing him once more.

“They can wait. I can’t. I don’t want to think about anything else right now. All I want is you, all of you, inside me, showing me just how much you love me.” As I speak, I can’t keep my hips from rocking back and forth. I kiss him again as I grind atop him, drawing a soft moan from him. “Make me yours in body and soul.” As I pull my lips from his, Damon tightens his grip around my waist. He looks at me then with a familiar lustful darkness. Yet quickly it leaves him and is replaced by a gentleness I’ve never seen before.

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