Page 12 of Vengeful Embers

I study his profile. His jaw is carved. The lines of his face are almost too perfect, too sharp, too dangerous.

But I don’t feel afraid.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I want to be here.”

He turns to look at me. “Good.”

The elevator dings. His suite is near the top. Of course it is.

He unlocks the door, and I step inside a space that looks like the fantasy of someone who’s used to power. Dark floors, sleek furniture, and a view of the Strip that stretches forever.

There’s wine already open. Food is ordered within minutes—whatever I want. We end up with tapas and grilled prawns, truffle fries, and fresh fruit.

We talk.

He’s funny. Sharp. His questions are thoughtful. And to my surprise, he knows more about astrophysics than any man I’ve dated. He listens. Challenges. When I say something smart, he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look surprised.

He looks… hungry.

Not just for my body. For my mind.

I’m halfway through another glass of wine when he leans closer, eyes on mine.

“I want to kiss you,” he says. His voice is low and warm and absolutely certain. “But if I do… it won’t stop there, Tara. I want you. More than I’ve wanted anyone in a long, long time.”

I feel the bottom fall out of my stomach. My heart flips, then spins.

Everything inside me tightens. My breath is shallow.

My voice is barely a whisper.

“Kiss me.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth finds mine, and the world narrows to heat and pressure. His lips are soft at first, then rougher, hungrier, his hand sliding along the curve of my jaw to the back of my neck, pulling me in. The kiss deepens until I can’t think, can’t breathe. I feel it everywhere—between my thighs, in the pit of my stomach, in the wild gallop of my pulse.

His tongue strokes mine, and I moan into his mouth. It spills out of me like heat. My hand finds his chest, fingers clutching the expensive fabric of his shirt.

He groans, the sound vibrating between us.

Then his hand drops to my thigh. He slides it higher. My dress rides up, the smooth fabric parting easily. His fingers trace along my bare skin, teasing, until they graze the edge of my panties.

I gasp. My legs part without my permission.

His mouth drifts to my jaw, my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear. “It’s good to feel how much you want this,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my throat. “How wet you are for me.”

His fingers press against the damp fabric of my underwear. I jerk against his touch.

Then he takes my hand and slides it to his lap.

I suck in a breath as I feel the thick length of him straining against his pants.

“You feel that?” Damien says, his voice rough now. “That’s how much I want you.”

His eyes hold mine. “Lie back on the sofa, Tara.”

I do as he asks, not breaking eye contact.

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