The walk back to the East Wing was a masterclass in delayed gratification.
Damien didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, pressing against Aria’s back as she walked a step ahead of him down the long, silent corridor. Every click of her Converse on the floor sounded like a countdown.
They reached the double doors.
Damien pushed the door open.
The room had been reset. The shattered antique bed frame had been removed, replaced by a pristine, sturdy mahogany four-poster that looked like it could withstand a siege. The feathers were gone. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and Alfred’s disapproval.
"Efficient," Damien noted, kicking the door shut and locking it with a heavy, decisive click.
He looked at the new bed. It was perfectly made, the sheets crisp and inviting.
"It looks comfortable," Aria whispered, her throat dry.
"It does," Damien agreed. He walked past it without a second glance.
He went straight to the antique vanity table set against the far wall. It was a massive piece of furniture with a tri-fold mirror that caught the afternoon light. He gripped the edge of the table and tested its weight. It didn’t budge.
"Come here," he commanded.
Aria walked over. She could feel his eyes on the white crop top, on the bold black letters that had offended his grandfather so deeply.
Damien turned her around so she was facing the mirror. He stood behind her, his chest pressing against her back, recreating the stance from the shooting range. His hands came up to rest on her waist, his thumbs hooking into the belt loops of her shredded jeans.
"I made you a promise," he murmured against her ear, his eyes locking with hers in the reflection.
"To teach me to shoot?" Aria asked breathlessly.
"To rip this shirt off you."
He didn’t give her time to prepare. He reached up, grabbing the thin cotton of the crop top with both hands.
RIIIP.
The sound was sharp and violent. The shirt tore down the middle, falling away from her body in two ruined halves. Aria gasped, the cool air hitting her skin, her chest heaving in the sheer lace bra she wore underneath.
"Damien..."
"Watch," he ordered, his gaze dark and hungry in the mirror.
He unclasped her bra, tossing it aside. He stripped her jeans down, his hands rough and impatient, until she stood naked before the glass, framed by his dark suit.
He lifted her effortlessly, setting her onto the cool marble surface of the vanity. He spread her legs wide, stepping between them.
He opened the top drawer of the vanity. Amidst the neatly arranged socks and ties, there was a small stack of gold-foiled squares.
"You came prepared," Aria noted, her voice trembling as he tore one open with his teeth.
"I’m always prepared," Damien said, sheathing himself with a quick, fluid motion.
He spun her around.
He pressed her chest toward the mirror, forcing her to lean forward, her palms flat against the cool glass.
"Look," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, positioning her. "Look at what you do to me."
In the reflection, Aria saw him looming behind her—a dark, powerful shadow consuming her light. He looked primal. He looked obsessed.
He entered her from behind.
It was one long, deep thrust that filled her completely. Aria cried out, her head falling back, her eyes squeezing shut as the sheer size of him stretched her.
"Open your eyes," Damien commanded, his hand wrapping around her throat—gentle but controlling. "Watch."
Aria forced her eyes open. She watched as he began to move. It was a slow, punishing grind. He withdrew almost completely, then drove back in, hitting her deepest spot with a precision that made her knees weak.
"God, you’re so fucking tight," Damien groaned, his voice thick with strain. "You clamp down on me every time."
He reached around, his hands cupping her breasts. He squeezed the soft flesh roughly, his fingers pinching her nipples hard, twisting them in time with his thrusts.
"Damien!" Aria sobbed, the sharp sensation mixing with the fullness below, sending electric shocks through her system.
The heavy antique vanity began to rock. Perfume bottles rattled against each other, clinking rhythmically as Damien drove into her with increasing force.
"You like that," he whispered, biting her shoulder.
"Yes," Aria gasped, watching her own flushed face in the mirror, the way her body was being wrecked by his.
He moved his hand down, finding her clit, rubbing it aggressively while he continued to pound into her from behind. It was too much. The visual of them—his suit, her nakedness, the violence of his possession—combined with the friction was overloading her senses.
"Damien, I’m close," she gasped, her hands slipping on the glass.
"Take it," he snarled, driving harder, faster, the vanity banging against the wall now. "Cum for me, Aria. Show me."
She shattered. Her body convulsed around him, milking him. She screamed his name, the sound echoing in the large room.
Damien groaned, a low, animalistic sound, and drove into her three more hard, deep strokes before spilling himself into the protection, his forehead resting against her back as he shuddered.
They stayed there for a moment, tangled and breathless, the only sound the ragged intake of air.
Damien pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. He pulled back, adjusting his clothes, and then turned her around to face him.
He didn’t let her down immediately. He stood between her legs, cupping her face.
"Better," he decided, wiping a smudge of lipstick from her mouth with his thumb.
He stepped back.
Aria tried to slide off the smooth surface. Her feet hit the floor, and her legs immediately gave out. They were trembling violently, too weak to hold her weight.
Damien caught her instantly, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her up.
"I’ve got you," he murmured, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes as he felt her shaking against him.
"You were too rough," Aria complained, leaning heavily against him, her head spinning. "How am I supposed to walk in heels now? I have five-inch stilettos to wear. This is sabotage."
"It was my plan all along," Damien confessed, pulling her flush against him so she didn’t have to support her own weight. "If you can’t walk, you’ll have to lean on me all night. Which is exactly where I want you."
Aria glared at him, but there was no heat in it. "You’re a tyrant."
"Maybe I am," he smirked.
He looked at the clock on the mantel.
"We have an hour until the Grand Dinner," he said. "And you..."
He looked at the ruined shirt on the floor.
"...you need a new outfit. And maybe a few minutes to remember how to stand."