Page 22 of Renata Vitali (The Five Syndicates)
I ducked my hand beneath my sheets and toyed with the trim of my panties. I was going to Hell. Damian moaned again, and my fingers dipped below the fabric, teasing my clit. Listening to Damian with another woman shouldn’t have hurt me, but it did. It gutted me. Still, I couldn’t stop touching myself.
“Yes, please. Faster. Faster. Faster. I’m so close.”
Dear Lord, there were two of them.
Two. Girls.
That gut-punch feeling could go to Hell. I didn’t own Damian. No, I didn’t even want him. Right? But the sounds of his grunts hitched my breath, and driving away this lust seemed impossible. I tried to push it out of my head, wondering what the hell I was doing.
“Harder,” one of the girls begged.
I slid two fingers inside of me and pictured Damian above me. His hand was on my breast, my neck, my hair, his scent everywhere. I was close. I could hear him groaning from his room, too, and I came. Breathy. Moaning. Way too loud.
Definitely going to Hell.
My cheeks burned as I came down from the high, unable to believe what I’d just done. I made a mess on my hand, so I slid off the bed to sneak across the hall to the bathroom. Damian’s door opened the same time mine did.
I considered pretending I hadn’t seen him before deciding that would be too obvious. I turned to face him and crossed my arms. “Your dad has a ban on guests, and I wouldn’t piss him off. Not that you’re around to see it, but he’s been on a rampage lately.”
His eyes flattened, and he skimmed them over my body. “Has he hurt you?”
“No.” I peeked around him, trying to peer into the room as subtly as I could.
“There’s no one in the room, Princess.”
“But I heard—” I faltered, not liking how pathetic I sounded. “There was a girl—”
“Porn, Princess. It was porn. You’ve never watched it?” His amusement had me reconsidering the past twenty minutes. He knew I could hear him through the vent. Had he done this on purpose?
I shook my head. “I heard—”
A smirk lined his lips. “It’s called jacking off. You know, self-pleasure. Masturbating. Cleaning your rifle.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“Painting the ceiling. Playing the skin flute. Choking the cyclops.”
“Damian.”
“Milking the lizard. Dishonorable discharge. Croaking the frog.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Firing the flesh musket. Giving a dirty handshake. Basting the ham.”
“I swear to God—”
“—Taking the sausage hostage. Emptying the cache. Clearing my browser history.”
“You like to touch your penis. I get it.”
If it were anyone else, they’d be laughing at his words. Neither of us laughed, even when we poked fun and prodded one another’s buttons. Damian sobered. The silence between us reminded me of the jungle. Except he was the predator, and he’d already come.
“Angelo will return later today.” Damian’s eyes ran over me once more, methodical and almost detached in their perusal of my body. As if cleaning him in the bath had never happened. And then he said the most unexpected thing. “If my dad tries to hurt you, find me.”
It was little things like this which told me he cared.
And it was the pathetic pattering of my heart which told me I did, too.
