Page 42 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
“Go to sleep. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
I turn to face him. “You aren’t going to leave tonight, are you? Promise me.”
He flashes a quick smile. “Would you believe a promise from me? I’m a notorious liar. A criminal. I’m not a good person, sweetheart. You know that best of all.”
“I believe you,” I say solemnly.
He looks away, studying a clock shaped like a heart on the mantel. “I don’t know why I’m even considering letting you come with me.”
In some ways it might be crazy that I want to come, but it feels right. Deep in my bones, it feels more than right. It feels necessary. “Because you believe in me,” I say softly.
“Of course I do,” he says sadly. “It’s not you that’s the problem. It never has been. My father likes tests. He likes mind games. He likes moving people around on his own personal chessboard.”
I try to make my voice light. “So you should definitely bring me. I love tests.”
Dark eyes flash. “And if we get slowed down, if we fail, those soldiers are going to blast the asylum into a pile of rubble. With both of us inside. Understand? They’re the failsafe. I can’t risk him escaping. That’s the one variable that can’t change.”
“Then we’ll have to be quick.”
“God,” he mutters. “You drive me insane.”
The word rings in the air, heavy now that we’re faced with going to an actual asylum. That’s where Jonathan Scott was tortured as a child, part of what made him twisted. Or would he have turned out that way no matter what? He tried to make his son a monster, but he failed. No matter what Damon Scott believes about himself, he’s a good man.
I take a step closer to him. “Then punish me,” I whisper.
Except I know he won’t. He flinches away from the words, which only proves how much he wants that. Dominance and desire vibrate from him, almost tangible in the air. Did that come from his dark past or would Damon have been this way no matter what? People aren’t equations. I thought I was the one who misunderstood, but it’s Damon who thinks people are the sum of their past.
“Go to bed,” he says, his voice harsh.
“Come with me,” I counter, my chin high. Inside I’m terrified, but I know better than to let him see that. “You don’t need to go downstairs. You only wanted to get away from me.”
He makes a growling sound. “Don’t test me.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I say softly, because I’m tired of watching Damon deny himself.
Reaching for the hem of my shirt, I pull it over my head. My jeans come off next. And the entire time I’m undressing my gaze doesn’t leave his, trying to convey both threat and warning. Trying to convey the same malice he sends me. I’m going to make him feel good, feel safe, for once in his godforsaken life.
He swallows hard. “Stop. Don’t.”
I have to smile, because even his protests feel half-hearted. The way he’s looking at my body… I know he wants me. He more than wants me. He’s dying for me, eating me up with his eyes.
When his lips part, I know he’s remembering licking me, thinking he’s going to do it again.
Instead I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor, looking up at him in only my bra and my panties. It took heavy courage to get to this point, so maybe that’s why I’m suddenly feeling weak. “You can tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”
“Christ,” he mutters. “You don’t want to do this. Not for me. Not for any man.”
“Why not?” I ask, working the placket of his slacks. Already he’s hard beneath my touch. The backs of my fingers brush his rigid length as I pull down the zipper, making it flex inside.
He speaks between gritted teeth, as if I’m hurting him—and maybe I am. He’s so twisted up, as if pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain. “Because we’re selfish. We’ll use you and hurt you and get so deep inside you just so we can feel good.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about me or him. My darker suspicion is that he’s talking about his father.
With his slacks open, there’s only black briefs cupping his erection. I run my palm over the warm cotton. He sucks in a breath. There’s a sense of power as I stroke him through the fabric. A sense of pride as I make him buck into my hand.
“Don’t deserve it,” he gasps as I mouth him through the briefs. “We don’t fucking—God, sweetheart. I don’t fucking deserve you, and I definitely don’t deserve this.”
He pushes back against the closed door, slamming his fists against it, making the whole wall shudder. It’s a denial, but not for me. For himself. He looks like some kind of dream, his head thrown back, his slacks open to reveal a thick erection. He would be the very picture of masculine sexuality except I don’t think most men are so tormented about it. I don’t think most men fight themselves.
