Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  “Dame, you guys were amazing out there.”

  He turned to me, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. It took all of my self-control not to lean in and wipe it away.

  He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his stark eyes. “Glad you liked.” He turned back to his fans. And while I was ensconced in his arms, balancing on his lap, he proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the hour-long signing.

  Finally, it was done. He set me down, his hands gently, and perhaps even reluctantly, gliding down my waist and hips as he slowly pushed me away from him. He stretched out languorously while his bandmates eyed me with curiosity. Finally, he looked at me again. There was an odd, wistful look in his eyes when he said softly, “Come,” as he grabbed my hand and led me to the back door and a waiting limo.

  Bella

  I smiled at the chauffeur as he held the door open for us. I slid into the backseat, not looking at Dame as he folded his big body next to mine. The backseat was so spacious, but still, he sat right next to me. Our thighs touched, taking me back to that Lyft ride all those years ago. I glanced at him, and he’d closed his eyes, his head against the headrest, as he let out a long, deep breath. We continued in silence, until the car came to a stop.

  The driver opened the door and we stepped out. Damien brushed by me, reaching back to lace his fingers through mine, and led me up to the penthouse. As we walked through the grandiose room, all marble tiles and gaudy gold fixtures, I looked around me. His things were strewn haphazardly across the room. On the coffee table, to my horror, was tell-tale white powder. Empty bottles of expensive liquor were scattered throughout. The shock must have shown on my face. Defiance in his stare, he said, “What did you expect? I’m no choir boy. Have never been.”

  “Oh Dame,” I cried out, too many things battling to come out. “Why? You’re better than this.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mirabella.” And, as if to prove his point, he turned to one of those lines of coke and snorted it in front of me. He wiped his hand across his nose, his eyes holding mine in challenge.

  His complete disregard for himself turned my blood to ice, then to fire, and I shook my head over and over, as I gritted out, “Why? Why are you doing this, Dame?”

  And he’d kept calling me by my first name. Was I no longer his Bella? Was he no longer my sweet Damien James?

  He laughed, the sound dark and angry. “Do the reasons really matter?”

  “It kills me to see you hurting yourself.”

  He looked at me, his eyes dark with emotions I couldn’t name, didn’t dare name. And he saw right through me.

  “What did you expect,” he repeated. “Aren’t you here for Damien James, lead singer of My Tell-Tale Heart and Bang Bang! Magazine’s Most Fuckable Rocker of the Year?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then Mirabella Mei Grace, tell me. Why are you here?” His voice was like a broken whisper caught in the darkest of nights. I know that he wasn’t referring to the fact that he’d been the one who’d grabbed my hand and taken me back here, and that I was the one who’d blindly followed him. No, this was a general, Why did I fucking come back into his life?

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I needed to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  He didn’t say a word. I felt bleak, wondering if I’d made a mistake in seeking him out. Of course I’d made a mistake. He’d already rejected me flat out, more times than I could count. So yes, what did I expect? And why was I here?

  “I’m not here for Damien James, rockstar. I’m here for Dame Mortensen, my Damien James.” I looked up at him, unable to keep the devastation from my voice. It dripped over each syllable in his beloved name. I walked to him, my arms aching to hold him, hoping that with my touch, he’d remember. “Dame, how could you think that any of this, any of it at all, would ever matter to me?” I whispered, “Other girls might care about the rockstar. But I don’t. I just want my Damien James.”

  “I know . . . of course I know,” he murmured in response. “This isn’t a good idea, Mirabella.”

  Something behind his eyes broke. He took a step backwards, trying to maintain the physical distance between us, and shook his head.

  “I changed my mind. I need a shower,” he said softly before walking to the bathroom, not looking back. “You know where the door is.” He stopped in his tracks, still not turning around to face me. “The car is at your disposal. The driver will drop you off wherever you want. Please use it—it isn’t safe out there.”

  I watched him walk off, completely unnerved by the sequence of events. Just like that, he’d dismissed me from his life—again. And yet, even in his rejection of me, his thoughts were for my safety. My heart ached. He still cared, but would it ever matter? I supposed deep inside, I had hoped that he was still pining after me. I should be happy that he wasn’t. That he’d clearly moved on. He’d found success, and he didn’t need me. And yet . . . I looked around, devastated for him that he was numbing himself with drugs and alcohol.

  I heard his clothes hitting the floor, then the sound of water.

  I don’t know what overtook me. He wasn’t mine. Had never been, really, and if the early signals tonight had been mixed, well, he had just shown me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t welcome back in his life now. I realized with a heavy heart that not once had he used any of his terms of endearment for me today. No baby girl, or baby doll, or baby. No Bella, even.

  And yet, I couldn’t stop myself. I edged toward the bathroom. He was already in the shower, his back to the door, water falling across his broad shoulders and back. His whole body was drenched in ink, from his nape, his neck, down to his toes. And I realized with a start that the new tattoo covering his entire back was oh so familiar. Done in his trademark black and greys, but this time, just a touch of pinks and reds brightened the canvas. It was of a woman’s face, one that I recognized, even if it was turned ever so slightly to the side and hidden by long strands of dark hair that fell in ribbons across his back, across his butt, mingling with the sprays of windswept pink-red cherry blossoms, the color matching her lips. The collar of her cheongsam was a silky white, much like the one that hung in my closet back home, much like the one I’d worn on a spring night when I was seventeen.

  He’d tattooed me on his back, the ink still so fresh and vibrant that it couldn’t have been all that long ago. I still meant something to him.

  Suddenly, he turned back and I saw him. I saw his body respond.

  The fire in his eyes burned right through me.

  “Shit,” he growled. “No matter how many girls I fuck, how many venues I sell out, how much I drink to forget you, my cock can’t seem to. Run baby girl. Run, because I won’t be able to stop. Not this time.”

  His words chilled me. And yet, I did not run. Could not run. Instead, I walked to him, ashamed that I could not hold on to a single shred of my self-dignity. He’d called me by something other than my given name. Like I still meant something. I took a step closer, pulling my sweater over my head, revealing the lacy black cami underneath.

  He took my move as the full acquiescence that it was and stepped out of the shower, not bothering to turn off the water. In a leap, he was on me, dripping everywhere, his mouth coming down hard and angry, tension still reverberating from his frame.

  I kissed him back in desperation, feeling the hunger that only he could ignite, that only he could satiate.

  “Bella, Bella mine,” he murmured, desperation ringing his voice black and blue as I whimpered at his assault on my body, on my senses. I felt every single one of his hard, hungry inches against me, his cock burning me, branding my belly.

  He stepped back and before I could comprehend his next move, he threw me over his shoulder brusquely, knocking the breath out of me as my stomach collided against his powerful frame. Distant memories of a time when he’d done a similar thing assailed me. He’d been playful and kind, then. Not angry. Not like this.

  He bounded into the bedroom, nervous energy pouring out of
him, frightening me in the most tantalizing way possible. None too gently, he threw me down onto the bed.

  He hovered above me, looking at me intently, fire in his dark blue eyes, all traces of rockstar eyeliner washed away, but still glass, still not quite there. I reached out to gently caress his cheek, my fingers trembling as they lightly touched the teardrop tattoo, gently ran over his scar.

  “Are you there, my love?” I whispered.

  He laughed, wrath echoing through the beloved sound. “I haven’t been there for quite some time, sweetheart,” he responded, making my heart bleed for him, for me.

  I cupped his face and pulled him down for a kiss, hoping to find the boy who’d once loved me. He kissed me back with a passion that shook me to my very core.

  I shivered. My stomach flipped.

  “Baby doll,” he whispered, his dark voice somehow more careful, gentler now, making me tingle to my toes, “I’m not so far gone. Yet. You should leave or you’ll regret it.”

  Baby doll.

  In spite of his words, I knew as clear as day that I would never need to run, because he would always stop. I only ever needed to say it.

  And regardless, it didn’t matter. I didn’t want him to stop. This time, I wouldn’t turn back. I wanted this as surely as the sun rises in the morning.

  “Dame, make love to me.”

  He paused for a heartbeat and murmured, “I haven’t made love since . . . you. I wouldn’t know how anymore, baby girl.”

  As he looked at me, through me, with the true blue of his eyes, I found it hard to believe him. I pulled his head down for another kiss. Electricity coursed through me as he growled, his teeth sinking into my lips, drawing blood.

  Kisses and bites.

  His hands roamed my body, his touch rough and foreign. But he still knew all of the secret places that made my body sing—just for him.

  He grabbed my arms by the wrists and held them above my head. He looked at me intently.

  “You are so fucking beautiful, Bella. So fucking beautiful. I tried to forget.”

  “My Damien James,” I whispered. “Finish what we didn’t last time.”

  He hesitated. His eyes became fire and he rasped angrily, “Last fucking chance for you to turn back, Bella.”

  I shook my head. “I’m never running from you, Dame. Ever. I’ve only ever been running to you.”

  He swallowed hard. “Then it’s too late, baby.” His lips came down to ravage mine.

  Too late? What had he meant? Too late for him or for me? For us?

  But my train of thought was derailed by the urgency of his assault on my senses.

  He let go of my arms and I felt him impatiently tugging at my leggings, my cami. Before I knew it, they were in a pile on the floor. I was laid out in front of him, like an offering to an angry god. He pulled on my lacy black bra, tearing it off me in a swift motion. My panties followed, tattered, ruined. Like my heart.

  He raised himself up to look down on my naked body, his eyes full of unrestrained hunger, before he dipped down to lick, suck, bite my neck, my arms, my breasts, making me whimper from the delicious almost pain. No one would ever make me feel how he did when I was naked in his arms.

  No one.

  He continued down the length of my body, down my legs, tasting, nipping, licking, before coming back up. He stopped right above the pulsing heat between my legs. He looked up, eye-fucking me, making me whimper from the intensity. Then he lowered his head and began licking, licking, licking his way inside me, torturing my clit, cruelly stopping just before I could scream out my release.

  In a sudden move, he flipped me around until I was on my stomach. I felt the bed bounce as he climbed off. His hands were on my thighs, squeezing the tender flesh in his harsh, steel grip, squeezing so hard I knew he’d leave bruises behind. He dragged me roughly down until my legs fell off the bed, and I was draped across the mattress, my cheek flat against the soft down comforter. I felt his breath on me, cool against my heated flesh, as he leaned in and hissed, “I warned you, Bella. Now, it’s much too late. I don’t make love anymore.” He squeezed my thighs again. “But I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you raw. Fuck you until you beg me to stop.” He licked my ear. “But baby girl, you had your chance. This time,” he bit down on my lobe, “I. Will. Not. Stop.”

  I gasped into the mattress.

  His hand dug into my hair, just on this side of pain, twisting my head to the side and up so I could look into his darkened eyes and witness his devastating downfall.

  The look on his face broke my heart. He was all animal, now. A primal beast stripped of any last shred of civility as his wild, despairing gaze swept over me, his pupils completely dilated, unfocused, as they bored into me, tension and hunger dripping out of his every pore. But deep, deep inside his broken stare, I saw the lost boy who’d always loved me. The one who’d wrapped me in his sheltering arms as we sat near a quiet, shimmering lake, looking up at the starlit skies.

  The same skies that seemed to always forsake him.

  “I warned you. God help me, but I fucking warned you.” He shut his eyes and slammed his lips down on mine. I felt his other hand glide over my shoulder blades, his fingernails raking, digging down the small of my back, over my ass, as he grabbed a handful and pinched, as I buckled underneath him, out of my mind with the strange collision of pleasure and pain.

  His lips left mine abruptly as he journeyed down the length of my spine, licking, sucking. I felt his breath over my ass before he dove in, biting, before I felt his tongue part my buttocks and lick his way in.

  I squirmed, both incredibly turned on and completely appalled, but he held me down with a firm hand. I felt his fingers dip harshly inside of me, without preamble, making me cry out in pleasure-tinged discomfort. He continued his ruthless invasion until my body softened around him, acclimated to his inquisition. And then I felt his lips move over my ass, and when he bit me—hard—I tightened around his fingers and toppled over the edge, his name a ghost on my lips, muffled against the mattress.

  He raised himself and bit me again before grabbing my hair once more, looking at me with his lost, splintered eyes. He let go. From the corner of my eye, I saw him grab a condom on the nightstand and wrap himself.

  I shut my eyes.

  A hand slid between my breasts and the mattress, pausing ever so slightly to roughly grab one and pinch my nipple, before continuing down to my stomach, pulling me up to him. In one swift, harsh move, he buried his cock deep within me. I gasped at the hint of pain, at the shattering pleasure as he proceeded to destroy me, hammering his body hard and deep into me. He was so heavy, and I felt him, his dark invasion, everywhere, and my mind couldn’t keep up with what he was doing to my body, to my senses. Pleasure once again sluiced through me as he began to piston even more urgently with a violence, a wrath that should have scared me but didn’t. Instead, my body, fully subjugated by the mastery of his touch, of his pull on my flesh and my soul, slammed back to meet his, matching his despair and speed until we were both gasping for breath.

  I whimpered. I felt him tense at the sound. He groaned and turned me back around before falling on top of me. And then he reopened his eyes. Passion and desperation were tinging them deep blue. He let out a ragged breath suddenly, as he took me in, truly took me in, the haze in his eyes breaking, leaving a trail of clarity in its wake. He furrowed his dark brows.

  His harsh grip on me eased, and, fingers trembling, he tucked a falling strand of hair behind my ear. I felt the metal of his rings on my cheek as he murmured in a distraught voice, “I’m sorry, baby girl. So sorry.” He reentered me slowly and changed our desperate rhythm. “I’m so sorry.” His rough pummeling turned into long, aching, devastatingly slow strokes, trying to control the pain that made him lash out, trying to temper this maelstrom that threatened to consume us both.

  But he didn’t understand, and neither did I. I’d welcomed, wholly, our angry and messy joining, and I was just as desperate for release as he was. While he’d become
more deliberate, not quite gentle, still, but less cruel, it was me who picked up the rhythm as he groaned suddenly from above me.

  “Baby girl, slow down, slow down. I won’t last.”

  I didn’t listen to him either. Because it was too late for him to turn back from the disaster he’d roped us into.

  He hit me in that delicious spot, and a powerful orgasm took me apart at the seams until I was nothing but a pile of destruction in his arms. Hearing me scream out unleashed his own small death, and he wasn’t far behind, pumping a few more times before exploding inside of me. He collapsed on top of me, the full weight of his body crushing mine in a painfully delicious way, his breath broken against my ear.

  Minutes passed, and I regained consciousness, shivering against him, feeling his beloved weight wrapped around me, trapping me under him. I had forgotten how it could be, the intense emotions of coming home to the one who’d always had and would always have my heart. It’s as if our souls were puzzle pieces that had found exactly where to lock together. The only combination possible. One in a million. It was a feeling of belonging, a feeling that this could be the only right answer in the world. When we made love—love, and whatever insanity it was we’d just shared—everything seemed so easy. But then I’d come crashing back down to earth and its cold reality. My senses were still on edge, heightened by the wild fury of what we’d just done, overwhelming me with emotions and desolation for what could but would never be. Unable to control myself, I began to silently cry.

  Still avoiding my gaze, he pushed himself up, breathless, before picking me up and cradling me against him. He scooted up and laid back down on the bed, his big body draping over mine. The silence stretched on, until finally, he raised himself up and looked down at me, and I saw the darkness in his eyes. I saw the instant he realized he’d made me cry, and the shadows in his stare mingled with what I could only translate as deep self-loathing. Still not saying a word, he reached out to wipe my tears with fingers so gentle it tore me apart. He pulled me into the safety of his arms, my head resting against his heart. It was beating double time.