Chapter 10: The First Kiss
1514 Words
The storm came without warning.
One minute the sky over Manhattan was bruised purple, the next the wind howled against the penthouse windows like something alive and furious. Rain lashed the glass in horizontal sheets, lightning cracking so close the thunder rattled the crystal decanters on the bar cart. The city lights below blurred into smeared halos, then vanished entirely as the power grid flickered and died.
Darkness swallowed the penthouse.
Only the emergency strips along the floor glowed faintly red, and the occasional white-hot flash from outside.
Elena stood at the floor-to-ceiling window in the main living area, arms wrapped around herself, the thin black silk robe she’d thrown on after her shower doing little against the sudden chill. The storm had knocked out the climate control too; the room was cooling fast.
She heard Damian before she saw him—bare feet on marble, the soft clink of a lighter.
A small flame appeared in the darkness: he’d lit one of the black pillar candles from the dining table. Then another. Then a third. The warm gold pushed back the shadows just enough to reveal him—still shirtless from earlier, black lounge pants low on his hips, hair damp and tousled as though he’d been standing on the rooftop terrace before the rain hit.
He carried the candles to the low coffee table, set them in a row. The flames danced, throwing flickering light across the fractured lines of his tattoo.
“Power’s out for the whole grid,” he said. Voice calm. Too calm. “Backup generator will kick in for essentials in ten minutes. Until then…”
He straightened.
Their eyes met across the shadowed room.
Elena didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Lightning flashed again—brilliant, blinding. Thunder followed so close the windows rattled.
She flinched.
He noticed.
“Afraid of storms?” he asked.
“Not usually.” She hugged herself tighter. “But this one feels… personal.”
Another flash. The thunder was immediate, bone-deep.
The wind screamed.
A branch—or maybe debris—slammed against the glass somewhere high above. The impact echoed.
Elena took an involuntary step back.
Damian crossed the room in three strides.
He stopped just short of touching her.
“Move away from the window.”
She looked up at him. In the candlelight his eyes were molten silver, pupils blown wide.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
He reached past her—arm brushing her shoulder—and pressed a button on the wall panel. Nothing happened. No hum of motors. No tinting of the glass.
“Backup’s delayed,” he muttered.
Lightning again.
This time the strike was close enough that the entire building seemed to shudder.
Elena’s hand shot out instinctively—fingers curling into the fabric over his chest.
He froze.
She realized what she’d done and started to pull away.
His hand caught hers. Pressed it flat against his skin.
Right over his heart.
It was racing.
Not steady anymore.
Not controlled.
She looked up.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
The storm roared.
He leaned in—slow enough she could stop him.
She didn’t.
Their lips met in the flickering dark.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t tentative.
It was collision.
His mouth claimed hers with the same ruthless precision he applied to everything else—teeth grazing her lower lip, tongue sweeping in without asking permission, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck to angle her head exactly how he wanted.
Elena made a small, broken sound against him.
Her free hand fisted in his hair—pulling, not pushing.
He groaned—low, raw—and backed her against the window.
Cold glass at her back. Heat of him at her front.
The robe slipped off one shoulder.
His mouth left hers—traveled down her jaw, her throat, teeth scraping the sensitive spot where pulse hammered.
She arched into him.
His hand slid inside the robe, palm flat against her bare stomach, fingers splaying possessively.
Lightning cracked again.
The thunder was so loud it drowned her gasp.
He lifted her—effortless—legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
Her back pressed harder against the glass.
The city lights flickered back on for one blinding second—power surge—then died again.
Darkness returned.
Only candlelight and storm flashes.
He kissed her like he was starving.
She kissed him back like she was drowning.
His hips rocked forward—slow grind that made her moan into his mouth.
His hand slid higher—cupped her breast through the thin silk, thumb circling her n****e until it peaked hard.
“Damian—”
His name on her lips sounded like surrender.
He froze.
Just for a second.
Then he pulled back—mouth leaving hers with an audible sound.
Breaths ragged.
Eyes wild.
He set her down.
Carefully.
Like she might break.
Her legs shook when her feet touched marble.
He stepped away—two paces, then three.
Put distance between them.
The candle flames danced between them like a barrier.
Elena touched her swollen lips.
“What…?”
He turned his back.
Ran a hand through his hair.
“Enough.”
The word cracked like thunder.
She stared at his rigid shoulders.
“The storm’s passing,” he said—voice flat, controlled again. “Power will return soon.”
“Damian—”
“Go to your room.”
She took a step toward him.
He held up a hand—without turning.
“Don’t.”
The rejection landed harder than any command he’d ever given.
Elena wrapped the robe tighter around herself.
“Why?”
Silence.
Lightning flashed once more—distant now.
Thunder rolled—soft, retreating.
He finally spoke—quiet, almost to himself.
“Because if I don’t stop now… I won’t stop at all.”
She swallowed.
“And that’s bad because…?”
He turned then.
Eyes shadowed.
“Because this—” he gestured between them, “—wasn’t supposed to be real.”
Her heart squeezed.
“You think that kiss wasn’t real?”
“I think it was dangerous.”
He crossed to the bar cart—poured another drink with hands that weren’t quite steady.
“I bought your time, Elena. Your body. Your compliance. Not…” He gestured again—vaguely, angrily. “This.”
She stepped closer.
“You kissed me back.”
“I know.”
“And you stopped.”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
He downed the drink in one swallow.
Set the glass down too hard.
“Because the last person I let close enough to matter sold me out for money. And I swore I’d never give anyone that kind of power again.”
Elena’s throat closed.
“So you’d rather push me away than risk it.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
The candles had burned lower; wax pooled like tears.
The storm outside had quieted to steady rain.
Somewhere in the building, the generator finally kicked in—low hum, lights flickering back to life in stages.
The penthouse warmed.
But the space between them stayed cold.
Elena took another step.
He didn’t retreat.
She reached up—slowly—touched the edge of his jaw.
He flinched—just barely.
“I’m not her,” she whispered.
“You could be.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes searched hers—desperate, almost pleading.
“I don’t know how to believe that.”
“Then let me show you.”
She rose on her toes.
Pressed her mouth to his again—soft this time.
No demand.
Just offer.
He didn’t move at first.
Then—slowly—his hands came to her waist.
Not gripping.
Just holding.
The kiss stayed gentle.
Almost careful.
When she pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“Can’t what?”
“Let this be more than the contract.”
“Why not?”
“Because if it is… and you leave…” His voice cracked. “I won’t survive it.”
Elena’s eyes stung.
She cupped his face.
“I’m not leaving tonight.”
He exhaled—shaky.
“But you will. Eventually. When the year ends. When the money clears. When you’re free.”
She didn’t deny it.
Because she didn’t know the answer herself anymore.
Instead she kissed him again—slow, lingering.
When they parted, she stepped back.
“Goodnight, Damian.”
She walked toward the hallway.
At the threshold she paused.
Looked back.
He stood exactly where she’d left him—candlelight carving shadows across his chest, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Sleep well,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer.
She went to her room.
Closed the door.
Leaned against it.
Touched her lips—still tingling.
The storm had passed.
But something inside both of them had just begun.
And neither of them knew how to stop it.
- Writer
