Sinful Obsession

I turned twenty today. No one remembered. No cake. No candles. Just another ghost day in a house where I didn’t belong. Amanda, my older half-sister, burst into my room like glitter and chaos. “Get up, b***h. We’re going out.” “I’m not in the mood,” I groaned, dragging the covers over my head. “Well, get in the mood. It’s your birthday. You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself on your damn birthday.” She tossed a skimpy black dress onto my bed. I sat up, blinking. “You want me to wear that?” “It’s either this or I put you in leather and heels. That dress is me being merciful.” I looked at the dress again. Maybe one night wouldn’t kill me. The rooftop club shimmered with neon and heat. Music thumped through my chest, and everyone looked like they belonged—confident, flawless, free. I didn’t. I beelined for the bar. “Tequila. Shot. No lime,” I told the bartender. “Rough night?” he asked, raising a brow. “Rough life.” He slid the shot over. I slammed it back. Then another. And another. Amanda danced nearby, already lost in the music, her ex’s drama, or both. I stayed at the bar, swallowing burn after burn, hoping the tequila would melt the anxiety out of me. That’s when I felt him. A presence beside me. Tall. Solid. Like danger wrapped in silk. “Mind if I join you?” a deep voice asked. I turned and damn. Tattooed arms. Jawline like sin. Eyes like ice and fire all at once. He looked like a man who broke hearts and never looked back. I blinked. “You’re already here.” He smiled, just barely. “Fair enough.” He signaled to the bartender. “Two shots of whiskey. No lime.” “You read minds now?” I asked. “No. But I can tell when someone doesn’t want to taste their pain. Just burn it.” I tilted my head, curious despite myself. “And you are?” “Damon.” He held out his hand. I hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, warm. Real. “Eva,” I said. He repeated it, like tasting it. “Eva.” The way it sounded in his mouth made me shiver. “So, Eva” he said, sliding the shot to me, “what are we drinking to?” “Survival.” He raised his glass. “To that.” We drank. And then we talked. About nothing. About everything. He asked why I looked sad on my birthday. I told him I was born a secret and raised like a mistake. That sometimes I felt like I didn’t even exist unless someone was angry at me. He didn’t pity me. Didn’t try to fix me. He just listened. “What about you?” I asked, trying to look away from the veins on his arms or how good his mouth looked wrapped around the rim of his glass. “Me?” he said with a crooked smile. “I’m the kind of man people pay not to ask questions.” “And yet, here you are asking questions.” “You’re different.” “How?” “You’re not trying to impress anyone.” I laughed. “There’s no one to impress.” “There is now.” That shut me up. We drank more. I stopped counting after shot six. The world blurred but in the good way the warm way. He brushed hair from my face. “Let me take you home.” I blinked. “I don’t want to go home.” Something passed through his eyes understanding. “Then come with me.” His penthouse was like him. Sharp edges. Quiet luxury. Shadows and power. I stood in the middle of the living room, swaying slightly. “You good?” he asked, watching me. “Define good.” He chuckled. “You’re beautiful when you’re blunt.” I rolled my eyes. “You probably say that to all the broken girls.” He stepped closer. “No. Just the ones who make me want to break, too.” I didn’t even breathe before he kissed me. And God it wasn’t soft. It was wild. Possessive. Desperate. Like he needed to taste all the hurt in me and replace it with something dark and addictive. His tongue slid into my mouth and I moaned, clinging to him as he walked us backward into his bedroom. “Eva,” he said against my neck. “Tell me to stop.” I didn’t. I couldn’t. He tore the dress from my body. “f**k,” he whispered, eyes roaming every inch of my skin like he was memorizing it. His fingers brushed one of my hidden tattoos on my rib. “This yours?” “All mine.” He grinned. “You’re full of secrets.” “And you’re full of danger.” “Perfect match then.” He threw me on the bed and climbed on top. His body was hard, his tattoos endless. He gripped my hips and pulled me to the edge. “I’m not going to be gentle.” “I don’t want gentle.” And then he was inside me thick and hard and deep. I gasped, eyes rolling back as he filled me over and over. He held me down, whispered filth into my ear, kissed me like he owned every breath I took. “Say my name” he growled. “Damon,” I moaned. “Again.” “Damon!” He grunted, hand sliding to my throat, pinning me as he drove into me harder, deeper. I shattered under him. Screaming. Trembling. Ruined. When it was over, he collapsed beside me, pulling me into his chest. And in the darkness, with his heartbeat against my ear, I whispered, “Happy birthday to me.” He smiled. And pulled me closer.