The Wrong Man to Love

CHAPTER FOUR

"You look like death," Sienna said.

I glanced up from my coffee. She was across the kitchen table, perfectly put together in a white sundress, sunglasses already perched on her head even though we were indoors.

"Thanks."

"I'm serious." She reached across, touching my forehead like she was checking for fever. "You're pale. When was the last time you ate?"

I shrugged. I couldn't remember. The text from last night had been burning in my pocket—You're looking in the wrong place—and every shadow in this house felt like it was watching me.

Sienna studied me for a long moment, then pushed back from the table with decision. "We're going out."

"What?"

"Shopping. There's a new boutique on Fifth I've been dying to torture you with." She grabbed my hand, pulling me up. "Come on. Fresh air. No moping."

"I don't need—"

"You do." She smiled, but it was worried around the edges. "Let me pretend everything's normal for three hours. Please?"

I couldn't say no to her. Not when she was looking at me like that.

We gathered our things. Sienna was already texting Mrs. Bennett that we'd be back for dinner, chattering about some sale happening this week. I was barely listening, still distracted by the anonymous messages, the dates that didn't align, the way Damien's hand had felt on my elbow yesterday.

We reached the car. Sienna dropped her keys twice—uncharacteristic for her—and I realized she was nervous too, trying to fix something she didn't understand.

"Wait," I said, patting my pockets. "I forgot my phone."

"Seriously?" She groaned but waved me off. "Hurry. I'll warm up the engine."

I jogged back inside. The house was quiet, staff nowhere in sight. I took the stairs two at a time, heading toward the guest room where I'd been staying.

Then I heard it.

A sound.

Low. Rough.

My name.

"Isla..."

I froze outside Damien's door. It was cracked open—just an inch, barely noticeable unless you were standing right here. I should keep walking. Should grab my phone and run back downstairs.

I didn't.

I stepped closer. Peeked through the gap.

Damien was on his bed, propped against the headboard, legs spread wide. His hand was wrapped around his c**k—thick, heavy, impossibly large—stroking with slow, deliberate movements. His eyes were closed, head tipped back, throat working.

He was huge. I'd never seen a man like that, not in person, not real. The way his fist moved, the veins along his shaft standing out, the way his hips lifted slightly to meet his own hand. It was obscene. It was beautiful.

"f**k," he groaned, and my name followed. "Isla... you have no idea..."

My thighs clenched. Heat flooded between my legs, sudden and overwhelming. I'd been suppressing something since I was sixteen—the way I noticed him, the way my body reacted when he was near, the way I imagined his hands on me when I touched myself in the dark. Now it all snapped into focus with devastating clarity.

I wanted that. Wanted him. Wanted to be the one making him make those sounds.

My hand slipped between my legs, pressing against the ache through my jeans. I was wet. Soaked. Shaking so hard I thought the floor would notice.

Damien's strokes speeded up. His jaw tightened, muscles in his stomach flexing beneath his open shirt. "So f*****g innocent," he panted. "So f*****g mine... can't have you... f**k, I need to—"

He came with a strangled groan, spilling over his fist, my name breaking in his mouth like a prayer, like a confession.

I stumbled back, heart hammering. My whole body was on fire, nerves screaming. I pressed my back against the hallway wall, trying to catch my breath, trying to process what I just saw—what I just felt.

"Isla!" Sienna's voice drifted up from downstairs, impatient. "Come on!"

I jumped, guilt and arousal flooding my cheeks. "Coming!" I called back, my voice too high, breathless.

I rushed to the guest room, grabbed my phone, and ran downstairs. Sienna looked up as I burst through the front door, flushed and disheveled.

"You okay?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "You look... weird."

"I'm fine," I lied, sliding into the passenger seat. "Just ran up the stairs too fast."

She studied me for a second longer, then shrugged and put the car in drive. "Whatever you say."

The car ride was torture. Sienna chatted about sales and new boutiques, music blasting, but I couldn't focus. I kept seeing it—his hand, his c**k, the way he said my name. The ache between my thighs was relentless, demanding, and I had to press my legs together to relieve even a fraction of the pressure.

I wanted him. I wanted him to touch me the way he touched himself. Wanted him to say my name like that while he was inside me.

The shopping trip was a blur. White marble, gold fixtures, Sienna throwing clothes at me over dressing room doors. I tried on a black dress that clung too tight, and all I could think about was Damien's hands pulling it off.

"You're buying that," Sienna said through the door.

"Yeah," I said, looking at my reflection. The girl staring back looked feverish, wild. "Yeah, I am."

We left with bags, but the whole time, I was distracted. Every moment away from the house felt like wasted time. Every second apart from him felt like agony.

When we finally returned, the Carter estate loomed larger than before. Full of secrets. Full of him.

I followed Sienna inside, but my eyes went straight to his door.

The urge was no longer suppressible.

It was inevitable.

And tonight, I wouldn't just watch.