In Between Her Legs.

Chapter Eight: No Way Out

I don’t remember how long I stand there after he’s gone naked, trembling, my body still pulsing with the aftershocks of what Damien just did to me.

All I know is that he’s left me marked. Not just with his hands, his mouth, his body but deeper than that. A mark I can’t scrub off, no matter how hard I try.

I don’t try.

I shower, the hot water sluicing over my sensitive skin, my thighs weak from the way he took me. But no matter how hard I press my palms against the tile, no matter how much I try to catch my breath, the memory of his voice Say it.rings in my ears.

I said it.

I admitted it.

And now, I don’t know if there’s a way back.

When I step out of the shower, my phone is waiting for me. I know before I even pick it up that it’s him.

Damien: Dinner. 8 PM. Wear red.

My stomach clenches.

Not a question. Not an invitation. A demand.

I should say no. I should fight.

But instead, I type two words that make my pulse spike.

Yes, Sir.

The restaurant is elegant. Understated. The kind of place where everything is white linen and whispered conversations, where the servers move like ghosts, and the patrons don’t look at each other unless they want to be seen.

Damien waits for me in the corner booth, a glass of whiskey in front of him, his suit tailored to perfection. He doesn’t stand when I approach. Doesn’t speak. He just looks at me.

That look the one that sees through my clothes, through my skin, down to the shivering, desperate girl underneath makes my thighs press together.

I sink into the seat across from him, my hands resting in my lap.

"You obeyed," he says, his voice smooth, approving. His gaze drags over the red silk dress that clings to me like a second skin. "Good girl."

I swallow hard, my breath catching as the heat of his attention settles over me like a brand.

"You’re learning." He swirls the whiskey in his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. "But not fast enough."

A shiver runs through me. "What do you mean?"

He leans forward, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, the movement slow. Calculated. "Do you know why I picked this restaurant?"

I shake my head.

His lips curve into a dark smirk. "Because no one here would dare stop me from doing whatever I wanted to you."

My breath catches.

A flash of something wild flickers in his gaze. Lust. Amusement. Dangerous intent.

I should leave.

I should run.

But I don’t.

Because he’s right.

I want to know exactly what he means.

"Come here," he says softly.

I hesitate, glancing around. The restaurant is dimly lit, but not empty. There are people here couples engaged in quiet conversations, business partners clinking glasses.

But none of them are paying attention to us.

No one ever does when Damien Sinclair doesn’t want them to.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I slide out of my seat.

He doesn’t move as I step toward him. Doesn’t shift to make room.

Because he knows.

He knows I’ll do exactly what he wants.

I slide into the booth beside him, my breath shallow, my skin tingling as his thigh presses against mine.

"Now," he murmurs, his lips just a breath away from my ear. "Spread your legs."

My stomach flips.

I glance at him, my pulse hammering.

"Damien, we’re in public"

"Did I ask for an opinion?" His fingers curl under my chin, tilting my face toward his. "Or did I give you an order?"

My lips part, but no words come out.

Because I can feel it.

The heat of his palm on my thigh. The slow, insistent pressure as he pushes the silk of my dress higher.

"You need to learn," he murmurs, his fingers slipping between my thighs, teasing. Testing.

"You belong to me, Selena." His touch is ruthless, expert. "That means when I tell you to open, you open."

A quiet gasp escapes me as his fingers slide higher, brushing against lace.

When I realize what he’s searching for, my breath hitches.

"Good girl," he breathes, his smirk dark with satisfaction. "No panties."

Heat floods my cheeks.

I should be ashamed.

I should stop him.

But when his fingers slip beneath the lace, when he touches me with slow, devastating precision, I forget how to breathe.

"You want to be caught, don’t you?" His voice is silk and sin. "You like the risk. The fact that someone could see what a filthy little thing you are for me."

I whimper, my nails digging into the leather of the booth as he circles my c**t, relentless and slow, his other hand gripping my thigh, keeping me exactly where he wants me.

"You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me when you walked in here?" He chuckles, low and knowing. "You wanted this. The danger. The control."

His fingers slide inside me, and I nearly choke on my gasp.

"Damien"

"Shh." His lips ghost over my ear. "Be quiet, or I’ll make you come right here, right now, and let them all see."

Oh, God.

My pulse pounds. My body clenches.

He strokes deep, teasing, pushing me closer, his thumb rolling over my c**t in a way that makes my thighs tremble.

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

"That’s it," he whispers. "Take what I give you. Show me who you really are."

The pleasure coils tight, hot and unbearable.

I’m seconds away.

And then he stops.

I nearly sob.

"Not yet," he murmurs, his fingers withdrawing, leaving me panting, aching, desperate.

I turn to him, wild-eyed, my body screaming for release.

He just smirks, lifting his fingers to his lips.

And licks them clean.

"Patience, Selena," he purrs, his voice thick with promise. "I told you you still have so much to learn."

I don’t remember the rest of the meal.

All I know is that I leave the restaurant on unsteady legs.

And that I’m his.

Completely.

Unforgivably.

Hopelessly his.