15. Alexis

15

Itoss and turn, the sheets tangling around my restless body. Sleep won't come. My mind is too wired from… well, from Damian. I blush just thinking about his name, heat blooming across my cheeks as flashes of our tryst play through my head.

The way he had taken control, pinning me against the exercise bench as he fucked the living daylights out of me. The delicious friction of our bodies moving together in perfect rhythm. The strangled cries of pleasure torn from my lips as he brought me to the dizzying edge.

I squeeze my thighs together, trying to tamp down the growing ache between my legs. I had never experienced anything so intense, so overwhelming in its eroticism. A part of me is almost… embarrassed by how much I love it, by how badly I crave Damian's touch.

Damian is like a drug I can't get enough of. I've never wanted anyone as much as I want him. The feelings I thought I had for Mark pale in comparison to how I feel about Damian. Did I ever really love Mark, or did I love the idea of someone loving me?

Mark never would have allowed me to set the pace. He never would have asked for consent. He would have just taken me, using me only for his pleasure, my feelings be damned.

Ugh. This won't do. I've been restless for hours.

Shoving aside the rumpled sheets, I decide to head to the kitchen. Maybe a little baking therapy will settle my jittery thoughts. I pad into the large, state-of-the-art kitchen. The sleek stainless steel appliances gleam in the moonlight. I run a hand along the smooth quartz countertops, marveling at how spacious and well-equipped it is. So different from the tiny, cramped kitchen at the Carters' house.

I remember that little room with a grimace. The cracked linoleum floors, the oven that would either burn food or undercook it, the utter lack of counter space to prepare anything more complicated than spaghetti. Yet the Carters expected me to whip up elaborate meals for their family in that pathetic excuse for a kitchen.

The unfairness of it made me clench my jaw so tightly my teeth hurt. I had only been a teenager when I started cooking for them, overwhelmed, trying my best to please the demanding Carters. Emma and Suzanne, in particular, always found something to criticize. I can still see Suzanne's perpetually pursed lips and furrowed brow fixed in a sneer of disdain.

Like I was single-handedly failing as a cook, a human being.

I shake my head, banishing those thoughts like it's all an annoying cobweb. I'm not going to think about the Carters right now. Not now. Not ever.

Opening the baking cabinet, I peruse the ingredients and decide to bake a cake. I had overheard Edo mention that a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting was his favorite, so that's what I'm going to make. As I preheat the oven and gather ingredients, the familiar smells of flour and sugar embrace me like an old friend. I miss working at the bakery—the easy camaraderie with my co-workers, the satisfaction of crafting beautiful pastries.

It had been my safe haven, a place where I was capable and confident.

Not like with Damian, where I constantly second-guess myself, my emotions a tangled, confusing knot. One moment, I am so flustered by him that I can barely breathe. The next, I want to rip his clothes off and have my way with him on the gleaming countertop…

Whoa. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a traitorous blush heating my cheeks. I really need to get a grip. Envisioning Damian naked and splayed out amid my baking supplies is not going to help my restless mind.

But it's hard not to think about him. He confuses me. One moment, he treats me kindly or gazes at me with a scorching intensity, making me melt with desire. The next, he is cool and distant, his walls slamming up without warning. Just like earlier, when he immediately left after sex. I just don't know where I stand with him.

I sigh, pulling out the stand mixer with slightly more force than necessary. Maybe I'm just really bad at sex, and that's why Damian keeps pulling away, using that bullshit reason about not being able to cuddle as an excuse. The thought makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame. Damian had awakened insatiable cravings I don't quite understand, urges that both exhilarate and intimidate me.

As I add the softened butter and sugar to the bowl, I can't help but wonder—is any of this normal? Or am I careening toward something darker, a side of myself I don't fully grasp? Damian confuses me, electrifies me, makes me feel dangerous and powerful and utterly adrift all at once.

I watch the sugar and butter cream into a pale, fluffy mass, cracking eggs and adding them one at a time. I will just have to accept that when it comes to Damian, I don't have any of the answers. All I can do is surrender to the chaos… and pray I don't get consumed by the flames.

"What are you doing up?"

Startling, I whirl around to see a shirtless Damian standing at the doorway of the kitchen, Biscotti at his heels.

My mouth dries at the sight of him and heat floods my cheeks. My gaze rakes over Damian's chiseled torso and powerful arms. Even in just his pajama pants, the man exudes an almost overwhelming aura of rugged masculinity. I have to grip the mixing bowl to keep from melting into a puddle right there and then.

"Alexis?" Damian asks, his voice still rough from sleep. He runs a confused eye over the array of ingredients scattered across the counter.

"I couldn't sleep," I admit, tearing my eyes away from his bare chest with an effort. "So I thought I'd bake something. Burn off some… energy."

I risk a glance at him from beneath my lashes. A slight smirk plays about Damian's lips, making it clear that he knows exactly what kind of "energy" I'm referring to. He saunters closer, that predatory grace of his making my heart race.

"A cake? Didn't peg you as the type," he murmurs, resting a large hand on the small of my back. The simple touch is like a brand, scorching my very soul.

I swallow hard and focus on the mixing process, trying not to get too flustered. "I did most of the cooking and baking while living with the Carters. It's soothing."

Damian frowns at that, a muscle ticking in his powerful jaw. "How old were you when you took over the cooking and baking?" His voice is light, dangerous.

I shrug, adding the vanilla to the pale yellow batter. "Twelve? Thirteen? Middle school, at least."

He scowls. "Those assholes worked you too hard. You were just a kid."

"I managed." I keep my tone light, though the memories still sting.

His grip tightens ever so slightly on my hip. "If I had people like that on my payroll, they'd be at the bottom of the river."

A delicious shiver travels down my spine at his casual threat. I should be horrified. After all, Damian is the head of one of the most dangerous crime families in the city. Instead, hearing the hard edge in his tone just makes my insides liquify with molten want.

As if sensing the effect his words have on me, Damian's smirk deepens. "Need any help with that cake, Alexis?"

He presses himself against my back, his sculpted chest brushing my shoulders. I can feel his hardened dick digging into my backside, stoking the simmering embers of desire banked low in my stomach.

"I–I've got it under control," I manage, silently cursing the way my voice shakes.

"You sure about that?" Damian growls, nuzzling my neck with those sinful lips. "Because you seem a little… flustered to me."

I bite back a moan as he rolls his hips, letting me feel how aroused he is. How effortlessly he can undo me with just a few heated words and touches. I'm so wildly outmatched… and I have never wanted to surrender more.

Giving in, I let my scraper spatula clatter to the counter and lean back against his solid form. "Maybe I could use a little help, after all."

I can feel the ridges of his firm abs, the flexing of his powerful arms as he reaches around to grab the errant tool.

"Told you I'd lend a hand," he rumbles in that sinfully deep voice, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin below my ear.

I shiver, my body traitorously thrilled by his proximity. "J–just don't mess it up. I'm an expert baker."

Damian chuckles, the vibrations rippling through me. "Yes, I can see your skills are unmatched. I'll try to be a worthy sous chef."

There's an odd lilt to his voice on those last words, something almost… wistful. I glance at him curiously, taking in the faint crease between his brows as he concentrates on blending the wet and dry ingredients.

"My mom used to call me her little sous chef," he says quietly. "We baked all the time when I was a kid—cookies, bread, whatever. Helped her take her mind off…" He trails off, jaw tightening.

I reach over to squeeze his arm, offering silent comfort. I don't know the whole story about his parents, but it's clear they had been killed. Whether it was an accident or by a rival gang is a question I won't ask today.

"My sister Alessandra loved it too," Damian continues in a strained voice. "She was a total mess in the kitchen, flour everywhere, licking batter off the spoon before it was even baked. She used to drive my mom fucking crazy." A sad sort of smile ghosts across his lips at the memory.

Alessandra. The name sounds familiar.

Then it hits me. He had used that name against Nat the night he had been shot. The look on Nat's face now makes sense.

"You had another sister," I say gently.

He nods. "She was home sick from school. Wrong place at the wrong time."

My heart aches for him, aches for the past trauma and loss he and Nat have endured. How similar our lives are, each with our own suffering. "Damian, I'm so sorry."

He avoids my gaze for a moment before those dark eyes meet mine. "She was only twelve. She was just a child."

"Oh, Damian." I stroke his stubbled cheek, wishing I can erase that haunted look from his face.

Seeming to shake off the melancholy, Damian gives me a lopsided grin, covering my hand with his much larger one. "But we can't all be depressing fuck-ups tonight, Alexis. Do you have any good baking stories? Anything with your parents?"

"No," I admit. I barely remember life with my mother. She died when I was so young that sometimes, I'm not sure what's truly a memory and what's something my brain has made up.

"My mom died when I was six. And I barely knew my dad."

"How'd she die?" Damian asks the question gently, but my throat still tightens.

"I… I'm not sure, exactly." I have flashes of memory—my mom and I in a closet, but then I'm all alone and the closet door opens. "I was so young. All I remember is the police finding me and taking me away."

"And your dad?" Damian prompts. "He never tried to claim you?"

I shrug. "If he did, he didn't try very hard. I don't even remember what he looks like. I just remember the smell of his cologne and cigars." I shake my head. "It's all pretty fuzzy. No one bothered to tell me anything, and I used to get in trouble with my foster family if I asked about my mother, so I stopped asking."

Damian frowns, drawing me into the protective circle of his arms. I go willingly, resting my head on his chest and taking comfort in his solid strength.

"For what it's worth," he murmurs against my hair, "I think you turned out pretty great, despite it all."

A lump forms in my throat at the simple words of praise. I blink back the faint sting of tears, focusing instead of the steady thump of his heart under my ear. This is the side of Damian I want to see more of. I know the Mafia Don fa?ade is just a veneer for a softer, caring Damian who knows just what to say to make me feel better.

He makes me feel like I matter in a way I haven't truly felt in far too long.

Standing on my tiptoes, I brush my lips against the curve of his neck, needing to be closer still. "Baking's more fun with a partner."

Damian rumbles out a laugh, smoothing a hand down my back. "Then let's get to it, chef. I'll try not to lick the batter this time."

Heat shoots straight to my core at those words, remembering how he feasted on me and licked me like I was his piece of candy. I clear my throat and push away from him. "See that you don't. We don't want to contaminate the cake."

Damian chuckles, clearly seeing how much he's affected me, but he returns to his work, pouring the pale yellow cake batter into two pans, making sure to scrape every last bit of batter before neatly sliding the pans into the oven.

While he does that, I work on making the chocolate frosting. My hands shake as I add the butter, cocoa, and confectioners sugar to the mixing bowl and turn it on high. God, what is wrong with me? Baking is supposed to be my therapy, but it's making me more turned on than ever.

And I have a certain shirtless Mafia Don to thank for that.

I squeal in surprise as a dollop of frosting lands on my neck. Goddammit, I had the mixer too high. That will teach me to be distracted while baking.

Before I can wipe it away, Damian is there, backing me up against the counter with a heated look in his eyes.

"Allow me," he growls in that sinfully rough voice that never fails to make my toes curl.

Then his mouth is on me, lips blazing a molten trail along the sensitive column of my throat. I gasp as his tongue laps at the sweet frosting, the intimate rasp sending liquid fire licking through my veins.

"D–Damian…" I manage, hands coming up to fist in his dark, tousled hair.

He hums against my racing pulse point, removing the sticky-sweet frosting from my flushed skin with broad, unashamed strokes of his tongue. I arch helplessly into his sculpted form, chasing the heat of his mouth with shameless abandon.

When he thoroughly cleans the frosting from my neck, Damian continues his sensual assault. His lips trail up the slope of my jaw, his teeth grazing my racing pulse point in a way that has me shuddering violently. Then he's kissing me, deep and filthy and all-consuming, licking my lips and devouring my breathy moans.

I clutch him closer, parting my lips to allow the slick velvet glide of his tongue. I taste sugar and heat and dark, masculine spice—an explosive, intoxicating combination. Damian plunders my mouth with hungry fervor, stoking the whip of desire into a storm of molten need in my core.

His large hands roam with possessive reverence, caressing the soft curves he has already mapped and worshipped before. Yet his touch is still somehow a brand, setting off liquid tremors wherever his callused palms and fingers stroke. I arch wantonly against him, craving that delicious friction.

Finally, the need for oxygen becomes too great to ignore. Damian tears his mouth from mine with a groan, panting harshly against my damp, swollen lips. I cling to him, equally breathless and undone, my heavy-lidded gaze drinking in the lust-darkened expression blazing in his eyes.

"Fuck, Alexis," he growls, resting his forehead against mine. "You taste so sweet."

He punctuates the words with a sharp grind of his hips, letting me feel the ridge of his arousal. An obscene whimper slips free at the raw promise in that simple thrust.

"Maybe we should take this upstairs." I manage in a throaty whisper. "Before I end up debauched on this counter."

Damian's wolfish grin is all the answer I need. Hooking one arm around my waist, he hoists me up and onto the counter in one smooth motion, pinning me beneath his body. His kiss swallows my shocked gasp, melting away any protest I might have—not that I'd been protesting in the slightest.

As his hands shove up my nightgown and his skilled mouth blazes an incendiary path down my breasts, I let my eyes fall shut in abandon, let myself be consumed by the wildfire of sensations, by Damian's dizzying touch that liquifies my higher brain function down to a single, rapturous mantra.

More. God, yes. More.

Damian pulls me so the lower half of my body is nearly dangling off the counter. He flashes me a wicked grin before he slowly pulls down my panties, stuffing them into the pocket of his pajama pants.

I've never been so turned on in my entire life.

"You tasted so good with that frosting on your neck," Damian murmurs, kneeling in front of me so he's directly in front of my sex. "Can I have another taste?"

"Yes, please," I practically cry, unable to take my eyes off him as he smirks, pressing tender kisses from my knee to my thigh before he eventually reaches that little bundle of nerves where I need him most.

I bite my lip to prevent me from crying out, lest I wake the entire household. Damian's hot tongue drags through my folds to envelope my hypersensitive bud, and I writhe against the counter, thrusting my hips into his willing mouth.

Damian pins my hips down with one hand as he feasts on me, using his other hand to slip two fingers into me. My eyes nearly roll into the back of my head as I revel in the sensations. My thighs begin to shake, and I know I'm getting close. Damian seems to know it too because he presses his tongue deeper and rubs my swollen nub.

"Oh, Damian!" I gasp. "I–I'm going to come."

He doesn't say a word, only working my oversensitive clit even more. I explode, biting down on my hand as I come, writhing and bucking against him as I come down from my high.

Damian's lips are shiny as he emerges from between my legs, a triumphant smirk on his face. Oh, I'm going to eat him alive.

A low growl echoes through the kitchen. We freeze, panting heavily, turning to see Biscotti eyeing us with clear impatience.

I flush bright red, hurriedly tugging my nightgown back into place. Damian runs a hand through his tousled hair with a rueful chuckle.

"Looks like someone needs to go out," he murmurs, voice still husky with unfulfilled desire. Pressing one last kiss to my lips, he stands up and grabs Biscotti's leash.

As he heads to the back door, I sag against the counter, trying to calm my breath and racing pulse. I can still taste him, feel the echoes of his caresses burning through me.

I splash some cold water on my flushed face, wondering what the hell I'm doing. I can't believe I allowed him to go down on me in the kitchen! On the counter! Where anyone could see!

But there's something about Damian that bypasses all my usual defenses, rendering me helpless against the relentless pull of temptation he represents. The way he touches me, kisses me… it unlocks a deep, primal part of myself I hadn't even known existed until him.

And if I'm being truly honest, the intense physical chemistry is only part of my growing fixation. There are glimpses of tenderness, of protectiveness, of searing vulnerability that make me ache to know him more deeply, to break through the walls he has erected.

Once Damian returns, I quickly get the cake layers out of the oven and let them cool on the counter. Frosting them can wait until tomorrow. There's no way I can handle that right now.

An awkward pause stretches between us, rife with lingering heat and unspoken questions. Damian clears his throat. "We should, uh, probably get some sleep."

"Right, yes. Sleep." I hate how strangled my voice sounds.

We part ways in the hallway, sneaking sidelong glances at each other. Alone in my room, I sink onto the bed with a shuddering sigh. I can still smell him all around me, can still feel his tongue on my skin.

Arousal still thrums hotly through my veins, my body aching with unquenched craving. But it's more than that—there's a different kind of yearning blooming in my chest, one that terrifies me even as it draws me even deeper under Damian's spell.

Restless shadows dance across the ceiling as I turn on my side, emotions churning.

I'm in so much trouble. And I have no idea how to free myself from this exquisite torture.