at his coldness.
Leaning on the vanity, I caught my reflection in the mirror, seeing my frazzled expression and disheveled hair. I was caught up in the depravity of one of Washington’s most powerful men.
Nothing could be done.
Being used like this was never going to end.
You don’t want it to end.
I scraped my fingers through my locks and reapplied my lipstick. Then I raised my head to practice how a woman might stroll through a crowd and not reveal her post-Damien high.
I stepped out onto the lawn, recognizing Brahms’ String Quartet No. 1 in C Minor. The piece heightened my dramatic march over to where Damien was standing.
True to form, he’d nabbed himself a glass of champagne and an orange juice for me.
“Thank you.” Taking it, I sipped thirstily, and then threw the other guests around us a warm smile.
“Good girl,” he teased. “That’s right, act like you’re head over heels in love with me.”
“Asking for the impossible?”
“You admitted it last night.”
“I didn’t finish the sentence.”
“You implied it.”
“It was the tequila.”
“You can’t get enough of me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your pussy is still throbbing. And your ass is spasming as you imagine my cock buried deep inside you instead of the jewel. We’ll get there. Just keep that plug in as instructed. We’ll increase the size incrementally so you can accommodate me.”
“You’re crass.” I looked around for Theo to see if he was watching me.
“You’re lucky I don’t get you to kneel before me in front of everyone.”
“You’re lucky you’re not wearing orange juice on your shirt.”
Damien reached for my wrist and gripped it with an ironclad hold. “One more word of contempt and those balls are buzzing again. Fancy another multiple? This time I won’t let you retreat to the house.”
“Let me go or I’ll scream.”
We stood there together, him glaring and me with my chin raised in defiance.
He let go and sipped his drink. “Just two more weeks of this, Bardot. Then you’re free.”
“I imagine you’re counting down the days. I know I am.”
“I’m proud of so many of my achievements. But I’m especially proud of the fact that I’ve captured the famed debutante Pandora Bardot’s cunt.”
I slapped him hard across the face.
He didn’t even blink.
“Are people looking?”
I meant the press…and the senators, and the Vice President and his wife. I wondered if the world might soon be seeing a photograph of me striking Gregor Godman’s son.
Damien reached around my waist and yanked me toward him, pressing his lips to mine, forcing my mouth open to accommodate his lashing tongue exploring and pillaging and warring with mine. He stirred up all the same feelings that had surged through me in the restroom.
I was hyper-aware of each sensation, including the feel of those spheres in my pussy. His ferocious kiss sparked arousal as he battled with my tongue; soaking my trepidation in confusion. Yet I surrendered to him anyway, desirous of the affection I’d been deprived of, wanting to love him again like I’d once believed I had.
His hostile takeover of my mouth continued vigorous and full of vitriol, a merciless attack that made my body quake and relent to his—both of us still holding our glasses and not spilling a drop—like consummate professionals who knew how to endure a disaster with grace.
Damien pulled away. “And now you smile, like your goddamned life depends on it.”
Because it did.
Anyone would be thrilled to be in the back of a chauffeur-driven car that was parked beside an enormous Dreamliner at Reagan National Airport, ready to fly first class to a private resort on a sunny Saturday morning. Unless of course that person was me, because my travel companion was none other than Damien G. Godman.
I’d once read the G stood for George, because Damien’s mom had a thing for British royalty, and their empire building ways. That entire family was fucked-up.
If he thought I was stubborn before, my refusing to leave the car and board that plane would really piss him off. My suitcase had already been carried on to the flight and I was mulling over ways I could reclaim it.
Despite me telling Damien I didn’t want to go, he’d picked me up from home. My parents had literally shoved me out of the house and into the back of his waiting car. I’d been greeted by a surly Damien in the backseat. He’d ignored me for the entire journey here.
Apparently, I’d brought this unexpected out of state jaunt on myself. There was the embarrassing matter of Washington D. C.’s journalists