Chapter 15: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

“All right, that’s enough.” Jade slaps her hands on her knees. “No more memory lane—too awful.” She gets up and changes the record. Guitar strings strum from the speaker, followed by a quick, pounding percussion—the opening notes of “Laid” by James.

“This is better.” She sighs. Then she lifts her arms and shakes her head in time with the beat—and almost falls the hell over.

She catches herself with a hand on the wall, looks my way, and giggles.

“Whoops.”

I sit back and sip my drink, watching her. She bounces on one foot, then the other. Her breasts sway gorgeously beneath the cotton of her shirt—a hypnotic, beckoning fullness, begging for attention. I rub my tongue along my bottom lip, imagining the taste of her there, and how the tight peaks of her nipples would feel beneath the pressure of long, dragging licks.

When the singer hits a high note, Cujo joins in, lifting his snout and howling a piercing, drawn-out wail.

“This is a racy song for Clara to have,” I say.

“Clara was a racy gal.” Jade raises her glass, toasting the portrait above the fireplace. “A woman before her time.”

She pauses for a second, tilting her head, eyes still on the portrait. “Do you ever wonder why?”

“Why what?”

“Why we’re here. Why Clara put both of us here like this.”

I shrug. “She said in the will she couldn’t choose between us.”

Jade scoffs. “Yeah, but come on. It’s not like flipping a coin wasn’t an option. And this entire set-up is certifiably insane. Ankle monitors and rules the Front Man from Squid Game would envy.”

“I just figured she wanted us to work for it. Run the gauntlet. No pain, no gaining the property.”

“But Clara knew us really well . . . maybe she had something more meaningful in mind. Something she was hoping we’d get out of being here. Together.”

I swallow a mouthful of whiskey, warmth flowing through my limbs and a grin tugging at my lips. “Are you saying Clara devised this whole situation so you and I would . . . make friends?”

She shrugs, smiling shyly. “I always wanted a fairy god-mother. Someone to look out for me, watch over me. Maybe that’s what Clara was trying to be.”

It’s a more whimsical view than I’d expect from Jade. A surprisingly tender theory.

“I don’t know,” she continues. “It just seems obvious she wanted us isolated. From everything and everyone, except . . .”

Each other.

Her eyes meet mine and hold for a moment, the unspoken words hanging between us.

Then the song on the record player changes—and “Rosanna” by Toto starts to play.

Jade pivots from the conversation and throws herself into the music, almost literally. She

swings her hips and snaps her fingers, jerking her hands and elbows left to right.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Dancing.”

“Are you sure?”

When the singer starts crooning about meeting Rosanna all the way, I get to my feet. “This is making my eyes hurt.”

I put on “Somebody’s Crying” by Chris Isaak.

Then I snatch Jade’s hand in mine and spin her around. She squeaks with surprise. I pull her back in, my arms across her lower back, gliding us in a steady two-step around the room. I move her into an inside turn, her blond hair fanning out, then dip her down low. She holds on tight, laughing. I straighten us up, hold her hips and lift her over the mattress, then spin her once more in an outside turn, before coming back to the starting position.

Jade’s eyes sparkle and her mouth is shocked-open wide. “You know how to dance!”

“I’m aware.”

“But you’re good!”

“Baby, I’m good at everything.”

She seems genuinely in awe and perplexed. “How did this happen?”

“It’s a story.”

“Tell me,” she implores—a sweet drunk.

“Well . . . the Sisters of the Holy Cross run a girls’ home up north—our sister orphanage.”

“Boys’ homes have sister orphanages?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “A girl in their care had lost her family the year before her fifteenth birthday, and the nuns wanted to throw her a quinceañera. There’s a lot of formal dancing and they needed boys. So Brother Bacchus volunteered a bunch of us against our will, and told us we were not going to embarrass him by sucking ass, so we had to practice in the gym with each other. Every day. For months.” I shrug. “The quinceañera was pretty awesome—nuns know how to party.”

“Who was your practice partner?”

“Ian.”

She laughs. “Wait, so that means—”

“Yeah, Gage and Riley beat the crap out of each other every lesson over who would lead. It was a massacre.”

She laughs again. “If Dancing with the Stars ever comes to Shore Haven, you could try out!”

“I’d rather be crucified to a tree with rusty nails.”

“I love reality TV. It’s so . . . authentic.”

“You might want to keep that tidbit to yourself. It’s a character flaw—and you have enough of those.”

Jade sticks her tongue out at me.

I want to lean down and bite it. It’s wet, pink, and pretty—I’m betting just like every inch of her.

Suddenly Jade stops with a gasp. “Could you do the move from Dirty Dancing?”

My head is loose and foggy from whiskey, but I weigh the possibilities. “Probably.”

“Oh my god!” Jade’s flaps her hands and entire body vibrates. “We have to try it. I always wanted to be Jennifer Grey—the dad in that movie was such a good guy. This is my chance!”

Life is crazy. One day you’re staring at a real-estate model, planning total town domination with your best buddies . . . and the next you’re wasted, attempting the Dirty Dancing move in a dilapidated beach house with the daughter of your mortal enemy, whose smile lights up the room.

We make a larger space, pushing the sofa out into the foyer and moving the mattress farther against the wall.

On the first attempt, Jade almost takes my head off—nearly clocking me with her forehead.

On the second, she comes perilously close to kneeing me in the balls.

This was not one of my better decisions.

“You have to trust me,” I tell her. “This isn’t going to work if you don’t. Just put yourself in my hands and know that . . . I’ve got you.”

She steps back against the wall. “Okay.” She blows out a breath.

Then she moves forward in quick, long strides, lifts her head, holds out her arms—and leaps. Fearlessly. Gracefully.

I wrap my hands around the curve of her hips, catching her and her lifting above my head, rotating us in a slow circle.

Jade holds the position, her legs stretched out behind her, squealing, “We did it!”

Then she breaks with a delighted laugh, wrapping her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck as I fall back onto the mattress, bringing her with me.

“That was amazing.”

“Not bad.”

Our laughter quiets as we look at each other. Jade straddles my waist and my hands rest on her thighs. “Will you teach me to dance?” she asks.

Instructing her, maneuvering her into various positions? Hell yeah, I could get into that.

When I don’t answer right away, she sweetens the pot. “I’ll teach you to crochet.”

“You don’t know how to crochet.”

She lifts a finger, stubborn and adorably certain. “Not yet, but I will. I can teach you to play the piano, then. I already know how to do that and I am very, very good.”

“I bet you are. It’s a deal.”

Every agreement should be sealed, but I have no interest in her handshake. I want . . . something more.

I cup Jade’s jaw in my hand, stroking my thumb along her cheek.

“Christ, your skin is so soft. Silken.”

“You sound like a poet.”

“I’m not.”

I’m not a romantic either—soulful sentiments aren’t my thing. I’m a cold, hard, steely realist. But Jade’s skin is the kind of soft that demands gentle. Tenderness. Reverence.

I lift up and press my mouth against hers. Her lips are pillowy, supple, and warm. I try to go slow, but then I’m holding her face in my hands and sliding my tongue into her mouth.

She lets out a little moan of pleasure, and all I can think about is the taste of her—it makes my head spin. Cinnamon and spice and a delectable sweetness I want to gorge myself on. I angle my head and move my mouth over hers, sucking on her top lip first, then the bottom—scraping with my teeth, only just holding back from biting into its enticing plumpness.

Then her hands are at my shoulder blades and in my hair, gripping and pulling me closer, as her tongue glides against mine and her hips shift in needy little circles.

For several endless moments, we kiss, claim, and devour each other’s mouths. And then I feel Jade pull back, shift her weight to the side, and I let her go. Let her slide off so her head is on the pillow and I’m above her.

She runs her fingers through my hair and blinks up at me with drowsy eyes. “I like this, Damon,” she whispers. “I think I might . . .”

Jade’s words trail off as her eyes slide closed—her features going smooth and peaceful. I watch her for a minute, but when I turn on my back, she gravitates even closer, until her cheek is on my collarbone and her nose nuzzles at my neck.

And that’s the moment it occurs to me that while Jade is passed out, I’m not.

And I could end this all right now.

I could pick her up, walk out the door to the gate, and lay her in the sand on the other side. It wouldn’t break any rules. Her ankle bracelet would trigger . . . and it would be finished. Over. I would win and Jade would be gone. Gone from the house, gone from my life. Forever.

A couple weeks ago, that’s what I would’ve done. And it would’ve been simple. Painless.

Easy.

But lying here with my name fresh on her lips and her curled against me so . . . trustingly, the thought is revolting. Abhorrent. So fucking wrong, my stomach twists.

So I grab the blanket and bring it up around us, tucking us in. I lie back against the pillow, rest my lips on the top of Jade’s head, and let myself pass out right along with her.

* * *

JADE

I wake up the next morning to the view of Damon watching me—a few inches away, his head resting on his hand, his elbow pressed into the pillow—his blue gaze crisp and appraising.

“Hi,” he says.

Cold, slimy stupidity swells inside me as I recall how vulnerable I let myself be with him last night. The way he saw me—all the things I told him.

“What time is it?” I ask, licking my dry lips.

“No clue.”

Time is different here, muddled and kind of irrelevant, but the minty scent from Damon’s breath and the dampness in his hair tells me he’s been up and about for a while.

“How are you feeling?” he asks in a neutral tone.

My head is stuffed with cotton, but overall, “I’m fine.”

Precious hops onto the mattress between us, licking my face good morning with his sandpaper tongue.

“I took the dog out.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“He’s got you snowed, you know. He’s fully capable of taking a leak without the chanting.”

I smile. “I know he’s capable of it. But he likes the chanting.”

The corner of Damon’s mouth inches up—and I remember the press of his lips against mine, the way his hands cradled my face, the touch of his tongue. How good he felt. Strong and demanding, but in a craving, desperate sort of way that turned me on, quick and hot. That’s turning me on right now.

Nope, not going there.

I avert my eyes and shift my legs, rubbing my thighs together. “I want to go back into the attic.”

Damon stares at me a moment. “Why?”

“Because it’s interesting. So much of Clara’s life is up there. I don’t want it to become a monster, a place I’m afraid to go because of . . . last night.” I hate the hesitancy that seeps into my tone, with a vile dash of dependency. “Will you come with me?”

I ask because even in the daylight, I’ll feel . . . safer . . . with Damon there. But it’s also a test. To see if he’ll hit me with a crushing comment—if he’ll use my flaws and fears against me. The thought of it cracks something inside me, and it makes me want to cry. But it’s better to know what I’m dealing with.

Burke just shrugs, his face unreadable. “Yeah, I’ll come with you.”

I nod, relieved. Then I push the covers away and head to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower first.”

“Okay.” Damon stays on the mattress, folding his arm behind his head and waving at me. “See you in three hours.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t take three-hour showers.”

He tilts his hand back and forth. “It’s close.”

These are the things you learn when you live with someone. And in a through-the-looking-glass, bizzarro way, that’s what we’re doing—living together in suspended reality.

“I actually prefer baths. You should see how long I stay in a bubble bath.”

I turn my back, but his voice follows me.

“It’s on my list.”

* * *

About two hours later, Burke and I are on the second floor, outside the door to the attic level. I knew it would be like this—my throat is tight and my hands are shaky, but I push through and force myself to open the door. The narrow stairs are illuminated by a single bulb at the top.

“A gust of wind came through and slammed the door,” I explain as we climb in single file, with Burke at my back. “I pulled and pulled, but it wouldn’t give. And then the lights flickered and died, and it was so . . . black.” My heart thinks it’s happening again, and tries to beat its way out of my chest. “I was trapped and I couldn’t see, and the only sound was the rain, and it was like the dust was strangling me.”

The attic entryway is wide open now—the door lies on its side, on the floor to the left. Sunlight streams in from the window and the bulb in the beamed ceiling shines bright and strong.

Burke looks into my eyes but doesn’t like what he sees. He scowls. “The door’s gone, Jade. You won’t get stuck in here again—you know that, right?”

I nod, trying to catch my breath. “My brain knows that. The rest of me still has to get the memo.”

He takes my hand and uncurls my fingers, stopping me from scraping my cuticles raw. I give him a quick, embarrassed smile and step into the attic. I glance around the room, proving there’s nothing to fear and making myself take steady, even breaths.

And after a while, it starts to feel . . . better. Easier. The exposure is desensitizing.

I show Damon Clara’s bulky leather traveling trunk from the 1940s that’s still in amazing condition because they don’t make luggage like that anymore. I show him her son’s christening gown and the pearl-encrusted gloves she wore on her wedding day. Then I show him a satchel with several of her handwritten journals.

“I didn’t read them,” I assure him.

“She wouldn’t care if you did.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I wasn’t sure. It’s so personal.”

He shakes his head. “Clarabelle put us here for months with nothing to do. She wasn’t an idiot—she would’ve known you’d look around. She might as well have stuck a Read Me sticky note on them.”

When I realize my breathing is normal and there’s no dread or terror haunting my thoughts, I tell him, “You can head down if you want. I’m going to stay up here a while longer.”

He doesn’t question me, doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He takes me at my word and walks down the stairs.

I sit down on the trunk, grab one of the journals, and open it. But a loud pounding and smashing sound comes from the stairway. It’s Damon, at the bottom. He kicks the jamb of the bottom door brutally, then holds the sides of the door and twists, splintering the frame with a crack and tearing the door right off its hinges.

“What are you doing?”

He glances up, his features intense. “I told you. You’re not getting trapped in there again. Ever.”

The slightest, “Oh,” slips from my lips. And butterflies flutter around my heart. Because it’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever done for me.

* * *

When the sun is dipped low outside and the sky is streaked with red and pink, we’re in the parlor. I sit in Clara’s rocking chair, crocheting—though making random knots would be a more apt description. Damon’s on the sofa, working on one of the Sudoku books Ian brought for him. A fire crackles in the fireplace and Precious is curled up sleeping on a cushion in the corner—creating the perfect picture of domestication.

Like Burke and I are some old married couple . . . in a condemned crackhouse.

We don’t talk. We’re sitting in companionable silence, but he’s annoyingly better at it.

My eyes keep drifting toward him—the way his long fingers curve around the pencil, the contours of his strong jaw, how every once in a while he runs his tongue along his bottom lip, figuring out his next move. It’s his mouth that distracts me the most—the memories that rush back as I stare. The feelings.

He closes his book with a snap. And my gaze jumps back to the needle in my hands.

Burke stands, takes a few strides to the cabinet that houses Clara’s records, flips through them, and slips one from its sleeve, sliding it onto the player. There’s a sound of static as the needle kisses the vinyl, and then “Didn’t I” by The Delfonics starts to play.

He drags the mattress to the far side of the room, then moves my way. His long legs stop in front of me and he holds out his hand. “Dance with me, Jade.”

It’s like I’ve been waiting for this all day. For him to lead so I can follow. Every cell in my body wants to say yes—but I hold my ground. “I think that would be a bad idea.”

Because this—whatever the hell this is or could become—is lunacy.

Damon smirks and there’s a gleam in his eye that tells me he’s enjoying this.

“Sometimes bad ideas are the best kind.”

“And sometimes they’re just . . . dangerous.”

His hand is still outstretched. Steady and patient and waiting. “You didn’t think so last night.”

“Last night was a mistake.”

His brow furrows. “Which part? I thought the lift was pretty impressive.”

“No. I mean, yes, the lift was amazing.” I shake my head—he’s getting me all mixed up. “The mistake was when we kissed.”

“Was it?” Damon’s voice goes low and seductive. “Didn’t seem like a mistake. When I sucked on your sweet tongue and you almost ripped my hair out.” He gives a low hum of appreciation. “It felt like . . . a sensational start.”

The breath leaves my body and possibly my soul. Bubbly, fizzy giddiness takes its place. Excitement. Maybe even a dash of fear. Goddamn him. Damn his riveting eyes and sexy hands and irresistible voice. Or maybe we’re both damned already. Maybe we froze to death weeks ago and this is our own personal plot of real-estate hell.

And maybe I don’t mind that as much as I should.

Because I stand up, entranced, like one of Dracula’s wives, and I put my hand in Damon’s. And there’s a whisper in my head that says my fate is sealed—he’s got me now.

Burke pulls me close into his arms, pressing us together until I feel him everywhere. His strong thighs; his flat, hard stomach; the incessant, thick ridge of his cock against my waist. And he smells good. Like the ocean wind and firewood. I wonder if it’s his clothes or his skin. I want to run my nose up and down his bare body to find out.

Slowly we start to move together, swaying in time to the music.

Burke stares at my mouth. “So . . . I’ve been thinking.”

“First mistake.”

He chuckles deeply, both of us remembering when I said those words before. In another place and time—when things were simple and clear.

“I think you’re sick of good, Jade. I think bad and dangerous makes you wet. Outside this house, you can’t let yourself admit that, but while we’re here, you could. With me.” My heart pounds and my breath goes thin. “I think deep down, a part of you is dying to tell your old man to go fuck himself. And I think I could help you, even if you’re never able to say the words.”

Damon brushes his nose against mine—his face so close and his lips so near, I can taste him.

“I think you like me, baby. And there’s so much I like about you . . . so much I want from you that you are aching to give.”

Sensation sparks up my spine and simmers low and hot between my legs.

“While we’re here, we can do anything, everything, and no one has to know.” His voice is silky smooth but hard around the edges. The sharp point of a blade, cloaked in satin, dragging along skin. “You want to self-destruct with me?” His lips trace the curve of my ear, slow and deliberate. “I’ll make it so good, and then I’ll piece you back together again, I swear.”

Damon lifts his head and looks into my eyes but doesn’t kiss me. He won’t, I already know. Because the decision is mine—he needs that from me.

I rise up on my toes and without a single hesitation—smash my mouth against his. He lifts me off my feet, burying his hand in my hair. Our tongues tangle and twirl lusciously as I wrap my legs around his waist. He walks us across the room and lays me on the mattress, pressing me down with his weight and grinding his cock against me.

We tear at each other’s clothes—shirts ripping, pants tugged and pushed and tossed away. I sigh as my hands slide over the muscles in his bare back, his shoulders, but he gives me no time to relish touching him. Damon bites at my shoulder, licks a hot path down my collarbone and over my breasts. He suckles one nipple hard until I keen—then he resumes his path downward. Over my stomach, a man on a singular mission.

And Damon Burke goes down on me like he’s waging a war. It’s not a seduction—it’s an onslaught. Every lash of his wet tongue, each scrape of stubble against tender flesh, every suck and hot open-mouthed kiss between my spread thighs is meant to overwhelm. To conquer.

To wreck me.

He’s relentless and rough. Purposeful and deliberate and devastatingly effective. His mouth envelops my flesh, sucking just right—nipping with his teeth to add a delicious dash of pain right where it’s wanted.

A moan vibrates from deep in my throat—saturated with the unmistakable sound of pleasure that I don’t even try to hold back. I want him to know how good he’s making me feel.

Because he’s loving it too. It’s there in the bruising grip of his hands and the desperate dig of his fingers—like he’ll die if I get away. It’s in the long laps of the flat of his tongue and the jagged groan from his throat and his filthy whispered words.

“Fuck me—you taste good.” He goes back for another long lick. “I could live right here.”

Damon is getting off on this every bit as much as I am. And that feels amazing—to know I’m doing this to him. Turning him on, driving him wild, reducing him to this hard primal mass of muscle and moans.

It makes me feel powerful.

Beautiful and craved . . . needed.

I slide my hands through his hair, loving the feel of the thick, silky strands between my fingers. When my grip tightens, pulling a deep moan from him, it’s impossible to tell who’s in control. Who has the upper hand.

I come against the stroke of his tongue, my chin raised and mouth open—sparks of light bursting through my body and behind my eyelids.

Damon rises up on his knees, pumping his beautiful engorged cock slowly. He slides the broad head through my wet lips to my entrance. Pressing it right there, but not entering. I moan so loud it echoes off the walls.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Was it a yes, Jade? Are you telling me yes?”

I bite my lip, nodding, begging and pleading through hooded eyes.

He drags the rounded hard tip up and down, up and down—pausing again. And he’s so close—so close and big, I can already feel what it will be like when he pushes inside. How it will stretch and burn and consume me.

Damon rotates his hips, but his cock stays tight in his fist. He moves his shaft along my clit—it’s slick with my wetness and slides back and forth so easily.

“Fuuuck,” I keen.

“Yeah, we will,” he promises darkly. “So much . . .”

back and forth

“. . . you’ll be begging me to let you rest.”

back and forth

“But I’m gonna drag it out . . .”

back and forth

“. . . make it last.”

back and forth

“We have time, and I want—” Damon angles forward over me, pressing his cock harder along my clit, punctuating each word with a perfect thrust. “To. Savor. You.”

And then I’m coming again, exploding, my back bowing off the mattress and the broken cry of his name on my lips.

He leans back, wrapping one hand around my splayed thigh and the other stroking his rigid length ruthlessly. He tilts his head up, closes his eyes, and comes with a deep pulsing groan. He paints me with his release, lashing long, thick, hot lines across my abdomen. Then he stares at his handiwork, entranced—and rubs it into my skin.

“What I wouldn’t give for a camera right now. It’s going on the list.”

Damon lowers onto his elbows beside me. My limbs are as limp as wrung-out cloth, and my heart pounds so hard I can feel its throb in the back of my throat.

“Okay, you’re right,” I tell him.

“Glad you finally came to your senses.” He looks down at me. “What am I right about this time?”

And I smile. “This is a very good bad idea.”