Chapter 19: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

“So . . . is it everything you imagined it would be?”

Damon relaxes back across from me, his upper body against the opposite end of the claw-foot tub, his bent knees peeking out above the water line, his feet bracketing my hips. My legs are stretched out long and my heels rest on his upper stomach, the brushed copper spout perpendicular on the wall at the halfway mark. Both of us are submerged in steaming hot water and surrounded by mountains of soft sudsy bubbles.

“It’s getting there,” he drawls, eating me up with dark blue eyes.

I cup my breasts for him, pressing them together, spreading bubbles across my nipples with my thumbs. Teasing him is fun—getting him hot and hard—pushing him to that scorching edge where his control is stretched to the snapping point. He’s masterful there.

“The candles are a nice touch.”

I brought them in from the dining room, four tapered ivory candlesticks, scattered on the tiled floor. I like the way the flames dance on his skin, painting him with bronze shadows. They’re also a necessity—because the electricity isn’t hooked up yet. The exterior is framed with sheetrock, but the interior walls are exposed bare studs weaved with impotent wires. The air smells of steam, fresh-cut lumber, and new caulk—and it’s all a lovely, cozy disaster.

Kind of like our lives at the moment—exquisite and delightful and so fucking messy.

“Okay . . .” I breathe out a resigned sigh, cocking my head.

Damon lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, what?”

“I guess I do like you. A little.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, spreading into an easy, gorgeous grin. “Finally admitting it, huh?”

“It was touch and go for a while.”

“What put me over the top? Was it that thing I did with my tongue the other day?”

I slip my feet back, rising to my knees, splitting my thighs on either side of his waist, and lowering until I feel the heft of him between my legs. Then I glide forward and back, sliding my slit along the thick shaft of his erection.

“That was pretty great.” Damon’s heartbeat reverberates under my palm and his breaths quicken. “But I think it’s your renovation skills that really won me over.” I lean forward, the hair on his chest tickling the tips of my breasts, my voice husky as I press my lips to his ear. “And your brilliant dirty ideas.”

Then we’re kissing, humming needily into each other’s mouths. Damon’s hand sinks roughly into my hair, twining the strands around his fingers, holding me captive as his tongue thrusts and drags and conquers.

The wide head of his cock catches at my opening. I gasp and wait, relishing the moment. Damon’s hands go to my waist, his fingers digging in at my sides. And he presses me down. A deep, long moan mews from my throat as my back arches.

Nothing has ever felt so good. The invading shove and breaching stretch—the overwhelming delicious sensation of being impaled and filled. My mind goes blissfully blank, and there’s only this and him—and the only words that exist in the world are yes and please.

Damon’s hands knead my breasts, his tongue tracing then flicking over the tight pink peaks. He moves from one to the other then back again, as I glide up and down on his cock, rocking my hips, riding him the way he fantasized. I whimper, then whine when he suckles hard, sending shooting pleasure racing down my nerve endings. I tighten around him, my pussy clenching, my hips moving faster. He cups my breasts in his hands, licking and laving both together.

“Beautiful,” he hums. “You’re so beautiful.”

The whisper of an orgasm starts in my clit, building and rising. Damon must feel it, because he grips my ass, his thumbs over my hip bones—and pins me down as he fucks up into me. Water sloshes over the edge, onto the floor, extinguishing one of the candles. Pleasure sparks across my skin, spreading out in pulsing waves from my pelvis, lighting me up from the inside as our lips press in an open-mouthed kiss. His release crashes through him at the same time, his cock twitching with powerful aftershocks.

For minutes, I don’t move, content to lie limp with my cheek on Damon’s shoulder, wrecked and wonderful.

I kiss his wet skin. “I could really get used to this.”

“You should.” His fingers trace my spine. “I want you to.”

* * *

I like waking up before him. It doesn’t happen often—I sleep heavier than Damon now, secure and dreamless beneath the warm weight of his arm. But the next morning when my eyes open, I can tell he’s still asleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest behind me.

Carefully I turn, brushing my too long bangs out of my face so I can look at him, watch him, carve his features onto my memory. And the tenderness I have for him swells so big, blurring my vision and squeezing around my heart to the point of pain. Like my insides are squished—too crowded with everything I feel.

There’s sadness too. Because we’re on the downside of the hill, the weight of the expiration date bearing down . . . and I don’t know how to fix any of it.

I was shocked when Damon tossed out his demand about my father’s company.

You should leave. You should quit.

I’ve lived in awe of my father for so long, I can’t picture my life without his presence. It’s like asking a person blind from birth to describe color. Have I ever been my own person? Or are my brothers and I just parts of him, extensions of him—clones in a closet lab, robotic dogs he’s trained to fetch or prosthetic limbs bound to his will?

The truth is, a part of me wants Damon to come out on top in this. The part that cares for him, craves him, has come to depend on him, and is falling in love with him.

The part that might’ve already fallen.

Damon deserves to win. He’s earned his retribution. For the first time in my life, I find myself wondering: What has Ilias Buchanan earned? Does he deserve Clara’s legacy—to profit off the memories and moments and dreams she made come true within these walls?

And I’m protective of Damon now, which is strange since he’s the stronger of the two of us. Always so in charge and domineering. He’d never let me, but I would stand in front of a wrecking ball for Damon Burke. Put my body between him and a chainsaw, push him out of the path of a charging train, even if it meant taking the hit myself.

But can I go against my father for him? That’s the real question—the rest is just details.

I’d like to believe I’m brave enough. Strong enough. The same way I tell myself I won’t be afraid of being behind a closed door in the dark—that there’s nothing there that can hurt me. And yet when the moment comes, my lungs seize and terror strangles and I fall apart, crumbling. Every single time.

Damon’s eyes are open, gazing back at me, looking me over.

“What happened?” He caresses my face. “What’s wrong?”

A thin laugh scrapes up my throat, because really—what’s not wrong? The entire situation is fucked.

So instead of answering, I clasp his cheekbones in my hands and kiss him deeply. And I beg him, “Love me, Damon. Love me, love me . . .”

His brow furrows, but he rolls me under him, and climbs between my legs. Damon kisses my lips, the hollow of my throat, down between my breasts, swearing against my skin, “I will, I will . . .”

I’ll tell myself later I imagined it, made it up, but as he licks a path down my stomach, places a kiss to my hip bone, and presses his forehead to my thigh, his words change. Becoming a soft, sacred, “I do . . .”

* * *

Damon looks at me differently. His baby-blue gaze is still indecent and provocative, like he can’t just see beneath my clothes, he can taste every inch. And it’s still sexily preemptive, as if he’s nonstop planning what he can’t wait to do to me next. But there’s a softness—a delicateness—the way you gaze at a crystal heirloom that’s cradled in your hands as you lay it in a box lined with bubble wrap to keep it safe from harm.

I notice the difference in his gaze as we decorate the Christmas tree. The one Clara stored in an empty upstairs bedroom and we brought down and set up in the corner of the parlor. Its lights are white, accented by red and green balls of every size.

I’ve also found a use for my still disastrous attempts at crocheting.

“See? If you look at them as the right angle, they look like stars.” I gesture to the various colored three-by-three-ish-inch shapes I’ve hung on the tree. “Kind of.”

Damon tilts his head and squints really hard. Then he nods. “Okay.”

I cross my arms. “Are you just agreeing with me because I let you put your cock inside me?”

He doesn’t even try to hesitate. “Yes.”

I jump on his back and bite his neck as punishment.

It just ends up turning him on. He pins me to the mattress, holds my arms above my head, and bites and nibbles everywhere in retaliation.

* * *

The next day the temperature drops, so we stay in bed—venturing out only for food or to take care of Precious. We watch Goodfellas and Aladdin—movies that were added to our growing VHS collection during Piper and Ian’s fifth supply visit last week.

A few hours after the credits roll, I’m sitting up reading and Damon lies crossways with his head resting on my thighs, working on a Sudoku puzzle.

“Clara could’ve been an author,” I tell him. “You should read her journals. There’s a lot of wisdom in here.”

Damon lowers the book and turns on his back, his eyes catching mine. “You read it to me.”

I move my hand to his hair, sliding my fingers through the dark strands. “It’s been a few years since their son passed away, and she and Harvey are alone again in the house.”

“Do they still like each other?” he asks.

I nod. “Things are good between them, but sometimes they’re terribly sad. And this is what she wrote: ‘The truth is, there are some wounds that time cannot heal. Instead, it teaches. Teaches us to live with our injuries. If you’re blessed, you have someone whose broken parts match your own, and you go on fractured . . . but together, whole.’”

I soak up these quiet moments, and let myself pretend not only that this is what we could be together . . . but that this is what our lives already are.

The day before Christmas, a storm comes through, and with it the phenomenon known as thundersnow—lightning strikes and flashes out over the ocean as snow rains down. It’s a stunning sight—breathtaking and fierce. We sit on the creaky porch swing, watching the storm while bundled together under blankets, keeping one another warm. Damon presses his lips to the top of my head and there’s not a single spot in the universe I’d rather be.

* * *

My typical Christmas Day is celebrated at the best table of a three-Michelin-star restaurant, surrounded by my brothers, uncle and father, and occasionally business prospects who need reeling in or associates who’ve been deemed worthy. The meal and drinks are never not impeccable, the decorations always glittering in their strategically placed perfection. But I can’t recall a single one that I looked forward to—or that I didn’t depart from with the hollow echo of cold relief ringing in my chest.

When this Christmas morning dawns, it comes with bubbly excitement at the view of three presents unprofessionally wrapped in old newspaper under the tree. I can’t begin to guess what might be in two of them, and the third, I can’t wait to give.

Piper and Ian’s next visit is in two days, so by now our provisions are pretty low. But I added a beef roast, fresh rosemary, and russet potatoes to my last list, which have managed to stay unspoiled in the cooler amongst the mostly melted ice.

I have no idea how to actually cook a roast, and Damon’s no Gordon Ramsay—but between the two of us, we manage to prepare it adequately enough to not contract food poisoning. Hopefully.

If all else fails, there are several bottles of red wine, so drinking our Christmas dinner remains an option.

With our coffee cups beside us, we sit on the floor near the tree.

“Merry Christmas.” I place the thin, rectangular present in Damon’s lap. He opens it slowly, carefully, until my drawing of the beach house is revealed. It’s different than the last time he saw it. I spent hours painstakingly adding details and fleshing it out with shading—making it better. Making it come alive.

Damon gazes down at it for a long moment. There’s hope in his voice when he asks, “I can keep this?”

I nod. “This way, after it’s gone, you’ll still have it.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle with gratitude when he smiles, and leans over, kissing me sweetly. “Thank you, Jade. It’s amazing. The best present I’ve gotten since . . . ever.”

Warmth spreads through my limbs, making me loose and languid, like I’m submerged in the bathtub all over again.

“My original plan was to knit you a scarf, but the best I managed is a deformed pot holder. Maybe by Easter.”

I don’t contemplate the words before I say them, that they imply an us, a this, in the future. But I have no urge to take them back once they’re said.

Damon doesn’t mind the implication either. “A scarf just in time for spring. It’ll be awesome.” Then he places his present in my hands. “And great minds definitely think alike.”

It’s hard and flat, a five-by-seven rectangle. I open it gently too. It’s a frame, wood-trimmed with thick intricate, aged molding, big enough to hold a future photograph.

“I made it from the woodwork around the chandelier in the dining room. So, after this is all gone, you’ll have a piece of it too.”

I hug the frame to my chest and meet his gaze. “Thank you.”

Damon’s other gift is also handmade from the trim of the house . . . and it’s for Precious. A flat, square piece of wood—dog-tag sized, with a hole drilled at the top—etched with the name Cujo.

I rock back laughing and Precious spins in manic circles when I put it on his collar.

“One more thing.” Damon stands, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. He pushes the sheet covering the parlor entry aside and leads me out to the foyer. “It’ll be easier to see when it’s dark, but I think it’s cloudy enough now that you’ll get the idea.”

He flicks the newly installed switch on the wall, and the ceiling illuminates with a thousand dots of light. They’re fairy lights, so small and the wire so thin, they’re barely perceptible—but together they’re a radiant constellation of softly glowing stars in a night sky. And they’re not just on the foyer ceiling. They weave around the staircase banister and along the second-floor railings. They trail along the beams and trim down the hallway and into the music room, the solarium, and the kitchen.

For a moment, words aren’t possible, I have to clear my throat.

“You did this for me?”

He seems surprised at my reaction, his eyes widening, his shoulders tugging up in a shrug of no-big-deal. “Not in the upstairs bedrooms, but in the attic and the basement too. They run on solar, connected to a charger outside. We still have just over four weeks here. If we lose power, you won’t have to worry about being in the dark.”

And I just . . . can’t. I cover my face and sob into my hands.

“What the fuck?”

Damon quickly envelops me in his arms, pulling me close. I bury my face in the cotton of his sweatshirt and weep uncontrollably.

I never used to be a crier. I can count on one hand—two fingers—the number of times I’ve cried in my adult life, and never this violently. But it’s like he’s cracked me open, splintered my dam, and I have no defense left. Everything comes spilling out and I can’t seal it back up.

I don’t want to.

“Don’t cry, Jade,” he croons. “It’s Christmas,” Damon drags me from my hiding spot and tilts my face up, kissing my stuffy nose and leaky eyelids. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

I sniffle and hiccup, pulling it together enough to speak.

“I’m crying because I am. Because this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Damon smiles crookedly, petting my hair and wiping my eyes until my tears dry. But we stay a bit longer, just like this—holding onto each other—beneath the haven of sparkling stars he created for me.

* * *

Outside, the waves roar and crash as they pound against the sand, the wind yowls across the shingles, and flecks of snow come down in clustered swirls of white, clinging to the windowpanes. Inside, after dinner, with the fire crackling, we spend Christmas night dancing. We move in smooth, synchronized steps around the room to Clara’s records. Sweet, romantic melodies, some oldies and a few newies: “Pointless” by Lewis Capaldi, and “Until I Found You” by Stephen Sanchez, and Taylor Swift’s “Lover.”

My hair floats around my shoulders as Damon spins me out, pulls me in, and dips me low. We laugh and we kiss, and for as long as the rest of the world is kept away—we’re pretty close to perfect.