Flames of desire.

Claire's POV

His lips trail down my throat, slow and deliberate, leaving a path of heat that makes me shiver. When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses, as though savouring the taste of forbidden fruit.

“You’re trouble,” He breaths, his hand sliding along my hip, pulling me firmly against him. I feel the truth of his desire, hard and insistent, and the sound that escapes my lips is half-plea, half-surrender.

“Then ruin me,” I whisper.

That undoes him. His mouth crashes against mine again, urgent now, his hands wandering greedily, possessively, as if he can't decide which part of me to claim first. The buttons of my blouse give way under his fingers, fabric parting until my skin is bare to his touch. The roughness of his palms contrasts with the reverence of his movements. Each caress both worship and hunger. 

When he lifts me, I wrap my legs around his waist without hesitation, gasping as my back meets the cool wall. His mouth devours mine, tracing my jaw, my throat, lower—every kiss a promise of what is coming.

“Say it,” He demands against my skin. His voice ragged.

“Say you want this.” He whispers. 

“I want you,” I confess, breathless, trembling not from fear but from the overwhelming need consuming me.

He carries me to the bed as though I weigh nothing, laying me down with surprising gentleness before covering my body with his own. His hands map every curve, every line, memorising me as if I am the only woman who has ever mattered.

When his lips find mine again, I feel myself unravel, surrendering to the fire neither of us can put out—even if the whole world burns around us. My body arches into his as he presses me down into the mattress, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that leaves me breathless. Every kiss is demanding, every touch more desperate than the last, as though years of restraint were snapping all at once.

His hands roam over my bare skin, fingers teasing along my ribs, sliding lower until I gasp and tangled my hands in his hair. He groans at the sound, deep, the kind of sound that made my thighs tremble in anticipation.

“You taste like sin,” He murmurs against my lips, his hand slipping beneath the last barrier of fabric between us. My hips buck instinctively at the first brush of his fingers, a shiver rolling through me.

I clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt as he explores me, drawing out sounds I haven’t made in years—raw, helpless, needy. He kisses me again, swallowing every moan, every plea, until my body twists under his touch. When he finally pulls back, his pupils are dark with desire, his breath ragged.

“Tell me to stop,” He says, his voice raspy, even though his hand never leaves me. I met his gaze, fire in my eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” I say despite the tremble in my voice. 

That is all he needs. He strips away the clothes with impatient hands, tossing them aside like they are nothing compared to the heat building between us. His mouth moves lower, marking a trail down my body, worshipping every curve until I am begging—begging for him.

When he finally sinks into me, the world seems to shatter. I cry out, clutching him close, the sensation overwhelming, forbidden, perfect. He moves with a rhythm that leaves no space between us, every thrust a declaration of the desire we must not feel but can't deny. We tumble into the abyss of pure joy and happiness. For a moment, we are in heaven.

"Claire," He whispers as we both reach the peak together and come tumbling down to earth again. 

My enemy’s uncle. The man I must never touch. And yet in this moment, he is the only one who has ever truly made me feel alive. The room is heavy with the scent of us, our heavy breathing the only sound in the silence. I lay sprawled across the sheets, my skin still tingling, my pulse refusing to slow. 

He rests on his side beside me, one hand tracing lazy circles along my stomach, as though he can’t stop touching me even now. His face, so often stern and unreadable, has softened—yet his eyes burn, still dark with the memory of what we just did. 

“You know we can’t do this again,” He says finally, his voice hoarse, unconvincing.

I turn my head toward him, my lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Then why are you still touching me?” I ask.

His jaw clenches, but his hand don't move. If anything, it slid lower, teasing, reminding me just how easily he can unravel me again.

“You’re trouble,” He mutters.

“You already told me that, and you didn't stop,” I whisper, leaning close enough for my breath to ghost over his lips.

For a moment, it seems like he is going to pull away. But then he kisses me again, slow this time, deep and consuming, nothing like the frantic hunger from before. It is a kiss that promises more, no matter what he says.

When we finally break apart, I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It feels dangerous, intoxicating, safe in a way that terrifies me. He smoothes a hand over my hair and sighs.

“My niece can never find out about this. She will make your life even more hellish,” He says. My smile is wicked in the dark. Whatever! I am not going to let Sienna walk all over me anymore. 

“Then I guess we’ll just have to be careful,” I say. 

The silence stretched, charged and unspoken, until his hand slipped down my back, pulling me closer. I know we are too far gone. There is no return. We have eaten from the forbidden fruit, and it tastes delicious. How can I ever let him go? How can I forget about this? The bitterness inside of me is almost forgotten. However, will we ever be able to show our love to each other? Only the mention of Sienna's name makes me want to vomit. I hate Sienna. The woman who stole my husband, but I am in love with her uncle, the man who pulled me out of my pit of despair, my forbidden love, the man who woke up the Flames of Desire inside me.  I am in love with Damon Whitfield.