Unfinished Business part 2

The elevator ride felt longer than it should have.

I watched the numbers climb and tried to remember every reason this was a terrible idea. Four years of silence. The way he’d packed one bag and left without a real explanation. The photos of him with that polished blonde on society pages. All of it should have been enough to turn around and go home.

Instead I stepped out on the eighteenth floor, walked the quiet hallway, and stopped in front of 1801.

The door was unlocked, exactly as he’d said.

I pushed it open.

Damien stood by the bar, pouring something amber into a glass. He’d lost the jacket and bow tie. The white shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled once. He looked up when the door shut behind me, and for a second neither of us spoke.

“You came,” he said finally.

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did.” He set the bottle down and turned fully toward me. The years had changed him—broader through the shoulders, a new hardness around the mouth—but the way he looked at me was the same. Focused. Hungry. Certain. “Take off the shoes.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The heels. Take them off. You’ve been standing in them all night.”

It was such a strange first order that I almost laughed. Almost. Instead I stepped out of them, the carpet soft under my bare feet. The height difference shifted. He closed the distance between us without hurry.

“You still wear your hair like that when you want to look composed,” he said, eyes on the simple twist at the back of my head. “It never worked on me.”

“You don’t get to talk like you still know me.”

“I know enough.” His hand rose, slow, and found the pins holding the twist in place. He pulled them free one by one. My hair fell around my shoulders. He watched it happen like it mattered. “I know you came here anyway. I know your pulse is already too fast. And I know if I put my mouth on you right now you’d make that same sound you always did.”

Heat flooded my face. I should have stepped back. I didn’t.

Damien’s fingers slid into my hair, tilting my head just enough. “Last chance to leave, Lila.”

I stayed.

He kissed me like he’d been starving for it—deep, controlled, no hesitation. One hand stayed in my hair while the other found the zipper of my dress and drew it down. The fabric loosened. He eased it off my shoulders and let it drop. I stood in black lace and nothing else while his gaze moved over me, slow and thorough.

“Still no bra,” he murmured. “Some things don’t change.”

His palms covered my breasts, thumbs brushing the nipples until they tightened. I made a quiet sound. He watched my face when he did it again, harder.

“I’ve thought about this more than I should,” he said. “The way you used to look at me when you were already wet and trying to pretend you weren’t. The way you’d open for me the second I touched you.” His hand slid lower, under the lace, and found the proof of it. “Still the same.”

He stroked me slowly, two fingers sliding through the slickness, spreading me open. Every pass made my breath catch. When he finally pushed inside, curling, my head tipped back.

“Damien—”

“I want to hear you.” He dropped to his knees without warning, dragged the lace down my legs, and put his mouth on me.

The first stroke of his tongue pulled a broken sound from my throat. He held my thighs open and licked me like he had every right—slow at first, then deeper, tongue pushing inside, then focusing on my clit with the exact pressure that used to wreck me. Four years and he still remembered. Wet sounds filled the quiet suite. My fingers found his hair and held on.

When he sucked hard and pushed two fingers back inside at the same time, I came with a sharp cry, thighs shaking. He worked me through it until I was trembling, then stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed me so I could taste myself.

“Couch,” he said. “Now.”

He sat and pulled me down so I straddled him. This time I was the one who freed him from his trousers—thick, hard, the head already slick. I stroked him once. A low sound left his throat.

“Put me inside you.”

I sank down slowly, taking every inch while his hands gripped my hips. The stretch pulled another sound from me. He stayed still for a moment, breathing hard, letting me adjust. Then he thrust up to meet me.

The pace started controlled and didn’t stay that way. I rode him while he held my hips and drove up into me, eyes locked on mine the entire time. One of his hands slid up my back and fisted in my hair, tilting my head so he could bite the side of my neck.

“Still so tight,” he muttered against my skin. “Still take me like you were made for it.”

I came again, harder, body clenching around him. He groaned and kept moving, chasing his own release. When he finished it was with a rough sound, buried deep, pulsing inside me while his forehead pressed to mine.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard.

Eventually he eased me off him and stood, still half-dressed, and walked to the bathroom. He came back with a warm cloth and cleaned me with a quiet focus that felt more intimate than the sex. When he was done he tossed the cloth aside and pulled me against his chest on the couch, one heavy arm locked around my waist.

“You’re not leaving tonight,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

I should have argued. I should have remembered every reason this was a mistake. Instead I rested my head against his shoulder and let the steady beat of his heart settle under my ear.

Outside the windows the city kept moving.

Inside, four years of silence had just been broken in the most irreversible way possible—and neither of us seemed interested in putting the pieces back the way they were.