Chapter 7: Velvet Shadows

After they finished eating at the restaurant, Damian offered to take them to see the mansion where they would live after the wedding.

Sarah declined, but her mother, Eleanor, insisted on going and said, “Please, Sarah. You know I can’t do this without you.” After her mother’s pleading, Sarah had no choice but to say yes.

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The grand foyer of the mansion stretched before Sarah, its marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, their light fracturing into prisms that danced across the walls.

Every step she took echoed faintly, swallowed by the vastness of the space. Damian moved ahead of her with an effortless grace, and Sarah found her gaze lingering a second too long before she forced herself to look away.

She could still hear her mother’s voice, warm and pleading, wrapping around her like a silk scarf—too tight, too suffocating.

“We didn’t live together for five years. Please, Sarah, give this as a wedding gift to your mother.” Eleanor’s smile had been radiant, almost girlish, the kind that made the fine lines around her eyes crinkle in a way that tugged at Sarah’s heart.

Five years of distance, of strained phone calls and canceled visits, all melting away in the face of that smile. Sarah had swallowed hard, her fingers digging into her palms as she nodded.

“Of course, Mom,” she’d said, voice steady, even as her stomach twisted.

But now, alone with Damian, the weight of that promise settled over her like a second skin. The air between them was thick, charged with something electric, something that made her skin prickle. She could smell him—cedar and bergamot, with the faintest undercurrent of something darker, muskier, like the scent of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it. Her throat went dry.

“This is the main living area,” Damian said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, deep enough to vibrate through her.

He gestured toward an expansive sitting room where plush velvet sofas in deep emerald faced a fireplace large enough to stand in.

The mantel was adorned with tasteful art, abstract strokes of gold and crimson that looked obscenely expensive.

“Eleanor had it redecorated last month. She’s always had a flair for drama.”

Sarah crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of how the thin fabric of her blouse clung to her breasts, the lace of her bra just visible beneath if the light hit it right.

She could feel her nipples tightening, betraying her, and she willed herself to relax.

“I won’t fall for him,” she repeated in her head, a mantra, a shield. But damn, it was hard to focus when he stood there like that—all confident poise and smoldering intensity, his dark eyes flicking over her with the kind of hunger that made her pulse jump.

He led her through the dining room next, where a table long enough to seat twenty gleamed under the soft light, its surface polished to a mirror finish. Sarah’s fingers twitched with the urge to trail over it, to feel the cool smoothness beneath her palms. She imagined being bent over it, her skirt hiked up, Damian’s hands gripping her hips as he—

No.

She clenched her jaw, forcing the image away. This was insane. She barely knew him. Sure, he was her new stepfather—fuck, that word alone made her stomach flip—but that didn’t mean she had to entertain these… these fantasies.

Damian turned, catching her staring at the table, and one corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Like what you see?”

Sarah’s face burned. “It’s a nice table,” she said, too quickly.

“Mm. It is.” His gaze dropped, lingering on her lips for a heartbeat before dragging lower, over the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She could feel it, like a physical touch, and her breath hitched.

“Strong. Sturdy. Perfect for… all kinds of uses.”

She swallowed hard. “Damian—”

“The kitchen’s this way.” He turned before she could protest, leaving her to follow, her legs unsteady.

The kitchen was a chef’s dream—sleek black marble countertops, stainless steel appliances that gleamed under recessed lighting, a massive island with a sink deep enough to bathe in.

Sarah’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. She could picture it too easily: Damian pressing her against the island, his body caging hers in, his mouth hot on her neck as his hands roamed, claimed, and took.

“No maids,” Damian said casually, leaning back against the counter opposite her, his arms crossed.

The movement pulled his suit jacket tight over his chest, the fabric straining just enough to hint at the hard planes beneath.

“Eleanor let them go last week. Said she wanted privacy.” His eyes darkened. “So it’ll just be the three of us. Sharing the space. Sharing the… chores.”

Sarah’s stomach twisted. Chores. Like laundry. Like cooking. Like accidentally brushing against each other in tight spaces, like their hands meeting over a dishrag, like the inevitable moment when they’d be alone, and the air would be thick with everything they weren’t saying.

She wet her lips. “That’s… fine.”

“Is it?” Damian pushed off the counter, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He stopped just shy of touching her, but she could feel the heat rolling off him and could smell that intoxicating scent of him again.

“You’re tense, Sarah.” His voice was a low rumble, the kind that slid under her skin and settled between her thighs. “You don’t have to be.”

“I’m not,” she lied.

His chuckle was dark and knowing. “Liar.”

She jerked her chin up, meeting his gaze defiantly. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Eleanor!” Damian’s head turned toward the hallway, his expression shifting seamlessly into something polite, almost affectionate. “There you are.”

Sarah exhaled sharply, her body flooding with relief and frustration in equal measure. Her mother stepped into the kitchen, her phone in hand, her brows slightly furrowed.

“Darling, I’m so sorry, but I need to take this. It’s the gallery—some issue with the shipment.” She pressed a quick kiss to Damian’s cheek before turning to Sarah, her smile warm but distracted.

“Make yourselves at home. I’ll be back soon.”

And then she was gone, the click of her heels fading down the hall.

The moment the silence settled, Damian turned back to Sarah, his eyes burning. “Alone at last.”

She should’ve moved. Should’ve put space between them. But her feet were rooted to the floor, her body traitorously leaning into him as he stepped closer, his thigh brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt through her, her breath stuttering.

“You’re fighting it,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. His breath was hot, his voice a velvet whisper that curled around her spine and tightened low in her belly. “I can feel how much you want to.”

Sarah’s hands clenched at her sides. “I’m not—”

“Liar,” he repeated, softer this time, his fingers skimming up her arm, tracing the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.

“Your pulse is racing. Your breath—” His thumb brushed over the fluttering vein at her throat, and she shivered.

“You’re practically vibrating, Sarah. All that resistance, all that heat…” His lips curved against her skin. “It’s intoxicating.”

She swallowed hard, her body betraying her with every rapid breath, every traitorous shiver. “I’m not falling for you,” she forced out, her voice steadier than she felt.

Damian’s smirk was sin itself. “You’re already halfway there.”

His hand slid to her waist, his grip firm, possessive. Sarah’s eyelids fluttered, her body arching into his touch before she could stop herself. His thumb pressed into the dip just above her hipbone, and she bit back a gasp. God, he was good. Too good. She could feel the hardness of his cock through his slacks, thick and insistent against her thigh, and her mouth watered.

No.

She jerked back, her chest heaving.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. “I won’t fall for you.”

Damian’s expression darkened, his gaze dropping to her lips, her throat, and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts.

“You say that like it’s a choice.” His hand lifted, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone, his touch feather-light but searing. “But we both know the truth, don’t we?”

Sarah’s heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her clit, a throbbing ache that demanded attention. She turned away, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“I won’t,” she repeated, more to herself than to him. “I won’t.”

The silence between them was a living thing, thick with unspoken words and simmering desire. She could feel his eyes on her, tracing the line of her spine, the curve of her ass, and the way her skirt hugged her hips just a little too tightly. Her skin burned under his gaze, her body betraying her with every second that passed.

Damian stepped back, his voice a low growl. “We’ll see.”

And Sarah knew, with a sinking, aching certainty, that he was right.

This was only the beginning.