The Price of Silence

Damon's tongue parted my lips with possessive authority, claiming my mouth with an intensity that made my knees go completely weak. I let out a muffled moan into his throat, my fingers tightening around his jacket as he backed me forcefully against the heavy oak frame of the wine rack. Dust rattled off the bottles behind me, but neither of us cared.

His hand slid down from my waist, gathering the midnight-blue silk of my dress and dragging it up my thighs until the cool cellar air hit my bare skin.

"Damon, wait—" I gasped, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, my chest heaving violently. "The family... Ethan is right upstairs."

"Let him stay up there," Damon rasped, his voice dark and completely unhinged. "Let him talk about his stocks while I take what belongs to me."

His large hand swept up my inner thigh, his warm, rough palm sliding over my skin with ruthless speed. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper as his fingers hooked into the silk of my underwear, pulling the thin fabric aside without a single drop of gentleness.

When his thumb pressed directly against my wet, throbbing core, my head snapped back against the oak rack, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat. Damon caught the sound with his mouth, swallowing my gasp as he drove two fingers deep inside me.

The sensation was overwhelming. He was thick, hard, and relentless, establishing a deep, agonizingly slow rhythm that stretched me open right there in the shadow of the cellar. I clung to his shoulders, my hips involuntarily arching off the wooden frame to meet his touch, my body completely surrendering to the physical high.

"Look at me," Damon commanded, his voice a dark thread of demand near my ear.

I opened my heavy eyes, my vision blurred with pure pleasure. Damon was staring down at me, his jaw set, his obsidian eyes tracking every twitch of my flushed face as he worked his fingers inside me with punishing, steady strokes. He leaned down, biting the sensitive junction where my neck met my shoulder, leaving a dark, furious mark high enough to be hidden by my collar, but deep enough to burn.

"You're soaking wet for me while your fiancé sits above our heads," Damon growled, his thumb applying relentless, grinding pressure to my center. "Say it, Robin. Tell me whose hands you want."

"Yours..." I choked out, abandoning my pride as a wave of intense, violent pleasure began building at the base of my spine. "Damon... yours."

A dark, satisfied smirk cut across his harsh features. He sped up his rhythm, driving me over the edge with merciless precision until I shattered against him. My inner muscles clamped around his fingers in a prolonged, shuddering spasm. I buried my face into the crook of his neck, stifling my desperate, breathless cries against his warm skin as the orgasm rolled through my body in hot, helpless waves.

Damon held me pinned against him until my trembling slowed, his fingers lingering inside my warmth before slowly withdrawing. He slid his hand out, casually wiping my wetness onto the high silk of my inner thigh where no one would ever see.

Before I could regain my breath, the muffled sound of a heavy door opening at the top of the distant basement stairs echoed down the stone corridor.

"Robin?" Ethan’s voice called down, echoing faintly off the damp vault walls. "Where the hell are you? Dad’s waiting on that wine!"

The sharp spike of adrenaline cut through the lingering haze of pleasure. I went completely rigid in Damon's arms.

Damon didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He held me pinned against his chest for three agonizing seconds, his dark eyes locked onto mine, enjoying the sheer terror and thrill flashing through my features.

Slowly, deliberately, Damon stepped back, allowing my dress to fall back down around my knees. I sank back against the wine rack, my chest heaving, my core throbbing, and my lips swollen and bruised from his mouth.

Damon smoothly turned to the shelf beside my head, pulled two heavy, dust-covered bottles of '98 Rothschild from the rack, and pressed them into my trembling, warm hands.

He reached into his pocket, retrieved the iron key, and unlocked the heavy door, pulling it open just enough for a single person to step through.

He looked over his shoulder at me, his voice dropping into a cool, dangerous whisper that sent a fresh shiver down my spine.

"Fix your hair, Robin," Damon murmured, adjusting his tie without a single crease in his suit. "You look entirely too well-fucked."