The Picture

POV: Seraphina

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But I just stood there. Frozen.

I couldn't look away. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

Damian Blackthorn was pressed against the wall, his head tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal the hard planes of his chest—the sharp lines of muscle, the subtle sheen of sweat on his skin. His hand was wrapped around his throbbing cock, stroking with a rhythm that was both practiced and desperate.

It was thick. Thicker than I'd imagined a man could be-or maybe it was just him. The head was flushed, almost angry looking, and there was something wet glistening at the tip. His hand moved in a rhythm that made my thighs clench instinctively. He was stroking himself with a desperation that made me feel like a voyeur, like I was seeing something I shouldn't see, something private and sacred and—

And his other hand held a picture. MY picture.

He was masturbating to my picture. The heir of Family No. 1. The boy everyone feared. The boy who'd whispered "She doesn't remember me." And he was stroking his thick, throbbing cock to a picture of MY face

It was a photo from the statue scene. The moment I'd exposed myself. My breasts bare. My face triumphant. The image was grainy, clearly taken from far away, but it was undeniably me.

He was masturbating to my picture.

My face flushed hot. My stomach flipped. And between my legs, something deep and shameful throbbed with an intensity that made me gasp.

I pressed my hand against my mouth, desperate to stay silent. I should leave. I should absolutely leave. This was wrong. This was invasive. This was—

My body betrayed me.

My thighs pressed together. Heat pooled low in my belly. I could feel moisture gathering between my legs, slick and warm. Liquid trickling down my inner thighs. I was soaking. The kind of wet that came with want, with need, with something I'd never felt before. Not with Marcus. Not with anyone.

I was aching. I was completely, utterly, terrifyingly aroused.

Because no one had ever looked at me like that. Like I was something precious. Something worth wanting.

And he'd been watching me for years?.

I wanted to look away. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to pretend I hadn't seen this. But I couldn't. Because this was the most erotic thing I'd ever witnessed.

His hand moved faster. His grip tightened. His breath came in harsh gasps that echoed off the stone walls. His head was still tilted back, his jaw tight, his lips parted.

I heard his breath catch. Heard him groan, the sound ragged and broken. "Seraphina," he muttered, so low I almost didn't hear it. "God, Seraphina."

My name. He said my name.

My name on his lips. My name like a prayer.

Something inside me shattered. Something I'd been holding onto for four years. Something that had kept me small and invisible and safe.

I was frozen. Paralyzed. Caught between the need to run and the need to—

To what? To touch myself? To join him? To—

No. No, this was insane.

But my hand moved of its own accord, slipping beneath my panty hose, fingers finding the wet heat between my legs. I pressed against myself, a tiny, desperate pressure that did nothing to ease the ache. I needed more. I needed—

"You can come out now."

His voice cut through the fog in my brain like a blade.

My hand froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"I know you're there."

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't—

"Seraphina."

My name. Soft. Almost amused.

I stepped into the doorway. My heels clicked against the stone floor. .

He hadn't stopped. His hand was still wrapped around his cock, still stroking, and his eyes—those ice blue eyes—were fixed on me with an intensity that made me feel stripped bare.

Then he smiled. A slow, predatory smile that made my breath catch in my throat.

"Well, well," he murmured. His voice was rough, strained. "The little mouse finally comes out of hiding."

I should have run. I should have done anything but stand there, frozen, watching him stroke himself to my picture. Stroke myself to the sight of his pink swollen tip. But I was frozen. And he knew it.

"Were you enjoying the show?" He asked, his voice low, rough, completely unashamed. His hand hadn't stopped moving. He was still stroking himself, still watching me with those ice blue eyes. "Or did you come for something else?"

I opened my mouth to deny it. To lie. To say I'd just stumbled upon him accidentally.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because I had been watching. Because I had been touching myself. Because he knew.

He knew.

He took a step toward me. Then another. His cock was still hard, still straining, throbbing and it was impossible to look away. Impossible not to imagine what it would feel like inside me. Impossible not to want—

"Don't look so scared," he murmured, stopping just inches away.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing my cheek. The touch was electric, jolting through my body like lightning.

He was so close now. I could smell him—something dark and masculine. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. I could see the pulse beating in his throat.

"Touch me," he said.

It wasn't a request. It was a command.

And I absolutely, obeyed.

My hand moved on its own slowly, reaching out, fingers wrapping around his cock.

It was hot. Hard. Silky smooth over steel. The skin was stretched tight, and I could feel every vein, every ridge.

He groaned. The sound was beautiful. It was desperate.

"Please," I whispered. I didn't know what I was asking for. I just knew I needed more. I needed to shed every bit of who I was.

He pressed me against the wall. His body was a cage around mine, solid and warm and impossibly strong.

"Tell me what you want," he breathed against my ear.

"I want—" My voice broke. "I don't know what I want."

"Liar," he whispered against my ears, his tongue brushing on them softly sending a jolt through my pulsing pussy.

His hand slipped beneath my hose. His fingers found me, sliding through the wetness that was already soaking my skin. I cried out. Couldn't help it. The feeling of his touch was too much and not enough.

"You're soaked," he murmured, almost reverent.

"Please," I gasped. "Please, Damian. I can't—"

"Can't what?"

He silenced me with a kiss.

His mouth was demanding, hungry, taking what he wanted. His tongue swept against mine, tasting, exploring. I'd never been kissed like this. Marcus had been tentative, gentle. Damian was aggressive, almost bruising.

I loved it.

His hand was still between my legs, his fingers moving in slow circles. I was shaking, trembling, falling apart—

"Look at me," he ordered.

I couldn't. If I looked at him, I'd—

"Look at me, Seraphina."

I opened my eyes. He was watching me with that same intensity, his pupils blown wide with want.

"Remember this," he said. "Remember who you're with."

"What do you—"

I gasped as he pushed a finger inside me. It was just one finger, but the sensation was overwhelming. I was so tight. So ready. I'd never—

"I know," he murmured, as if he could read my thoughts. "I know you're a virgin. Marcus never touched you properly. He didn't know how to touch you at all."

"How do you—I thought—" My voice was shaking. "I thought you didn't care."

"Care?" His laugh was broken, almost bitter. "

I should have been scared. I should have been furious. But all I felt was a desperate, aching need.

His finger pushed deeper. Then a second, stretching me open. I whimpered. It was too much. Not enough. Everything.

"I'm—I don't—I can't—"

"Come for me."

It was an order. A demand. And my body obeyed.

The orgasm hit me like a wave, overwhelming and sudden. I cried out, my body trembling against his. He held me through it, his hand still between my legs, his lips still against my throat.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "So beautiful."

I was gasping, panting, trying to catch my breath.

"That was—I've never—"

"I know."

He kissed my forehead. Softer this time. Almost tender.

"This isn't over," he said. "We're just getting started."

~~~