Chapter 7: The Penthouse's Dark Reward
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in a cocoon of mirrored glass and humming silence. Jasmine's reflection stared back at her—flushed cheeks, wild curls escaping their pins, lips swollen and parted. She looked like a woman who had just won a war. She looked like a woman about to lose a battle.
Desmond's hand was on her before she could draw another breath, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her head back with just enough force to make her gasp. His mouth crashed against hers, hungry and claiming, and she tasted victory on his tongue—metallic and dark, like old coins and burnt sugar.
"Fuck," he growled against her lips. "Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight? Watching you stand there, defying Veronique, dismantling that bitch of a daughter move by move?"
His free hand found the slit in her gown, sliding up her thigh with predatory intent. Jasmine's knees buckled.
"I did it for you," she breathed.
"No." His grip tightened in her hair, tilting her head further back. "You did it for yourself. That's what makes it so goddamn intoxicating."
The elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors slid open, and Desmond swept her out into a hallway of black marble and dim, ambient lighting that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. He didn't slow down, didn't give her a moment to catch her bearings. His hand found the small of her back, guiding her—pushing her—toward a set of ornate double doors.
They opened before he touched them. Neither of them acknowledged it.
The penthouse swallowed them whole.
Jasmine barely registered the space—glimpses of dark velvet, the gleam of aged whiskey decanters, the faint shimmer of silver thread woven through the canopy of an enormous four-poster bed. Her attention was fixed on the man who had her by the hips, spinning her around to face him.
"You wore that gown all night like armor," he said, his voice low and rough. "Time to take it off."
His hands found the zipper at her spine. He pulled it down slowly, deliberately, the sound of it splitting the silence like a blade being drawn. The crimson silk pooled at her waist, and she shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of fabric.
Desmond's eyes raked over her—the black lace bra that did nothing to contain her breasts, the matching panties that were already soaking through. His jaw tightened.
"You're so fucking beautiful it makes my teeth ache."
He advanced on her, and she retreated, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. The silk canopy loomed above her, its silver threads glinting like captured starlight. Desmond's hands found her waist, and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, depositing her on the mattress with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger blazing in his eyes.
He knelt between her thighs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. He didn't bother sliding them off—he tore them, the fabric ripping apart with a sound that made Jasmine's breath hitch.
"Mine to ruin," he said, almost to himself. "Every piece. Every way."
His mouth found her stomach, tongue tracing a hot path down her abdomen, dipping into her navel, making her squirm. He parted her legs further, spreading her wide, and she felt his breath ghost across her slick folds, a teasing promise.
"Desmond, please—"
"Please what?" His voice rumbled against her skin. "I want to hear you say it."
"Please eat my pussy."
The words came out ragged, desperate. She watched his eyes darken, watched something ancient and predatory flicker behind his amber gaze.
"Good girl."
He lowered his head and devoured her.
Jasmine screamed. His tongue was everywhere—flat and broad against her clit, pointed and seeking at her entrance, lapping and plunging and sucking until her hips bucked off the mattress. He held her down with a forearm across her hips, an immovable weight, as he feasted on her with a hunger that bordered on religious.
"You taste like honey," he rasped against her thigh, his mouth leaving a trail of fire. "Like sin and sunrise and everything I've been denied for centuries."
His fingers found her entrance, sliding in with a slick, obscene sound. Two fingers, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. His tongue circled her clit relentlessly, and she felt the pressure coiling in her belly, tightening like a wire.
"I'm going to come," she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair. "Desmond, I'm going to—"
He pulled away.
Jasmine sobbed at the loss, her hips bucking empty. He looked up at her through hooded eyes, his lips glistening with her, and smiled.
"Not yet. You haven't earned it."
He rose from between her thighs, his hands going to his shirt. He undid the buttons slowly, methodically, revealing inch by inch of pale, muscled chest. His skin was flawless, marble-cold, and she watched the shifting of his muscles with a hunger that mirrored his own.
"You can watch," he said, "but you can't touch."
He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The sound of it sliding through his trousers was obscene. His cock sprang free, thick and curved and already glistening at the tip, and Jasmine's mouth went dry.
"Open your mouth."
She obeyed. He stepped closer, his shaft brushing her lips, and she took him into her mouth with a moan that vibrated around his length. His hands fisted in her curls, guiding her pace, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make her feel owned.
"That's it," he groaned, his head falling back. "Use that clever mouth of yours."
She took him deep, deeper than she thought she could, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him down. The sound he made was raw, guttural. His hips bucked involuntarily, pushing deeper, and she gagged, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
"Too much?" he asked, but his voice held no concern. "You can take it. You've taken far worse tonight."
He pulled out, his cock slick and swollen, and before she could catch her breath, he was lifting her, spinning her, pressing her face-first into the mattress. Her wrists were gathered behind her back, and something silky coiled around them—a black silk tie that had materialized from nowhere.
"You're mine," he said, his voice low and steady. "My prize. My victory. My claim."
He positioned her legs, hooking them over his shoulders with a smooth, powerful motion. The angle made her feel impossibly open, impossibly exposed. She writhed against the silk sheets, her wrists straining against the binding.
"Tell me you want it."
"Fuck, yes. I want it."
He thrust into her with a single, brutal stroke.
Jasmine screamed—a sound that was half pleasure, half pain, all surrender. He was thick and unrelenting, filling her to a point she hadn't known she could stretch. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in, the sound of his hips meeting her ass echoing through the room.
"You feel that?" he growled, his rhythm already punishing. "That's me claiming you. Marking you. Every other man is nothing but a ghost now. You're haunted by me."
His hand snaked beneath her, thumb finding her clit with unerring accuracy. She was already so close, her body wound tight from the edge he'd denied her. The dual assault of his cock and his thumb pushed her higher, faster, until she was sobbing his name, her thighs trembling.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come now, you filthy little thing. Let me feel you."
She shattered.
Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave of fire, her inner walls convulsing around his cock, milking him with rhythmic, violent pulses. He didn't slow—if anything, he sped up, driving into her through the aftershocks until she was limp and gasping, sweat-slicked and trembling.
But he wasn't done.
He pulled out, leaving her feeling empty and aching, and flipped her onto her stomach. His hands found her hips, yanking them up until she was on her knees, her ass in the air, her face pressed into the pillows.
"One more," he said, his voice a predator's promise. "You've earned it."
He drove into her from behind, deeper than before, and she cried out into the silk. His hand came down on her ass with a sharp crack that made her yelp, the sting blooming into heat. He spanked her again, harder, and again, until her skin was pink and glowing beneath his palm.
"Whose are you?"
"Yours!" she sobbed. "Yours, Des—"
He slammed into her harder, cutting off her words. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise, their slick thighs meeting in a rhythm that was punishing and perfect. She was losing herself, drowning in sensation, her mind a blur of white-hot pleasure.
His hand snaked beneath her again, thumb finding her clit, and she screamed as she came for the second time, her body convulsing around his cock, her orgasm ripping through her like a current.
"Fuck, yes," he growled. "That's it. Milk me, you greedy cunt."
He drove into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with a roar that was more beast than man. She felt his hot seed flooding her, deep and endless, as he collapsed against her back, pinning her to the mattress.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The silence was broken only by their ragged breathing, the pounding of their hearts. His weight was a comfort, grounding her. She felt his lips press against the nape of her neck, a feather-light kiss.
"You're full of me now," he murmured, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. "I can feel it. I can feel myself inside you, settling into your bones."
Jasmine laughed, breathless. "That was..."
"Everything?" He withdrew, rolling off her, and she felt the loss of him like an ache. "That was only the beginning, little one."
She turned her head to look at him, still trembling, still flushed. His sweat-slicked torso gleamed in the dim light, his eyes still burning with banked fire.
"A beginning?" she echoed. "I'm not sure I'll walk tomorrow."
He laughed—a low, genuine sound that caught her off guard. "You'll walk. I'll make sure you're well cared for." His hand found her hip, stroking the bruises he'd left. "But I will also make sure you never forget tonight."
She should have been scared. She should have felt degraded, used.
Instead, she felt claimed. And lying here in this penthouse in the clouds, with a demon's seed cooling between her thighs and his handcuffed idly around her waist, she felt more alive than she had in years.
"What happens now?" she asked.
Desmond's smile was slow, warm, dangerous. "Now?" He pulled her against him, tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder. "Now we rest. And when I wake, you'll be ready for me again."
"And Veronique? Relia?"
"Will wait." His fingers traced lazy patterns on her arm. "They've existed for centuries. They can wait a little longer for their next humiliation."
Jasmine let her eyes drift closed. The room was warm, the silk soft, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't running from anything.
"So when do you leave?" his voice was still lowly rumbly as he flicked the light off. It was as if he had read her thoughts.
"I don't," she said, and she meant it.
"Good." His hand slid down her spine, cupping her ass with a proprietary squeeze. "Because I have plans for you tomorrow. And the day after that.
"And the day after that?"
"I'm a demon, Jasmine." His voice was a warm rumble against her skin. "I have an eternity of days."