"Yes, Damon," Tricia groaned, and now she had to disobey, she had to move against him. Her hips worked on their own accord as his thumb flicked over her clit, his cock grinding her sanity to bits, her muscles tensing to the point of pain. She looked into his dark eyes, feeling her passion rise in a torrent – she was going to come, just like he wanted, she was going to break apart in his arms, she wanted to, she wanted to do anything he wanted, she wanted to be his to command …
"You're mine," he growled, and slammed up into her, holding her down, feeling her hips undulate against him, felt her clit tighten under his thumb.
"Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes! Damon, I'm yours, all yours, all fucking yours, Damon, fuck, I'm gonna, I'm gonna … "
"Come, Tricia," he growled, and gave her clit one last, hard flick, pushing his cock so deep into her that her thighs clenched around him, her body relenting, the torrent exploding as she came, her pussy contracting around his hugeness, juices spilling around him and onto his thighs, her arms clutching him close against her bucking, shuddering body. "That's right, just like that, just fuckin' like that … "
Tricia had barely recovered when she felt him stand up, holding her in both arms, then plunging her back onto the bed, on her back, his manhood still buried into her wet slit. Immediately, he began to thrust into her, long, hard strokes that only drove her climax deeper. His teeth closed around the flesh of her shoulder, his hands pinning her down, taking what he needed from her soft and pliant flesh. And she wanted to give it, needed to give it.
He fucked her selfishly now, and it only got her off more; the feeling that she was his to use, whenever he wanted, however he wanted. She rolled her hips to meet his strokes, feeling her clit press against the base of his shaft as he buried himself in her again and again, growling and biting at her flesh. He'd leave bruises, and she wanted them. She wanted him to claim her, to finally take her. With each driving, violent thrust, she felt her pleasure budding anew. Her arms clutched around his shoulders.
"Damon," she muttered into his ear. "Damon, come in me, I want you to come in me, I want to come with you … "
The words seemed to drive him into a frenzy, and he pulled away, his hands on her arms, holding her down as he slammed into her. She lifted her knees, letting him slip deeper into her pussy, reaching those soft and needy places that so few could reach.
Her skin flushed, an icy warmth up her spine, everything a contradiction and everything necessary and everything swelling and reaching and peaking until he found it, found what they needed, buried himself in tight and burst inside her, feeling her pussy clench around him, milking the cum from his cock as she was swept up by her own climax, both shuddering and bucking in time while he emptied into her, giving her all he had – and watching, feeling, her take everything.
"Oh, shit," Tricia moaned, sliding off of him when it was done. She tumbled onto her back, the cold air conditioning welcome now as it cooled her heated flesh.
"I thought it was pretty good, myself," he said, grinning over at her. "But to each their own … "
She was confused for a moment, and then realized he was joking; she groaned, biting back a smile. No one had ever made her feel that way – ever. Her body still tingled all over, still felt like it was barely even touching the bed beneath her. She closed her eyes, savoring this prolonged afterglow. When Damon spoke again, his words fell softly against her ears, and she didn't bother to stop her smile from spreading.
"There's the perfect amen. You're your own gospel. And you bring good news to me … "
"Who's that?" she asked, still with her eyes closed.
"Patricia Spears Jones," he said, his voice a deep rumble.
"Oh," she said, and suddenly felt like laughing. He'd tried to make things serious. She wasn't having it. "I hope you don't think I'm a cheap date, by the way. I still expect to get that fancy dinner you promised."
She opened her eyes just in time to squeal as he launched himself over her, pinning her down to the bed, wiggling his hips above hers slightly as his mouth came down to nip her neck. Amazed, she felt him growing hard again between her legs as he played his tongue along her collarbone.
"Well, I was distracted the first time," he growled, coming back up to her ear, his words making her stomach fill with a flurry. "I didn't get a chance to make sure you're worth the expense."
He bit at her ear playfully, and she laughed, pushing at his chest; her strength was nowhere near enough to move him, but he pulled away regardless. She wiggled her own hips slightly, letting her thighs part again.
"Mr. Volanis, that is extremely rude, and quite uncouth," she said, feigning offense with a pout. But then she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down again and sighing as the head of his cock slipped between her slit once more. "Which just happens to be the way I like it."
She felt, rather than saw, the smile on his lips as he nuzzled against her neck, then gasped as he plunged forward, burying himself inside her again. And holding him close, Tricia felt something strange happen inside her. As confusing, and unexpected, and impossible as it was, she felt what she'd been craving the whole time she'd been in Kingdom.
She felt like she'd come home.
22
Damon and Tricia left Charleston behind, feeling quite bad for the maid who had to deal with their mess of bedsheets and the evidence they'd left behind. Tricia had the brilliant idea to leave their leftovers from the restaurant in the mini-fridge, along with a note and a generous tip. Hopefully the cleaning crew would enjoy the braised lamb, beet salad, and cornmeal-dusted catfish as much as Tricia and Damon had enjoyed them the night before. Damon, for one, had enjoyed the sight of Tricia in her green, silky dress more than anything put on the table before them, a fact that made her blush when he revealed it.
They stopped in Savannah, Georgia for an early lunch, strolling hand-in-hand through the plazas and parks, coins in fountains and art students posing as artists all along the streets. Damon wanted to see some of the landmarks from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which Tricia hadn't seen. She didn't even feel like she needed to see it after Damon was finished telling her about it; his eye for detail, his absorbing way of speaking, the way he captured the subtle things that made a film a film, left her feeling like she'd watched the movie unfold in her own mind.
It was as romantic a day as Tricia could imagine for herself, but something nagged at her. Something big.
She couldn't forget the anger in Damon's eyes when he went after the kid at the pool. This was a man who'd killed. This was a man who fought. His battered knuckles told a story – but she wanted to hear that story from his own mouth, not just the scars left behind. And she needed to know, now, where they were headed – Miami, of course, but for what? She was diving head-first into this whole thing. She needed to make sure there was water in the pool before she leapt off.
If Damon noticed this subtle change in Tricia's attitude, he didn't mention it or let on.
The air on the highway grew saltier and saltier as they entered Florida, palm trees like a postcard welcoming them to The Sunshine State.
"I was too young to remember living in Florida. We only stayed for a year or two, right after I was born. But my uncle worked in the everglades for a long time," Damon said. "Had some good stories about snapping turtles and alligators. He had this little dog, Chev, who had a sixth sense for gators. He would sit on the porch with Chev and pick ‘em off with his shotgun. And my great-grandmother, she lived down here after ditching my great-grandpa. She ran off with a smuggler, during Prohibition, this Cuban bootlegger who played trumpet in a Mambo band. They'd sneak liquor in instrument cases and … "
"Damon," Tricia said, looking out the window as though she could soften the blow that way. "I want you to tell me now."
"Tell you what?" he asked, feigning distraction as he changed lanes. She sighed and turned to look at him.
"You're too smart to act like you don't know," she said. "You don't play games, remember?"
"I remember," he said, and she noted the way his knuckles flexed around the steering wheel. "It's just … it's a hard thing to explain. It's a hard story to tell."
She bit her lip. If he didn't tell her, if he didn't want to tell her, she wasn't going to make him; how could she? But it would also mean that he didn't trust her. And that hurt. Because she would have trusted him with anything, including her life. He'd already saved it once.