CHAPTER 131: INSATIABLE

–Damon–

Alright. The bath is ready. Steaming water laced with rose petals, rose water dripping in soft ripples, scented candles flickering along the edge of the tub. I even placed that damned pheromone candle on the side table—the one that always makes her skin flush and her lips part just so. Perfect. Now, where the hell is my wife?

I brushed my teeth, sprayed a hint of that mouth perfume she likes, fixed my collar as if we were about to step into some gala instead of our bathroom. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. No graceful footsteps, no soft rustle of her dress against the hallway. Just silence and my growing irritation.

I waited. I paced. I imagined her walking in, and me pinning her against the wall before she even spoke a word. But no—still nothing. So I stormed out, straight to her office. My knuckles rapped against the door, sharp and impatient. No answer. I knocked again, harder this time.

"Liva," I called, voice dropping into that low warning tone she pretends to ignore. A minute later—finally—the door cracked open. Logan slipped past, followed by a bulky bastard built like a wall, towering and broad-shouldered, almost making Logan look like a twig. My jaw tightened. Who the hell was that?

I stepped inside, eyes immediately finding her. My wife, calmly clearing her desk, fingers brushing papers and files like she owned the entire room—which she does—and yet, not once did she look at me. Her face was angled, her other senses working instead of sight, and it pissed me off that she could ignore me so easily.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice casual, almost lazy, as if I hadn’t been waiting half an hour to drag her into the bath I prepared for us.

"Let’s go." I gestured toward the door before remembering—she can’t see the gesture, Damon, you idiot. So I circled behind her, scooped her right off the swivel chair and into my arms, her perfume instantly threading into my veins.

"Stop making me wait," I growled against her ear, low and possessive.

"So, have you been productive today?" she asked, nonchalant, while I was already turning toward the hallway. The door closed behind us with a soft click, but she still told me, "Make sure it’s locked."

I grumbled and nudged it shut tighter, still carrying her like she weighed nothing.

"Liva!" a voice piped up from the corridor. I turned my head, my eyes narrowing instantly. Laura. Of course. In some ridiculous yellow pajama set that made her look like a rejected cartoon.

"What the hell are you wearing?" I snapped.

"These are my pajamas," she shot back, rolling her eyes. "I have to talk to my sister."

"No," I deadpanned, tightening my hold on Livana. I started toward our room, but the brat actually stepped in front of me, blocking my path like she had a death wish.

"Do you want your niece and nephew to hate you?" she accused.

I stared at her, my brows knitting together. "They’re not even born yet. I couldn’t care less." I kept walking. My pulse was throbbing for a different reason entirely—one that had nothing to do with her empty threats.

"Just put me down, Damon," Livana said softly.

Damn it. My balls tightened painfully. I was aroused, wound up, ready to devour her—and here she was, delaying everything with that calm, infuriating voice.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath but obeyed, setting her down gently.

"Go have your bath," she said, the edge of a smile tugging her lips. "I’ll be there shortly."

"Just how long is ’shortly’?" I asked, my voice flat and dangerous as she reached for me. I caught her hand and pressed it against my chest, feeling the faintest brush of her nails.

"Just a few hours or so," she replied.

A few hours? I clenched my jaw, dropped my hands, and glared at Laura who was smirking like a little devil behind her. Livana’s sister took her arm and led her away as if she were saving her from a predator—which, fine, I might as well be.

I stalked back to our bedroom, popped open a bottle of champagne, and chugged half of it straight from the neck. The bubbles did nothing to cool the heat simmering in my blood. I sat on the sofa, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled beneath my lips as I waited.

Time dragged, the scent of rosewater fading into something feral inside my head. I imagined every damn thing I’d do to her the second she stepped through that door.

And then, finally—footsteps. Soft, precise, following the pattern of the carpet.

"Damon," she called.

"Sofa," I ordered, voice dark. She obeyed, walking toward me with that delicate but sure step she’s mastered, counting the threads under her feet. Three steps away, I reached out, caught her hand, and pulled her in.

"It’s time for baby-making," I whispered against her ear, my hand already sliding along her waist. The bottle hit the table with a dull clink as I pulled her into my lap.

She placed her palm on my chest, her touch cool, teasing. "Sorry to pop your bubble," she murmured, "but why not go to the gym and work out there?"

"No." My lips traced her jaw, my teeth grazing her skin. "I’m not wasting this energy anywhere but here."

I showered her with kisses, greedy and impatient. Her scent—god, it drives me insane. No one could resist her, and I least of all.

She laughed softly, arms wrapping around me. "Alright," she whispered, lips brushing mine. "Let me ride you real quick."

My breath hitched as she pushed me back into the sofa cushions. Her legs straddled my hips, her hand slipped down—bold, deliberate—finding exactly what she wanted. I groaned, a raw sound torn from deep in my chest.

"Let me taste that sweet nectar of yours," I murmured against her lips, and then I gave in completely—sucking her mouth like a man starved, hands roaming, pulling, gripping. I shifted her to our S-shaped sofa, perfect for this—the curve letting me place her right where I wanted, so I could tilt her back, open her up, drag her closer.

"Fuck," I growled, my breath hot against her neck. "You are so damn sexy. And you smell... divine."

She laughed again, the sound sinful and teasing. "I think this position is kind of relaxing. It’s stretching my hips and back."

"Oh? So this is just a stretch for you?" I asked, my voice dropping into a dangerous purr as I hooked her legs over my shoulders. "Baby, you’re supposed to be trembling, not doing yoga."

I kissed the inside of her thigh, slowly, deliberately, then pressed my nose between the heat of her black silk panties, breathing her in like a man addicted.

And in that moment, all the waiting, the teasing, the interruptions—none of it mattered anymore. Tonight, I wasn’t letting her go until her voice broke on my name.

–Livana–

I almost fainted earlier—my body swayed like a wilted petal in a sudden storm—but he caught me before gravity could claim me. Damon is like that: swift, overbearing, possessive to the point of suffocation, yet strangely meticulous in his obsession. He did not merely help me bathe; he orchestrated it like a ritual, his hands lingering in places both innocent and suggestive.

He brushed my hair with the gentleness of a devoted gardener tending his rarest bloom. He dried it with patience, not a single strand left untamed, then applied my skincare one layer at a time, as if sealing my face beneath invisible silk. He knows my routine—down to the minutes between each step, the pauses where I breathe, the seconds where my skin must settle before the next layer. That’s how deeply he has memorized me. How deeply he has made a study of my existence.

And the irony? I allowed him to.

He even made sure I never missed my eyedrops. Such a small thing, but in his hands, it felt like a leash disguised as care.

His fingers found my hands next, kneading my knuckles, pressing the tension out of my palms as though he could read the stories written in my bones. Then my arms, slow and deliberate. Then my legs, tracing lines that made my muscles hum.

"So," his voice broke the silence, rich with that low hunger of his, "do you enjoy my treat?"

"Yes," I admitted without opening my eyes. There was no point in lying when his hands already read the truth in my breathing. "I have to admit that."

He’s insatiable—like the tide against the cliff, relentless, ever-returning. But I do not mind his insatiability, not when it comes wrapped in warmth and careful fingers. What I mind... is the danger of it. Because if I let it, his care becomes an anchor. And anchors, for a woman like me, can turn into chains.

I am not disabled anymore. My blindness does not cage me as it once did; it only sharpens me. Yet here he is, weaving a softer prison made of rose petals, warm baths, and whispered devotion.

I know what he wants. He wants to be my sun—the center around which I orbit. But I was not born to orbit. I was born to move silently, to calculate, to plan my steps as a queen does on a cold chessboard.

And he? My husband is both a pawn and a knight—powerful in his reach, yet easily maneuvered if I keep my eyes closed and my mind open.

Yes, I love the way his hands speak to me when words fail. I love the little storms he brings just to shelter me from them. But love, in my world, is the most dangerous poison—it softens the steel I have forged within.

If I fall too deeply, I risk unraveling years of careful weaving.

So I let him treat me like a priceless relic, a sacred ritual, a goddess needing worship. I let him believe that this intimacy is victory. But in truth, every sigh, every shiver, every obedient tilt of my head—are merely calculated moves on a board he doesn’t fully see.

I cannot afford to be the queen who abandons her throne for the warmth of a knight’s embrace. Not yet.