CHAPTER 68: CRIMSON ROOM

–Livana–

The room was crimson—like a summer sunset bled with hints of purple and pink. Warm. Lush. Almost too close to the color of blood. Does my husband adore that shade a little too much? Still, the sheets looked indulgently soft. Comfortable. Inviting.

I lowered my gaze, tracing the intricate designs on the carpet as Damon moved from door to door, narrating each one with boyish pride.

It was all crimson. Like summer... and blood. Yet the space was minimal, curated. A loveseat sofa, an ornamental piece shaped suspiciously like a kama sutra sculpture. I shook my head. Damon is completely obsessed with me. Let’s just hope he doesn’t plan to use that on anyone else.

The carpet’s markings were detailed, deliberate—different colors and shapes meant to guide me. A silent system, designed for someone who can’t always see, to tell me where I am... where I should go when I’m alone.

"Here," he said, taking my hand as I followed the violet trail beneath my feet. I guessed it led to the showroom. Damon opened the door with a flourish. "Closet is here!" he beamed. "I’ve been fantasizing about you in an elegant silk maxi dress."

"Let me hold it."

He pulled out a garment in a warm, rosy pink. I reached for it—silk, smooth and cool to the touch, with an inner lining that was soft, almost plush. Despite the comfort, it carried the grace of something regal.

"Feels comfortable," I murmured.

"Mmm." He nodded eagerly, bouncing a little like a kid showing off his favorite toy. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. I wanted to look longer, to study his face... but I held back. I didn’t want to stare.

"Now, let’s take a bath." He gently took the dress from my hand and hung it back with care.

Then, without warning, he swept me into his arms and carried me toward the bathroom. Along the way, I caught sight of more mirrors—tasteful, strategic, even in the bedroom.

I hate to admit it, but... I like it when he undresses me. When he kisses me. When he bathes me. He treats me like porcelain—gentle, attentive, pampering me like a precious doll. I noticed his arousal, the way he subtly adjusted himself. But even then, he held back.

I ignored it. I wasn’t in the mood. Yet he still carried me into the showroom, where the air smelled of leather, expensive perfume, and something unmistakably him.

"Baby," he murmured, suddenly kneeling before me, "just once."

"What?" I asked, though I already knew. The moment his hand slid to my inner thigh, his intention was clear.

"I just want a quickie." He grinned. "Please?"

"...Okay. Fine."

In one swift motion, he picked me up and set me on the tall table—hip-level, hard and sturdy, draped in a fleece cover. Empty, almost deliberately so. Maybe it was made for fucking.

His mouth crashed onto mine. Then it drifted—neck, collarbone, chest—before finding its way back to my lips. He lowered his head and sucked hard on my breast. I stared at his naked back through the mirror. Broad, toned. A body sculpted like a Greek god, perfectly proportioned and maddeningly beautiful.

I leaned back on my elbows, letting him open my robe, his face burying itself between my legs. That tongue. Eyes closed, as if savoring every second. God, that’s sexy.

I had never seen him like this—not clearly. The first time, I was drugged and determined to lose my virginity. He took his time. An hour of foreplay before he even thought of entering me.

Now... now I could see. And seeing made everything burn brighter.

I closed my eyes as I climaxed quickly. He licked me clean, then looked up. I kept my eyes trained on his nose, pretending I was still blind. He kissed me, and I tasted myself on his tongue.

I gasped, biting his lower lip as he thrust inside me. My arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, matching his rhythm. I watched us move together in the mirror—his back flexing, his hips grinding. My body squirming, gasping, taking all of him. Every thrust brought me higher. Every spasm was a signal that I was near again.

Even with just his cock, he knew how to hit every spot—precisely. Deep. Perfect.

And now that I could see him, now that I could watch his body move—it only intensified the pleasure.

His lips returned to my breasts, sucking and nibbling as he always did. I didn’t know why he loved them so much, but I wasn’t about to complain. It sent me spiraling into a second climax, my body trembling under his touch.

I was drained, utterly spent, but he hadn’t come yet. He laid me back, lifted his right knee onto the table, and hooked my left leg over his shoulder. One hand on my hip, the other rubbing low on my abdomen—just the right spot.

And then I screamed.

It was like he found a secret button, an erotic pressure point that sent me squirting uncontrollably. Like he knew exactly where to press, exactly how to unlock something primal inside me.

Should I call him the God of Orgasm?

He kept thrusting, sweat gleaming on those carved muscles. Every motion was deliberate. Powerful. Controlled. His pectorals, his abs—every damn inch of him moved like a man possessed. Like a farmer, endlessly plowing the same fertile field.

I never thought sex could feel like this.

Never thought I’d be seen and touched this way—completely. Reverently. Obsessively.

And maybe, just maybe... I liked it more than I should.

–Damon–

I was tired—but never of her. I could be bleeding out and I’d still fuck her like it was my final act on earth. When it comes to my wife, there’s no such thing as enough. I’d plow her garden until she’s trembling, crying out, dripping with satisfaction.

Five orgasms. That’s what she gave me this time. She loves to squirt, and I fucking live for it. The way her body writhes under me, the way she gasps, loses control, clings to me like I’m the only thing tethering her to the world—it’s addictive. I came deep inside her. Not just once—loads of me. Warm, thick, and meant to stay. Future children, our bloodline... seeded into her like she was made to carry only mine.

Afterward, I cleaned her up myself. No one touches her like that but me.

I helped her into silk seamless panties—something soft enough to comfort her, yet tight enough to remind her of what just happened. Then the dress. She didn’t need a bra; the fabric hugged her breasts perfectly, showing off what belonged to me. She was elegant. Ravishing. And wholly mine.

Once we looked presentable—well, as presentable as we could after turning the room into a scene of utter pleasure—we headed downstairs.

Laura was laughing and chatting with Sophie, already a glass of wine in her hand. Chef Wally served them a tray of finger foods. To my surprise, Damien was already at the table, eating smoked fish with rice like he hadn’t just survived a plane crash.

"Do I smell salmon?" Livana asked as I led her to her seat.

I grinned, kissing her temple. Chef Wally had already raised the table height slightly for her comfort.

"Yes, Miss. Your smoked salmon with lemon," he said, placing the plate carefully.

"Does it have rice with it?" she asked, her voice curious but composed.

"Yes, ma’am," Wally replied, "The fish is just over the rice in the very middle."

"Perfect. Thank you, Chef Wally." She smiled, delicate fingers brushing over her utensils before she began to eat—elegantly, precisely. Even the way she eats makes me hard. Graceful. Measured. A queen at every move.

I grinned... until I noticed Kai staring at her.

I didn’t like it.

"Something’s different about you, Livana," he said, eyes lingering too long.

"What kind of difference?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"You just... look different."

I narrowed my eyes, already considering whether I needed to have a private word with him later. But my wife—always quick, always wicked—smirked and said, "Maybe because my farmer has been plowing my garden?"

I laughed. Couldn’t help it. I slid my hand along her exposed spine, fingers tracing the silk and skin. Mine.

"Oh, is that it?" Kai scoffed awkwardly.

"Yes, Kai," she said smoothly. "By the way, let’s hold a party—for not dying in that plane, and for my sister and Damien’s success."

I clapped. A toast-worthy occasion. Twins? I looked at Damien and bit back a grin. Bastard’s got a magic dick. I almost envied him—almost. But I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything.

Laura looked genuinely happy. Glowing. She should be. And if she ever isn’t—if I even suspect Damien’s screwing this up—I’ll break him in half. He’ll have to deal with me.

Because no one gets to hurt the people my wife loves. Not on my watch.

After that indulgent late lunch, Livana and Sophia disappeared for a private talk. I gave them space—barely. Instead, I headed to my study, locking the door behind me.

I opened the drawer and pulled out the thick black folder—the one with handwritten records on The Bishops. The very same group that now bowed to Livana’s command.

She’s not just my wife.

She’s power. She’s fire. And if she ever burns this world down, I’ll be right beside her, fanning the flames.