V E R A
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I woke up naked, wrapped up in silk sheets that finally smelt like Damien again. Pushing myself up against the headboard, a steady ache rushed through my body, the events of last night coming back to me. The exhibits. The secret rooms beyond The Valley. The sounds and the private show. Cordelia, Nicolas, Damien. Me.
How my New Year's kiss was more than just a peck on the lips. How even after the night he gave me, we went home and killed the last few hours of the year underneath the sheets. I smiled thinking about it all.
Looking over to his side of the bed, which laid empty, I reached for my phone on the nightstand, knocking down a folded piece of paper that had been set up beside a bottle of painkillers along with a glass of water. Picking up the note, I read.
Stay in bed, I'm making breakfast. Here's something for the ache.
Then, we'll talk. I promise.
Beaming at the note as he was right, my body had been quite sore after last night's adventures and then some. I popped open the tiny bottle and fished out two ibuprofen, setting them on my tongue and swallowing it down with some water.
Slipping the sheets off of me, I got out of bed anyway, already wanting to be in his presence again. I grabbed some panties from the closet, plucking his dress shirt off of the floor and putting it on. Fastening only a few buttons, I held the collar up to my nose for a long second as I took in his smell. I missed this.
Walking out of the bedroom, I stepped quietly down the stairs, making sure he didn't hear me and order me back into bed before I could get down the steps. Trekking past the living room and down the short hallway that led to the kitchen, I peeked from behind the wall to see him at the stove. He whistled, flipping over pieces of bacon, swaying to the low music coming from the little speaker on the countertop. He was also shirtless, the ink wrapping his body on full display.
Sucking in a breath, I trailed down his body, his sweats resting on his hips, and I swear I could feel myself pulse at the sight of him. Then, my stomach grumbled. If I wasn't so hungry, I'd be fully content with just having him for breakfast. I moved from behind the wall, into the door frame, his head swinging to me. His eyes cast down my half-naked body, his jaw flexing as he attempted to focus on both me and the bacon. He blinked, letting out a bothered sigh, and I chuckled at his discomfort.
Walking up behind him, I wrapped my hands around his waist, running my hands up and down his bare chest. "I thought I told you to stay in bed," he grumbled, his muscles flexing under my hands.
"And miss out on the chance to do it right here on this countertop?" I danced, pulling away from him and backing into the island, spreading my arms out across the edge of the cold surface.
Turning off the stove and spinning around to face me, he raises an eyebrow. "I see last night wasn't enough for you." he chuckles, shaking his head.
"Oh, that was plenty. Nothing could've prepared me for any of that," I played, feeling the sweet ache that leveled everywhere. "I just always want everything and more when you're around. What is it that you said last night? I'm like LSD? You too, have a way of making me feel like I'm in the clouds."
"Don't play with me like that," he exhaled, turning away from me to grab a set of plates from the cupboard. "It's barely eight in the morning, I haven't had my coffee yet, and I'm starving."
"And not for some fucking bacon," he mumbles, groaning.
I giggle, watching as he fills up a plate with dark chocolate chip pancakes topped with whipped cream, bacon, hash browns, and a side of strawberries. A simple yet favorite meal of mine that I made on many Sunday mornings, and even more late nights when I spent hours in the basement studio. There's a giddy warmth in my chest, almost as if I was in Kindergarten again and a silly crush of mine bought me my favorite snack. Why am I getting so tripped up over breakfast?
He works on his plate, putting almost triple the amount of food, and I completely forget that this man could eat a village supply. Grabbing a pitcher of apple juice from the fridge, he pours me a glass, filling his own up with water, and I try to hold back another laugh as he makes me feel like a kid for wanting everything the usual eight-year-old would order at a restaurant.
Looking at me, he nods his head towards the breakfast nook for me to go sit down. I walk over and climb inside the u-shaped sitting area, and he stalks over with the two plates, scooting in and sitting next to me.
"Thank you for making this," I picked up the knife and fork, cutting the stack of pancakes into little triangles. He bites into a strawberry, his lips curling up in response. Grabbing the little jar of syrup that sat in the middle of the table, I poured it all over the cut-up cakes, letting it soak before taking a bite.
We loafed in the room's stillness for a few minutes or so, tending to the hunger that washed over us before Damien spoke. "I noticed you made some renovations," he voiced, and I suddenly remembered the newly stained furniture in his study, minor arrangements of the rooms, as well as a handful of my art, securing several spots on the empty walls.
"Yeah, about that..." I trailed.
I wanted to make this space feel more like me, because it felt too much like you, because you...well, we already know how that story goes.
"I like it," he picks up the conversation. "It feels much more like a home now."
I shot him a flushed smile, relief settling in as I bite into a strawberry. I wanted to tell him that even with all of the new decor changes, it hadn't felt much like a home until he came back last night. I went more than a month, trying to occupy a space that was meant for the both of us. I never wanted to imagine what it was like to do that again. I chewed the inside of my cheek, a sort of apprehensive feeling sticking me in the gut.
"By the look on your face, I'm guessing you want to know what I've been doing for the past two weeks, more so the past month," he grabs the emotion I'm holding onto and works to address it but I try to shut it down.
"We don't have to talk about it. I mean, you're back and that's what all I could've ever wanted." I avoided eye contact, messing with the food on my plate.
Sighing, I set my fork down. I don't know why all of a sudden I was deflecting. I had been waiting for some kind of explanation on what was going on since Avignon, maybe even long before that. How he hadn't fully explained the reasoning behind fleeing Paris. How I knew he wasn't telling the full story about him getting fired. I tried to piece it together when he was away, attaching excuses to make sense of his absence, but the man took the entire damn puzzle with him, along with the instructions.
Now, puzzle pieces back within reaching distance, able to ask any and every pressing question I still had, I was frozen. I think a part of me is scared his appearance is only temporary. That he only came back for the night, and he'd be gone once night falls again. My chest pinched just thinking about it.
"We do have to talk about it," he took a sip from his water, clearing his throat.
He sat up, the room stilling as he straightened out. There's a brief glint in his eyes, something like fear, or maybe nervousness, but it's gone before I can make it out. He blows out, and I prepare for a bomb to drop.
"This...isn't something we, I can just gloss over. You might be okay with forgetting that the last month and some weeks happened, but I'm not," he pauses again, brushing a hand over his face like he needs a reset.
His cheeks are a bit flushed, and he looks like how I imagined him to look like as a little child. On top of the world, but he's scared. Like he's ready to jump, but he's unsure of what's below him. If someone will be there to catch him, or if he'll hit the concrete.
I look at him, his chest rising and falling with short stints like he can't grasp a single solid breath. "There's so much shit I need to say, and I don't even know how to—"
The sound of his phone cuts him off. I hold back a snort as his chest falls with ease like whoever's calling is the perfect save he needs to get him out of quicksand. Scooting out from the booth, he leans over the marble island and grabs the phone, answering the call. Watching him, I pick at the leftover pieces of pancake, and although full, I stick one in my mouth anyway to keep myself busy from the anticipation.
There are strings of mumbles and low laughs, like one does when they're on a phone call with their mistress. I know that's not the case, but the few glances he gives me now and then cast a covert nature. One corner of his lips twists upward at whatever the person on the other end is saying, making me want to leap out from where I'm sitting and get a hold of whatever is causing him to smirk that way. Before I can follow through, he mutters a few more words before hanging up and slipping the phone into his pocket.
"Your girlfriend need you back in Italy so soon?" I slipped out, looking away as I sipped on my juice. It was wholeheartedly a joke. I knew better than to fret over someone, much less a man, like that. Although, Damien might've been the only exception.
I hear him snicker as he walks back to the breakfast nook. I don't look up, until he makes me because he reaches over onto my side, grabbing me by the thigh and pulling me out from the middle of the booth. He leans down, his two hands pushing my thighs into the cushioned seat as he towers over me. The nerves that tackled this man only minutes prior have seemed to dig a hole and bury themselves.
"You jealous?" he quirks his head to the side, a boyish smile on his face.
"No," I answer truthfully, meeting his eyes.
"Good. You have no reason to be," his lips dive into mine for the kind of kiss that sweeps you out to sea. I let it momentarily, feeling the ship I'm in battle rough waters before I bring my hands up to his chest and push him away. Abandon ship, matey.
"However, I do want to know what that was all about. What was so important that you needed to interrupt that whole love-confessing tangent of yours for? Explain yourself." He laughs at what I've said, but I deadpan.
"Let me take you somewhere," he grabs my hands and pulls me up from the booth. What?
"If you're trying to deflect right now, I swear—"
"I'm not," he cuts me off, pulling me into him. His hands grip my waist with certainty. "Trust, remember?"
I find his eyes, combing for some kind of reason to sit back down and finish my juice, but it doesn't come. I relax into his hold and it kind of concerns me how much credence I put into a man I've known less than a year. It only makes me wonder what I'd do if I knew him for five more. I shake my head, rolling my eyes.
I expect him to bend me over one of these kitchen stools at the sly act, but he flashes me another grin instead. "I'll let that one slip. Just this once," he kisses my forehead.
Looking up at him, furrowing my eyebrows, I stood stunned. Whoever was on the other side of that call, wherever it is that Damien wants to take me, it all must mean a lot more to him than teaching a lesson on discipline. The man never passes up on a chance to brand your ass with his signature then bottoming out, making sure you can't quite function for the next week.
"Go upstairs and get ready. I'm going to clean up and then I'll be in the garage, okay?" he pushes loose strands of hair behind my ears, caressing my cheek with his thumb before letting me go and smacking me on the ass. There it is, I grin. Damien Dupont in the shape of a handprint. Sign, sealed, delivered.
I walk out of the kitchen, hearing him yell out and add, "Oh, and put on a skirt!"
❦
All I see is black, then bits of red, then black again. Reason being, there's a blindfold shielding my eyes from seeing anything Damien has planned for the afternoon.
I did as I was told. I rushed back upstairs, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slipped on a bra and a skirt per Damien's request, putting his collared shirt back on and tucking it into the top hem of my bottoms. Then I hurried to the garage, where none of the lights were on, and he cornered me. He fucking snuck up on me, slipping the silk material over my eyes and whispering into my ear the infamous words, "For your wandering eyes." I didn't get a chance to react before he threw me over his shoulder and carried me to one of his cars, buckling me into the passenger seat.
I could've easily taken off the blindfold by now, he knows that, but tapping out was never my thing. He knows that as well. Now, as we drive, the child lock on the passenger-side window so I can't roll it down to at least hear where we're going, all I can do is sit and wait for instructions. The car is silent aside from the drumming of Damien's thumbs on the steering wheel, along with his little hums. The ones that tell anyone that he's in a good mood.
Sinking into the heated seat, I think about how this current situation is strung together in a way that keeps me guessing, maybe even begging. A game, in the truest sense of the word. It's like the first night I had spent in his house when I decided I wanted all in, even if it was only for a few hours. I snicker to myself, leaning my head against the window. It has been way more than a few hours.
Still blindfolded, we make a few stops, and each time I ask him where he's going, but he only ever responds with short reminders to be patient, like we have all the time in the world. The last time he told me to be patient, the man moved to a different city. Where to next, Damien? Japan? I heard it's beautiful in the winter. The car door opens, his scent hitting my nose again, announcing that he hasn't left for the island country.
"Now?" I ask again, bringing my hands up to my blindfold, wanting to take it off.
He swats my hand down, chuckling at my impatience. "Not yet. We're almost there."
"'Almost there' was about thirty minutes ago, buddy," I sigh, leaning my head back against the seat.
"Did you just call me buddy?" He'll remember that one.
I don't respond, waiting out what he'll do next but he doesn't ask again, he only drives. I fully anticipated for him to whip the car around and pull me into his lap, or maybe even a teasing retort, but he stays quiet. Then it hits me, like a ton of bricks, only the bricks are made with steel.
When Damien's quiet, you should be scared. It means everything is fair game.
We drive for a few more minutes before the car comes to a halt. It's quiet for a moment, then I feel his hand snake underneath my hair and around my neck, pulling me slightly over the center console. His lips brush mine, the heat of his breath warming up my face.
"You're going to take what I give. Nothing more, nothing less. Not until I tell you differently," he speaks with familiar control. I try not to smile, but this is the Damien I know. "Understood?"
The smile I tried to hold back slips, and I feel my face flush at his words. "Understood, sir," I reply with conviction, biting my lip.
He lets go of my neck, allowing me to fall back against the seat. He's quiet, aside from some rustling on his side, and it only makes me more eager to rip the covering from my face. But if there's anyone that loves to play games as much as Damien, it's me, and I hated losing. The blindfold remains untouched.
There's more noise, and I try to train my ears the best I can, attempting to stick an image to whatever it is that I was hearing. I can only picture plastic being unwrapped at best, and then buttons being pressed, like the ones on the car stereo. I hear a little tap, and then a click, and as the car vibrates, I put together that he put on a CD.
Chromatic's Touch Red plays. The familiar piece fills the car, the almost-haunting instrumentals bouncing off the windows and into my ears. "When you can't see, first, you listen." Damien leans over and whispers. I sit, lips parted, taking in the way the vibrations make the hair on my skin stand.
"It was the day you pushed past the front doors, trekked up the twenty-something steps, and into my office," he spoke. The stereo still plays, and so I lean into his voice as best as I can.
"You pressed and you pushed, lifting that chin of yours, staring a hole right through me. I remember the look you bore, and how it implied that I had stolen the sky from you, refusing to set you up with the moon or the sun or the right amount of stars," I scoff, quietly grinning at his poetic take.
He clears his throat, his voice lowering. "I remember watching you. There was fear gripping your neck, snaking its way around those hips, but...you never once faltered. That mouth of yours opened, heart-shaped lips and all, pleas and hear-me-outs slipping out like smooth liquor like you knew exactly what to say to get exactly what you wanted," he stops to suck in a breath, and I can feel my stomach tighten as he speaks. "That day, you bulldozed right over me like a goddamn force to be reckoned with."
Damien exhales, my chest heavy as he tells his side of what I thought was quite a horrific morning for me. He talks about a force, but I remember walking into that room feeling like my heart was in my stomach.
"Since that day, there hasn't been a single hour where I haven't thought about you. Even in my sleep, I find you somewhere. Sometimes I have to convince myself that you're real, and not something I've made up in my mind." I swallow, too aware of the silk material pressing my lashes down. I just want to see him.
The song ends, the gears of the stereo shifting and turning as it finds the next track. Instrumentals play for only a few seconds before he pauses it, and I can feel the weight of him close to me again, his cologne hitting my nose. Keep talking, I want to say, but his fingers graze my cheek, turning my head to face his.
He drops his hand for a moment, the sound of plastic wrap again before he comes back to warm me up. He kisses me softly, a real tender kiss that could put me to sleep if he were to linger a second too long. Before he pulls away, his tongue parts my lips, slipping in a sweet hard candy that feels like a jolly rancher. It tastes like cherry, and I suck on it, beaming as he presses another kiss to the corner of my mouth.
His breath meets the side of my neck, making me tilt my head to the side. "That day,"—he whispers, pausing, and I can feel his lips curl up against my ear—"you were also unaware of how badly I wanted to suck on you like that piece of candy in your mouth."
I suck in a breath, gripping the hem of my skirt as his deep chuckle ripples. The fruity taste sticks to my tongue, waiting for him to ask for a lick.
"With you, everything tastes so fucking sweet," he admits, "like you're a flavor specifically made for me, and I'll probably spend lifetimes tending to toothaches." The muscles in my back tense, something like butterflies sitting in my stomach as he showers me with flattery.
"You want to take off that blindfold?" he asks, and I nod with no hesitation, reaching for the silk tie resting on the back of my head. He sucks on his teeth, telling me to wait, and I groan, dropping my hands into my lap. "Just a little longer. Right now, I need you to spread your legs."
I cough, wondering if I heard him correctly. "You heard me," he clears up, and the knots in my stomach tighten. I play with the stitches on the inside hem of my skirt, slowly sliding my legs open, one touching the center console, the other the door. The ache in my stomach meets my thighs, warmth pooling in my core.
There's a flick, like a lighter, and I suck in, wondering if he's doing what I think he is. There's no way he'd do such a thing in a car that probably costs more than I'm worth, but then again, I wouldn't be so quick to put anything past Damien. The quick sound catches me again, this time closer, and I feel heat warming up my cheek before it disappears. I take a deep breath, despite my heart hammering at an alarming rate.
Then a sting meets my inner thigh, making me gasp, and I fist my skirt. My spine stills against the seat, every muscle in my body working itself as I adjust to the bite of whatever he just did. He moves away, coming back in again, another sting needling my thigh, this time higher up my skirt. Wax? I convulse, my clit reacting to the tingling that pricks at my skin. I slap a hand to my mouth, biting on my index finger to even out the sweet pain. A moan slips as he kneads my skin.
I hear the flick of the lighter again while something drips onto my thigh, making me flinch, the pulsing in my core only growing. My hand mindlessly runs over the stung skin, feeling around for the dried lumps of wax, but my fingers only meet wetness. Damien breaths in, exhaling a little laugh, still playing with the lighter. I run my hand up my inner thigh, still only feeling liquid. Realization settles, and I run my tongue over the front of my teeth, slumping into my seat.
Not wax. Ice.
"When you can't see, taste, or hear..." he starts. "When everything else fails you and your last option is to feel, you tap into it. Grab it, single it out, and then hold onto it. That is how you win, how you get the upper hand, the advantage. It's how you learn not only those around you but yourself as well. When your weaknesses expose your strength,"
I keep a mental note of everything he says, but I can't help but notice that the way he speaks is like everything he says is not only new to me but him as well. Like this is the first time he's ever fully granted himself the space to say whatever it is that's on his mind.
I like hearing him talk. It's refreshing to hear the walls around him crumble. Like I'm seeing the entirety of Damien Dupont and not just the bits and pieces he hands out, out of fear.
"Tap into it, huh?" he mumbles, barely audible, and as I turn to ask him what he said, I hear his car door open and close.
Mine opens, and I feel the cold wind wrap around my ankles, snaking up my legs, and then around my entire body, making me shiver. Damien reaches in, grabbing one of my wrists, and helping me out of the car. Hearing the car lock behind us, he holds me close to him, and we walk maybe only ten steps, fifteen max before he stills the both of us. Question marks fire off in my head.
He shifts from the side of me, to behind, pressing his body into mine as he pulls all of my hair away from my chest, as well as the strands stuck in the crease of my neck, to my back. He grips my shoulders, turning me around, and then his fingers slip underneath the silk material, untying, and freeing my eyes from the soft weight.
My eyes flutter and adjust, coming down from the bright white as I take in the exterior of the car only feet away and our location. Facing towards a street, I stop, looking down at the same sidewalk I've walked almost every day for the past five months. I jerk my body around, my eyes trailing up the steps. The ones that almost took me out a few too many times before I could even make it to the top.
The museum. We were back at the museum. The...museum?
I turned to Damien, staring at me like I was the one out of place, and I shouldn't be confused on why we're standing in front of my job, his old one. He steps closer to me, avoiding my eyes.
"And finally, when you are able to see, almost everything speaks for itself," he goes off of everything he has told me up until now.
"You can choose where your moon and your sun and your right amount of stars belong without having to say a word because the sky is your own, it's what you make of it, and who really gives a fuck if they can't understand why your moon is in the ocean and your sun only shines in the rain?" He goes on a tangent like he's about to combust. I grab his hand as I see his body shake, beginning to run my thumb over his knuckles.
His jaw flexes and relaxes, again twice more as he lifts his face, his soft copper-colored eyes now searching mine. There's the little boy again, looking down at me for security as he stands at the top of the world. He looks at me like I'm right there next to him.
"But sometimes, on rare occasions...words mean more than actions, and everything you're seeing—feeling—just doesn't make sense if you can't explain it." He blinks one too many times like there's something caught in his eye.
He looks away, up at the building that sits at the top, a smile spreading across his face. He returns to me and there's a glass-like gleam in his eyes, liquid filling up the almond shapes. The sight of him nags at my heart, waiting for him to say whatever it is he wants to say. I feel the back of my eyes begin to itch as if I already know the words that dance on the tip of his tongue. I give him a nod like he's looking for some kind of permission.
And then, he jumps.
"That day," When I forced my way into your office. "I knew I'd spend the rest of my life setting up my sky in a way where the moon, the sun, and the stars only ever spoke about you," his eyebrows etch like he's in pain. Breathing out a laugh, he says, "You're like my fucking big bang."
His hands shake in my hold, and I try to tighten my grip to calm him, but he pulls away, grabbing something out of his pocket, and I watch as Damien does what he always does. When he jumps, he takes you with him, and all you can hope for is that you land with minimal damage. Albeit, in our case, pain is pleasure, and so I jump even when chances of survival are slim.
He holds his palm out, the little gold key sitting in his palm, and all I do is look between him and the cryptic object. He nods his head, waiting for me to take it. Furrowing my eyebrows, I hesitantly picked it up, bringing it closer to my face, quickly noticing that it's a master key. I flip it over, running a finger over the engrained letters sitting in the middle of the bow.
V. A. My initials.
Damien's fingers wrap around my chin, tilting my head back so that I was staring up at him again. His eyes are heavy, and despite the corners wet with tears, the smirk on his face is masked with mischief. He matches the expression on his face with words and asks, "Ever owned a museum before?"
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Note: Y'all are like my big bang. My universe blew up into something I had been wanting for the longest time. Writing worlds like Vera and Damien's is like a little secret that only we know about. I've been alone for quite a while now, but I'm not so lonely when y'all are around.
Unedited chapter, as it always is. Rough and raw, just how I like it.
—love, kay