Page 11 of An Illicit Seduction

Bang My Line

Her phone rang four times in a row before she silenced the ringer and put the damned thing in the drawer of her nightstand. Damon had been calling her nonstop for the past hour, and she was one more call away from blocking his number. He didn’t leave messages. He didn’t text. He just hung up and redialed.

He was wasting his time because Seraph did not intend to answer for him. There was nothing for them to discuss. Sure, she had a handful of questions to ask him about the things he’d done to her and the reasons that fueled him, but after their encounter earlier that day, she didn’t think she could be in a room alone with him long enough to get the answers she needed.

A peculiar, rhythmic knocking on her door pulled her attention from the show she was watching on her tablet. Exhaling an annoyed breath, she stared at the wall in front of her that separated her bedroom from the rest of her 800-square foot apartment and contemplated whether or not to go answer the door. It was after nine, and not only was she already in bed, but she’d set the security alarm in anticipation of not leaving her bedroom until daybreak. None of her friends would show up this late without calling first, and her mother had both a key and the code to her alarm.

Her brows furrowed and she frowned when the knocking sounded once more, trying to think of who it could be without her taking the easy route and simply checking. Then, a light bulb clicked on in her head, and she shot up from her prone position as it occurred to her who was likely at her door.

Damon.

It had to be him. She lacked the words to explain how she knew, but her surety was undeniable. Also undeniable was the unwanted but intense heat curling in her belly at the memory of being filled by Damon’s fingers. That was enough to make her lie back down and pull the covers up over her head.

The last thing she needed was Damon in her apartment. Letting him in would be playing a dangerous game, one she wasn’t sure wouldn’t end with her face down, ass up, and her brain muddled with confusion and shame.

When the knocking continued, her eyes darted to her nightstand and she quickly played a round of heads or tails in her head to help her decide whom she should call—her complex’s security or the police. Just as the mental coin landed with heads up, her work phone began to chime. The initially low ringtone ascended with each run until she was certain whoever stood on her porch could hear it without straining. Throwing back the covers, she leaped out of bed and rushed into the living room where her work phone was charging on one of the two end tables that bookended her small couch. After silencing the device, she sighed loudly and stared at the front door, willing her solicitor to change their mind and go away.

As soon as that thought crossed her mind, the knock sounded again. Groaning, Seraph flicked on a lamp and stomped over to the door to punch in the four-digit code and disengage her security alarm. Pushing up onto her tiptoes, she looked through the peephole, cursing softly when all she saw was blackness. Whoever was at her door had covered the tiny window with their finger. For some reason, that small action only seemed to cement Seraph’s thought that it was indeed Damon. Taking a deep breath, she threw back the deadbolt and eased the door inward a few inches. Instead of standing in the opening, she used the door as a shield, keeping most of her body hidden from the person who stood on the other side. With wide eyes, she took him in. It was the same man who had finger-fucked her into an orgasm in her mother’s kitchen just ten hours earlier.

He was also the man who’d, as a kindergartner, come into her life when she was fifteen and her uncle married his mother. The man that she’d babysat off and on until she was eighteen. The man who had taken the boundaries of their relationship and burned them to the ground, turning the box she’d kept him in on its head. This was the man who, out of nowhere, seemed determined to tie her mind—and body—in knots.

His dark brown skin seemed to glisten under her porch light as he stared down at her with an impassive look on his face. Stretched across his chest was a plain white t-shirt that clung to his pectorals and was partially visible under a half-zipped university hoodie. A pair of sweatpants clung to his waist and thighs, displaying an obvious erection that her eyes stuttered over and gave her pause. Involuntarily, her mind transported her to Jaime’s party and the memory of him rubbing against her bare sex. Her brain screamed at her to look away from his dick, but she just couldn’t peel her eyes away from it.

She was literally dickmatized.

By her cousin.

The thought made guilt dance in the back of her brain, but the thumping between her thighs, the steady pulse that felt as if her pussy had a heartbeat of its own, worked that guilt into the shadows.

Hell was her destination and her transportation was soaked in gasoline. Unleaded. Ninety-three octanes.

“Damon,” she began, shaking her head slowly and willing—begging—her body to calm down enough to send him away, “what are you doing here?”

A moment of silence passed between them before he leaned against the partially opened doorframe. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called you?”

Finally, she jerked her gaze up to his face to see his lips twisted into a knowing smirk that instantly irritated her. Obviously, he knew what she was looking at, and his amusement made shame bite at her cheeks.

Her knuckles whitened as she clenched the door and gritted out, “Which time?”

He lifted one dark eyebrow at the infusion of attitude in her voice. “The last time.”

She huffed, blowing air out of her nose. “I was tired of you calling me.”

He nodded as if it made perfect sense to him. “And the first time?”

Rolling her eyes, she shot back, “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

He stared at her so long that she began to fidget, and she was too damn old to be fidgeting under anyone’s stare. Her neck heated with anger and embarrassment, and just as she opened her mouth to tell him to go away, he spoke.

“That’s fine. We don’t have to talk.”

The implication in his words was as clear as glass, and her breathing grew shallow as anticipation settled into her belly. She blinked rapidly at her internal reaction to his words, and a tendril of panic snaked its way up her throat.

“Look, Damon—”

“Let me see you,” he said, and although he spoke softly, the demand was clearly understood.

Despite wanting to slam the door in his face and run back to bed, Seraph felt a buzzing in her ears that compelled her to do the opposite. Like a marionette attached to an invisible string, Seraph pulled the door open wider and shuffled into the doorway. She stood frozen in place as Damon’s eyes traveled from her sock-covered feet, up her bare thighs where the hem of her sleeping gown began, then paused where the juncture of her thighs rested under her gown before skirting up her torso to her face.