Chapter 21

Damon POV

I’d spent the last four days watching Seri fight herself.

It was beautiful.

Every stolen touch, every corner we backed her into, every whispered promise of something more—it was all working. She was unraveling piece by piece, trying so damn hard to hold on to whatever resistance she had left.

And now?

I slid into my seat beside her in art class, stretching out just enough to let my knee press against hers. She didn’t jerk away this time. Progress.

She did glare at me, though.

“Damon.”

I smirked, resting my chin in my hand. “Seri.”

She huffed and turned back to her sketchbook, pretending I wasn’t there.

Cute.

The professor assigned an independent study piece—choose a subject, sketch it, refine it. Seri got to work immediately, but I just stared at her.

When she finally noticed, her lips pressed into a tight line. “What are you doing?”

I tapped my pencil against my sketchbook. “You.”

Her face flushed. “Excuse me?”

I leaned in, voice dropping to something low and deliberate. “I’m sketching you. So, sit still.”

Her fingers clenched around her pencil. “Pick something else.”

“No.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. I just smiled and started to draw—her brows furrowed in concentration, the defiant curve of her mouth, the slight tension in her shoulders.

I was sketching more than her face. I was sketching the moment she finally gave into me.

When class ended, she tried to escape.

I didn’t let her.

I caught her wrist after she shoved her supplies into her bag and tried to make a quick get away, pulling her toward the hallway before she could object. She fought me the whole way, but I was stronger.

I pulled her into an empty practice room, shutting the door and looking it with a click.

She yanked her wrist free. “What the hell, Damon?”

I dropped my bag and took a slow, measured step toward her.

She backed up.

Smart girl.

I cornered her against the piano, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of my presence.

“Say it,” I murmured.

She swallowed. “Say what?”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

I didn’t just want to break Seri.

I wanted her to come undone.

The moment the door clicked shut behind us, she was already on edge, hands curling into fists at her sides. The tension in her shoulders, the stubborn set of her jaw—she knew what was coming.

She just didn’t know how bad it would be.

I siddled closer to her, slow and deliberate, pressing my chest into hers and pressing backing her against the grand piano.

“Tell me,” I murmured, letting my hands find her wrists, tracing along her skin with just the tips of my fingers. “Do you like being chased?”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t scare me.”

I smirked. “I never said I was trying to.”

I wasn’t going to be slow anymore. Or gentle.

I grabbed her waist, gripping her hips in a way that forced them flush against mine. Her breath hitched, eyes going wide as her hands came up to my chest, attempting pathetically to push me back. She felt exactly how hard I was for her—how much I’d been holding back these last few days.

She stiffened.

Then shuddered.

Her reaction went straight to my cock.

“Damon…”

Her voice wasn’t sharp anymore. It was breathy. Uncertain.

I leaned in, pressing my lips to her temple. Not quite a kiss, just a whisper of heat against her skin. “Say it.”

She swallowed. “Say what?”

“That you’ve been thinking about this.”

“I haven’t—”

I slid my hands lower.

Right beneath the waistband of her jeans ghosting across the skin along the edge of her waistband.

She gasped.

“Liar,” I whispered, letting my fingers skim down to just above her underwear, teasing. Not touching where she needed me.

She tensed, caught between pulling away and pressing closer.

Then I pulled out one hand and tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at me.

Her pupils were blown wide.

Good.

“You can always tell me to stop,” I murmured, turning her face to the side enough to begin dragging my lips down the side of her neck, just barely grazing her skin.

She didn’t stop me.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Instead, she let out the tiniest, most helpless fucking whimper.

That sound nearly undid me.

I slid one leg between hers, pressing my thigh against her clit.

Hard.

She jerked.

Her grabbed my arms, nails digging in, her chest heaving against mine, that perfect little body grinding before she could stop herself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I whispered against her ear. “You’re making this too easy.”

She whimpered again.

I slid my fingers a little lower beneath the waistband of her jeans, pressing down firmly over the lace of her panties still covering her throbbing bud, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

Her body arched.

I could feel the heat of her. The dampness.

So, fucking responsive.

I kissed the edge of her jaw, letting my lips barely brush the corner of her mouth.

I can tell it would never be enough.

Her breath stuttered, hips rolling against my thigh.

“Damon…”

A plea.

I smirked. “You know what you have to do.”

She froze.

Because she knew. I wanted her to say it.

She could tell me to stop.

She could shove me away.

She could run.

But she didn’t.

I felt her tremble.

Felt the second she almost broke.

Then—at the last second—she turned her face away.

I exhaled sharply, pulse pounding.

And then I did the cruelest thing I could do.

I let go.

Stepped back.

Left her shaking.

Breathless.

Frustrated.

I let my eyes roam her wrecked body, the way she struggled to pull herself together.

Then, with a wicked fucking grin, I whispered, “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And walked away—leaving her desperate and clinging to the piano for support.

Because I wasn’t just going to break her.

I was going to make her beg me to break her.