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Chapter 147 - Let it chase them

This chapter is dedicated to one of biggest supporters_ Favour ogbonmwan. Thank you so much😘

The music pulsed like a living heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, echoing through the velvet-walled VIP lounge. Soft lights bathed the room in deep gold and red, casting shadows that moved with every breath they took.

Damon leaned back on the plush couch, a glass of something dark in one hand, his eyes locked on her. Deya. The girl who always managed to get under his skin—sometimes with just a look. Tonight, she wasn't trying to. But that made it worse.

She danced near him with lazy ease, her hips swaying to the beat, drink in hand, eyes cast low like she didn't know she was driving him insane. But she did. She knew *exactly* what she was doing. Her tight dress clung to her body like silk melted into skin, teasing every curve. Every turn of her waist had him gripping his glass tighter.

"You keep looking at me like that, Damon," she murmured, finally turning to face him, voice low and smooth, "people will think you're obsessed."

He smirked. "Let them. I'm not hiding it."

That made her pause.

Her lips twitched upward, and she stepped closer. "You don't know what to do with a girl like me."

"You think I haven't imagined it?"

He stood slowly, setting his drink aside, his full height towering as he came closer. She didn't back away. She never did. That's what made her so dangerous. So magnetic.

Damon reached out, his knuckles brushing along her bare arm, slow and deliberate. "You're fire," he murmured. "And I'm not scared of getting burned."

Deya raised a brow, amused but intrigued. "Then prove it."

He didn't hesitate. In one swift motion, he caught her waist and guided her backward until her back brushed the wall, then pressed his forehead to hers. Their breaths mingled—shaky, heated, filled with something neither of them wanted to admit out loud.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, chest to chest. He dipped his head and kissed her—not soft, not tentative, but deep and hungry. Like he'd been waiting all night. Like he was done pretending he didn't want her.

She kissed him back with equal fire, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers exploring, teasing. His grip on her hips tightened, pressing her into the wall as the bass from the club pounded around them, masking the quiet sounds of their passion.

When they finally broke apart, her lips were slightly parted, her eyes glazed with want.

"What now?" she whispered.Here's a refined version of your scene with enhanced emotional depth and sensory details, maintaining a strong narrative flow while removing italics and bold as requested:

The air between them crackled with unspent energy as his gravel-toned threat hung between them. "Now I show you exactly what obsession looks like."

Their lips met in a clash of contradictions - desperate yet controlled, punishing yet reverent. The kiss spoke of battles fought silently between them, of words unsaid that now found expression through touch. When he broke away, breathing heavily, her whispered response sent heat coursing through his veins: "I'm yours."

A primal sound escaped him as he guided her onto the bed, their bodies coming together with the inevitability of tide meeting shore. Fabric yielded to impatient hands, buttons flying like tiny surrenders. With each discarded garment, new territory was revealed - the smooth expanse of her stomach, the rigid contours of his chest, skin flushing under exploring fingertips.

His mouth charted a burning path down her neck, pausing to worship the delicate curve of her shoulder before claiming one perfect breast. She arched beneath him, a sigh escaping her parted lips that carried more than pleasure - it held quiet victory.

The smile that curved his lips against her skin promised retribution.

When his fingers finally found her warmth, sliding home with deliberate slowness, her breath caught audibly. Her thighs tightened around his wrist in silent demand. The raw moan that tore from her throat then became his undoing, fueling his movements as he drove her relentlessly toward the edge.

Her climax hit with seismic force, body bowing beneath his touch. He watched, transfixed, as pleasure transformed her features - lips parting in silent ecstasy, lashes fluttering like captive wings.

But her recovery came swift and surprising. With sudden strength, she reversed their positions, pressing him into the mattress. Her fingers made quick work of his zipper, the smirk playing at her lips as dangerous as it was enticing.

"You're next," she murmured, eyes alight with promised retribution. The tables had turned, and the game was far from over.

Meanwhile Kamsi lay in bed, the sheets tangled around her legs like the thoughts in her head. Xavier's face flickered behind her closed eyelids—the way his thumb always brushed her wrist when passing her a coffee, how he'd once stood between her and a catcalling stranger without a word. Not like her father, who'd left before her fifth birthday. Not like her mother's string of bitter boyfriends.

But the memory of her mother's last words—"He'll ruin you."—crawled under her skin. She punched her pillow. Sleep came slow and fitful.

Morning brought no truce.

"Good morning," Kamsi tried, too loud.

On the counter: one pancake. Crisp at the edges, cold in the center. Her mother always made a stack of four. This solitary cake was a surrender in batter and syrup.

Kamsi scraped it into the trash. The sound of the plate hitting the sink cracked through the kitchen like a slap.

Then—air. Light. Him.

Xavier Alastair leaned against his bike, helmet dangling from one hand. The morning sun gilded the sharp line of his jaw, caught in the zipper of his leather jacket. When he spotted her, his whole body shifted—shoulders squaring, boot scuffing the pavement in a nervous stutter-step. As if she were a magnet and he was remembering how to yield.

"Morning, pug." His voice was rough with the cigarettes he'd sworn to quit.

She marched over, grabbed his collar, and kissed him hard. His surprise lasted half a second before he laughed against her mouth. "Someone's feisty."

"Shut up, monkey." She nipped his lower lip, smug when his breath hitched.

His hands found her waist, calluses catching on her sweater. "Your mom?"

"Does it matter?"

He studied her face—the tightness around her eyes, the defiant set of her chin—and nodded once. The bike roared to life beneath them, vibrating through her thighs as she clung to him.

Wind whipped her braids back as they accelerated. She pressed her cheek to his spine, inhaled the salt-and-leather scent of him. Behind them, her mother's house shrank into the distance.

Let it chase them.

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