*Isabella's POV*
The next morning, I went downstairs, the events of the previous night still swirling in my head like a pleasant, dizzying dream. Jacob's permission... it felt like a weight had been lifted, a clean slate. And then I waked into the kitchen and saw him.
Damien. Standing at the stove, his back to me, cooking. Shirtless. The morning light streamed through the large windows, highlighting the defined muscles of his back, bare in all the places Jacob's was covered in tattoos.
"Morning, Isabella," he greeted, not even turning around. How the fuck did he do that?
"Morning, Damien," I returned, my voice a little shaky.
He suddenly turned, a spatula in his hand, and walked towards me, closing the distance between us in a few long, deliberate strides. He didn't say a word. He just claimed my lips in a kiss that was hungry, possessive, a raw, unapologetic claim that left me breathless and clinging to him. Then, as if I weighed nothing, he picked me up and placed me on the cool granite of the kitchen counter.
"I'm making pancakes," he said, pulling away just enough to speak, his lips brushing against mine.
"You?" I asked, my mind still trying to catch up. "I don't understand why you keep cooking. You have people that do it for you."
"Violetta will arrive at 11," he said, his eyes dark and intense. "I don't want anyone in the house in the mornings." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, whisper. "I want to have my girlfriend on the counter, wearing... preferably nothing."
With that, he hooked his fingers into the neckline of the hoodie I was still wearing—Jacob's hoodie—and pulled it over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me in just my bra.
"And the pants," he said, his voice a husky command as he planted a soft, teasing kiss on my neck. "Off."
"Yes, sir," I said, the words a playful, breathy whisper. I did as he asked, shimmied out of the sweatpants, letting them fall to the floor.
But then he pulled back. He just... stepped away. He turned his back to me and returned to the fucking pancakes, leaving me sitting there, half-naked, aroused, and completely fucking baffled on the kitchen counter. The bastard. What is he playing at.
"I'll finish cooking this one then I'm going to have my breakfast," he said, his voice a low, husky promise that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
And he did. He flipped the last pancake onto a plate with a practiced flick of his wrist, turned off the stove, and then turned to me. His eyes were dark, no longer just hungry but fucking starving, and the look he gave me was so intense it felt like a physical touch.
He closed the distance between us in two long strides, his body a wall of heat in front of me. He claimed my lips possessively once more, a deep, demanding kiss that left no room for doubt about what he wanted. His hands moved to my breasts, cupping them, his thumbs brushing over my nipples before he took them between his fingers and twisted, hard. A sharp, jolt of pleasure shot through me, and I couldn't stop the moan that rose from deep within my chest.
He didn't stop there. He continued planting kisses, a hot, wet trail moving down my neck, across my collarbone, and down to the swell of my chest. He claimed one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard through the thin, damp fabric of my bra. The friction, the heat, the sheer possessiveness of it... it was too much.
"Fuck," I moaned out loud, my head falling back, my hands tangling in his hair to pull him closer. I was completely and utterly at his mercy, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
He smirked around my nipple, the vibrations sending a fresh wave of pleasure straight to my core, before he bit down gently. The sharp, little sting was perfect. He then switched, giving the other one the same fucking glorious attention, his tongue swirling, his teeth nipping, until I was a writhing, whimpering mess on the kitchen counter.
His free hand moved up my thigh, a slow, deliberate crawl that set my skin on fire, while the other reached behind me to unclasp my bra with a practiced flick. The useless piece of lace fell away, and my breasts were bared to him. His hand immediately cupped my pussy, the heat of his palm a shock against my dripping wet skin. And fuck, I felt his thumb start to rub my clit, rough, circles that had me seeing stars.
He pushed my panties to the side, the fabric a flimsy barrier against his intentions, and thrust two fingers into me without warning. I cried out, my back arching off the counter. He moved his fingers faster, a relentless, punishing rhythm, as he kept sucking my nipples, harder this time, his mouth a hot, possessive brand.
"Fuck," I cried out, the word torn from my throat as his fingers curled inside me, hitting that spot, that fucking magical G-spot, with every expert thrust. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life as the pressure built to an impossible height. And then I went over the edge. An orgasm, violent and shattering, ripped through me, a blinding, white-hot wave of pleasure that left me gasping and trembling.
"Oh god," I whimpered, my body boneless, my mind completely fucking blank.
He pulled his fingers out, and I let out a soft whimper at the sudden, aching feeling of emptiness. The bastard just smirked, a slow, self-satisfied curve of his lips, as he licked my juices from his fingers. Then, as if he hadn't just finger-fucked me into oblivion on the counter, he picked up the plate stacked with pancakes and walked towards the dining room, fully expecting me to follow.
I did, after taking a shaky breath and pulling my clothes back on. The hoodie, the sweatpants... they felt like a flimsy armour against the raw, magnetic energy that still crackled between us.