Filthy Little Games

Ch. 12: The Steam Room

EMERY

I can feel his darkness seeping into my skin. There's no way to avoid his effect on me. On my decisions. On my emotions. Despite Quinton's smiles and understanding voice, I know I'm causing him harm. I'm no idiot. The way he looks at me says it all. He sees me. All of me. Every rough, jagged corner. Every dirty, deranged valley. And he sees the peaks, too. The soft and gentle and airy. And I see him as well. I understand him, too. It comes naturally. Like breathing. And yet, every breath I now take is heavy, thick with tension. And I'm suffocating. Almost choking on the smoke he's brought inside the villa. It's unfortunate. I've always been so drawn to smoke. Craved it. Like a fool.

"Emery," Sophie says, glancing up at me from the top of her magazine. Quinton and his father had urgent business to deal with, leaving us alone. Damon... I don't know where he is. He's like a ghost. Haunting me. Never showing his true face. "You seem tense." She lowers the newest edition of Vogue. "Is something bothering you?"

She knows exactly what's bothering me. I don't blame her for doing what she did. It was wise. A calculated move to prove my worth. And here I sit, aching to catch a glimpse of his stupid fucking face. In time, I'll corroborate her theory. I'll show her just how worthless I really am.

"I'm fine."

Sophie pursues her lips, displeased with my lack of honesty. "Your shoulders say otherwise." Sighing, she returns to the world of fashion, casually mumbling, "There's a spa on the mezzanine. Perhaps a steam would make you feel...more fine."

I consider her offer. The idea of the steam room sounds like a much-needed escape from the emotional storm brewing in my chest. Nodding appreciatively, I rise from the plush sofa and make my way toward the spa. If nothing else, it might help me gather my thoughts. It might take some time, though. They're so scattered I can hardly piece two together.

The spa is a peaceful retreat, with soft lighting that adds to the sense of serenity. The serenity that I desperately need to overpower the uncertainty within me. Mist hangs in the air, a comforting cloak of warmth and solitude. I quickly undress and step inside, letting the steam envelop me. My body begins to relax as the heat seeps into my skin.

Sitting on the bench, I let the soothing heat work its magic. I'm finally alone, and my mind starts to wander. Questions and doubts flood in like a relentless tide. Quinton or Damon? Safety or passion? Air or fire? A choice. A decision. Why is it so difficult? So complicated. Can't I have both? Why can't both elements coexist? The earth would perish without oxygen. And it would die without the sun. Is one more valuable than the other? Is one more important? More desirable?

Minutes pass as I attempt to calm my racing mind, but the internal struggle persists. I close my eyes and place a hand over my chest, over the faint scar that reminds me that my hatred is invalid. What do you want, you wicked little thing? My heart beats against my palm, erratic and unstable. At least it's beating. In a way I've never experienced before. My life had been so stable, so predictable, so fucking mundane. I felt nothing for so long. And now? I feel everything. And it's too much. It's too fast. I never thought I'd miss the void, but that emptiness never hurt like this.

In the dim, hazy ambiance of the steam room, I'm lost in my thoughts. The door creaks open, and I hear footsteps drawing nearer. I sense a presence, even before I see him. My eyes snap open, and through the thick mist, I recognize Damon's silhouette. He stands before me, a foreboding entity, a creation of sin and sun. The play of steam caresses his broad, chiseled chest and wide, muscular shoulders, the sculpted contours of his waist, hips, and thighs leading my gaze toward the tiny towel covering his most prized possession.

Our eyes meet in a wordless confrontation, and he smirks at me, ripping the cloth away in one swift motion. My lips part as he strides closer, bridging the gap between us. Steam clings to his skin, my own sticky and wet and wanting. He veers off the direct path toward me and settles into the adjacent corner. He tilts his head, spreading his legs, his cock dangling off the edge of the stacked oak bench.