Chapter 104: Chapter 103: Fragments
ARIA’S POV
The text from Damien haunted Aria for the rest of the afternoon.
Stop trying to remember. Some things are better left forgotten.
She deleted it immediately....didn’t want evidence of his personal communication on her work phone...but the words burned in her mind.
He’d done something. Something he didn’t want her to remember. Something significant enough that he’d broken his own rule about not texting her personally to tell her to stop digging.
Which only made her want to remember more.
She tried to focus on work. Tried to lose herself in the mundane tasks of scheduling meetings and preparing documents and managing his impossibly complex calendar.
But every few minutes, another flash would surface.
His mouth on her neck. Hot. Possessive. Marking her.
Fingers.....his fingers?...sliding through wetness, exploring, claiming.
A voice...his voice....rough with need: "You’re mine."
Each fragment was visceral, physical, undeniable. Not dreams. Not fantasies. Memories. Her body remembering what her alcohol-soaked mind couldn’t quite grasp.
At 3 PM, she stood to deliver documents to his office and her legs nearly gave out. The soreness between her thighs was impossible to ignore...a deep, used ache that could only come from one thing.
She’d been penetrated. She knew she had. Could feel it in the way her muscles protested, in the sensitivity that made even walking uncomfortable.
But he’d said they hadn’t had sex. Had been adamant about it.
So what had he done to her?
She knocked on his office door, documents in hand.
"Come in."
Damien was behind his desk, focused on his computer screen. He didn’t look up as she entered.
"The contracts for the Singapore deal," she said, setting them on his desk. "I’ve flagged the sections that need your review."
"Thank you."
Still not looking at her. Like if he didn’t make eye contact, he could pretend everything was normal.
She should leave. Should go back to her desk and stop pushing.
Instead: "I keep having these flashes. Of last night."
His fingers stilled on the keyboard. "Aria..."
"Just fragments. Nothing clear. But they feel...real. Like memories trying to surface." She moved closer to his desk. "Did you kiss me last night?"
His jaw clenched. "You were drunk."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only answer you’re going to get." Finally, he looked up, and the intensity in his eyes stole her breath. "I told you to stop trying to remember. I meant it."
"Why? What are you hiding from me?"
"I’m protecting you."
"From what?"
"From the truth." He stood, moving around the desk with predatory grace. "From knowing what happened when you were too drunk to consent. From the guilt and the confusion and the..." He stopped, his hands clenching into fists. "Just let it go, Aria."
"I can’t." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Because my body remembers even if my mind doesn’t. And I need to know...did you hurt me? Did you take advantage of me? Did you..."
"No." The word was fierce, almost angry. "I would never hurt you. Everything that happened...every touch, every...." He stopped again, visibly struggling for control. "You wanted it. Even drunk, you wanted it. But that doesn’t make it right. That doesn’t mean you should remember."
"Because you feel guilty."
"Yes." The confession was raw. "Because I touched you when I shouldn’t have. Because I couldn’t resist you when I should have been stronger. Because I’m supposed to be proving I can maintain control and instead I..." He turned away, his shoulders tense. "Go back to your desk, Aria. Stop asking questions I can’t answer."
She should obey. Should leave him alone with whatever guilt was eating him alive.
But she needed to know. Needed to understand.
"Just tell me one thing," she said. "Did we have sex? Full sex? Did you..."
"No." He faced her again, and the honesty in his eyes was undeniable. "I didn’t fuck you. I swear. I touched you, yes. Made you..." He stopped. "But I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t consent to. I wouldn’t. Not like that. Not when you were drunk and unable to give real consent."
The relief that flooded through her was almost painful. "Okay. Okay, I believe you."
"Good. Now go. Please. Before I do something we’ll both regret."
The desperation in his voice sent her fleeing back to her desk, her heart pounding, her mind spinning with more questions than answers.
He’d touched her. Made her what? Come? Was that what he’d been about to say?
Another flash hit her, vivid and overwhelming.
Pleasure. Blinding, devastating pleasure. Her body convulsing, a scream tearing from her throat. His voice in her ear: "That’s it. Come for me. Show me you’re mine."
She gasped, gripping the edge of her desk.
He’d made her come. Multiple times, if the intensity of the soreness was any indication.
But hadn’t fucked her. Had touched her, pleasured her, marked her....but stopped short of actual sex.
Why? Because she was drunk? Because he still had some shred of control?
Or because he was punishing himself by denying them both what they really wanted?
The rest of the afternoon was torture.
Every time she looked up, she caught him watching her through the glass walls. His expression was conflicted....part hunger, part guilt, part something that looked almost like longing.
At 4 PM, her body betrayed her with another flash.
Straddling something. Him? Moving desperately, chasing pleasure. His hands on her hips, guiding her, controlling her. "Ride me. Take what you need."
She squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the ache the memory produced. Trying not to think about what "ride me" meant if they hadn’t actually had sex.
Had she....had she ridden his hand? His fingers? Something else?
God, she needed to stop thinking about this. Needed to focus on work. Needed to...
Her phone buzzed. Another text from the same unknown number.
I can see you trying to remember. Stop. It’s not going to help either of us. - D
She looked up. He was watching her, his phone in his hand, his expression dark.
She typed back: Then tell me what happened. Put me out of my misery.
His response came quickly: No. Some things are better left in the dark. Trust me.
I trusted you last night. Drunk and vulnerable and completely at your mercy. The least you can do is tell me what you did to me.
A long pause. She watched him through the glass, saw him reading her message, saw the conflict playing across his face.
Finally: I made you come. Three times. With my hands and my mouth and my body. You begged me for it. Told me you loved me. Told me you were mine. And then you passed out and I took you home and cleaned you up and put you to bed like nothing happened. That’s the truth. Are you satisfied?
Aria’s hands shook as she read the message. Read it again. And again.
Three times. He’d made her come three times. While she was drunk. While she couldn’t remember.
She should be angry. Should feel violated. Should march into his office and demand to know how he could do that to her.
But instead, all she felt was....
Arousal. Hot, undeniable arousal at the thought of his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin, his voice commanding her pleasure.
And devastating sadness that she couldn’t remember it. That those moments....moments when he’d let his control slip, when he’d touched her again after so long—were lost to the fog of alcohol.
She typed: I wish I could remember.
His response: I’m glad you can’t. It makes what I did less real. Less wrong.
It wasn’t wrong if I wanted it.
You were drunk. That makes it wrong regardless.
Then why did you do it?
A very long pause. She watched him through the glass, saw him staring at his phone, his jaw tight.
Finally: Because I’m weak. Because I’ve been starving for you for over a month and you were right there, telling me you loved me, and I couldn’t resist. Because I’m not the man I thought I was. I’m just a selfish bastard who takes what he wants even when he knows he shouldn’t.
Her chest ached reading his self-recrimination.
You’re not selfish. You’re human. And you stopped. You didn’t take everything. You could have...we could have....but you didn’t.
Only because you passed out. If you’d stayed conscious, I don’t know if I would have been strong enough to stop.
The confession was devastating in its honesty.
I wouldn’t have wanted you to stop.
She sent it before she could second-guess herself. Before fear could stop her from being honest.
She saw him read it. Saw his whole body tense. Saw him close his eyes like the words had physically hurt him.
His response took a full minute: Don’t say things like that. Don’t make this harder than it already is.
I’m just being honest.
Then stop being honest. Go back to being professional. Pretend last night never happened. That’s what I’m going to do.
Can you? Really? Can you pretend you didn’t touch me? That you didn’t make me come three times? That you didn’t tell my mother you still love me?
Another long pause.
I have to. Because the alternative....acting on these feelings, giving in to this pull between us...will only end in more pain. I’m not ready to trust you yet, Aria. And until I am, we can’t...I can’t...
I understand.
Do you?
Yes. You need more time. More proof. More certainty that I won’t hurt you again. And until then, we stay professional. We maintain distance. We pretend last night was an aberration that won’t happen again.
Exactly.
Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do.
She set her phone down and returned to work, trying to ignore the tears burning behind her eyes.
He’d touched her. Pleasured her. Made her come three times. And she couldn’t remember any of it.
And now he was going back to cold and distant and professional, like always.
The torture continued.
******************
DAMIEN’S POV
Damien stared at his phone long after their text conversation ended, Aria’s words echoing in his mind.
I wouldn’t have wanted you to stop.
She was killing him. Absolutely killing him.
He’d spent all day wrestling with guilt over what he’d done last night. How he’d taken advantage of her drunken state. How he’d touched her, tasted her, made her come while she was too intoxicated to truly consent.
He was a monster. A selfish, weak monster who couldn’t resist temptation.
And now she was telling him she wouldn’t have wanted him to stop. That she wished she could remember. That she understood why he needed distance and was willing to give it to him.
How was he supposed to maintain control when she was being so fucking perfect?
He looked up, through the glass walls, and found her at her desk. Working diligently. Her face composed. Her posture professional.
Like their text conversation hadn’t just ripped his heart out.
Like she wasn’t sitting there with his marks on her body, evidence of what he’d done.
Like she wasn’t in pain....he could see it in the careful way she moved, the way she shifted in her chair trying to find a comfortable position.
He’d done that. His fingers. His mouth. His commands.
He’d made her sore. Made her ache. Made her body remember what her mind couldn’t.
And God help him, part of him was glad. Glad that she was marked. Glad that she was feeling the evidence of his possession even if she couldn’t remember it.
He was truly fucked up.
His intercom buzzed. "Mr. Blackwood, the Tokyo office is calling for the 3 PM meeting."
He’d completely forgotten. "Put them through to the conference room. I’ll be right there."
He stood, straightened his tie, and prepared to spend an hour discussing business while his mind replayed every moment of last night.
Her taste. Her sounds. The way she’d ridden his hand with desperate, aching need.
The way she’d told him she loved him. Over and over. Like it was the only truth in the world.
He made it through the meeting on autopilot, his responses automatic, his mind elsewhere.
When he returned to his office an hour later, there was a note on his desk.
In Aria’s handwriting: I brought you coffee at 3 PM as scheduled. You weren’t here. It’s in the warming station. - A
Simple. Professional. Exactly what he’d asked for.
So why did it make his chest ache?
He sat at his desk and pulled up the security footage from last night....the cameras in the parking garage where he’d pulled over.
He’d reviewed it three times already today. Knew he should delete it. Knew keeping it was dangerous, masochistic, wrong.
But he couldn’t.
Couldn’t erase the only evidence of those stolen moments when she’d been his again.
He watched himself pull her into his lap. Watched her dress fall open. Watched the way her head fell back as he touched her.
The cameras didn’t have audio. Didn’t capture her moans or his commands or the words they’d exchanged.
But the visual was enough. More than enough.
He watched her come. Watched her body convulse. Watched himself hold her through it.
Watched the moment she passed out, her body going limp in his arms.
Watched himself carefully clean her up, fix her clothing, cradle her against his chest like she was precious.
She was precious. That was the problem.
She was precious and he loved her and he didn’t trust her and the combination was destroying them both.
He closed the footage, pulled up the security protocols, and hesitated.
He should delete it. Should eliminate any evidence of his weakness.
His finger hovered over the delete button.
Then he closed the window without deleting anything.
He’d delete it later. When the memory wasn’t so fresh. When he could bear to let go of those stolen moments.
For now, he’d keep it. His secret. His weakness. His evidence that for one night, she’d been his again.
Even if she couldn’t remember it.
