Dirty Damage: Chapter 39

Italy has turned me into someone I scarcely recognize.

A week in Sardinia with Oleg, and suddenly, I’m the kind of girl who gets naked to ambush hot billionaires in hotel suites and seduce them into skipping business meetings.

The kind who goes two rounds in bed, one more in the shower, and then still finds the hunger to ask for fourths before he’s allowed out the door.

Back home, there’s a contract with my name on it. A sister who won’t return my calls. And enough emotional baggage to sink one of Oleg’s precious yachts.

But here?

Here, I’m just a woman falling for a man who makes multiple orgasms feel like the night is just getting started.

Oleg has been different here, too. Less growly, more playful. He talks to me about work and his surveillance tech venture, sharing little pieces of himself between sheets and shower walls.

Sometimes, I catch him looking at me like I’m more than just his baby mama-to-be.

It’s probably the Mediterranean air making us both crazy. Or maybe it’s the way his hands feel when they grip my hips.

Either way, I’m choosing not to think about what happens when this bubble bursts.

It’s surprisingly easy when I’m standing on the bow of a super-yacht, looking across rippling aquamarine waves.

It gets even easier when Oleg presses himself against my back, his hand exploring the slit of my emerald green dress like he designed it himself.

I lean back against him and he kisses the nape of my neck with an open mouth.

“Will you stop trying to ruin me in public?” I ask. But I know I’m not particularly convincing as I tip my head to give him better access. “People might see.”

His palm spreads across my stomach, claiming as much of me as he can. I feel the insistent press of how much he wants me against my ass.

“Good. I want them to see.”

Voyeurism isn’t usually my kink, but a thrill runs through me at the thought. “They might kick us off the boat.”

“They wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, his beard scraping along my shoulder as he peppers every inch of exposed skin with kisses. “I sold Mr. Conti this yacht myself. Gave him one hell of a deal and it was still the biggest sale of my career. He owes me.”

“Ah, so that’s why he called you the guest of honor.” Mr. Conti practically waited on Oleg himself, pouring us both champagne for a toast the second we boarded.

“Right before he told us to eat, drink, dance, and make merry,” he growls against my ear, his fingers shifting dangerously close to where I’m pulsing for him. “I want to make you merry, Sutton.”

My head falls to his shoulder as he cups me through the dress. We’re clustered against the railing so no one can see how he’s touching me.

If I’m quiet, he could finish me right here.

I’ve lived perpetually halfway to finishing this entire week. Just meeting his eyes across the room can get me close. A stiff breeze puts me right on the edge.

So if he moves his hand right there⁠—

“Okay! Okay, I… Please,” I whimper.

A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. His hand is snaking beneath the slit of my dress, peeling aside the thin fabric of my panties⁠—

—when a man clears his throat to our right.

I jolt, but Oleg steadies me with his body as he gracefully removes his hand and turns to face a man with the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen—eyes that seem to know exactly what he just walked in on.

Still, he holds out a hand to Oleg. “Daniel Bertrand. I’ve been dying to meet you, Mr. Pavlov.”

After a few back-and-forth pleasantries I miss because of the dizzying cocktail of desire and embarrassment swirling in my gut, Oleg leans in close. “I have to network. Wait for me, princess.”

It’s not a question, and with how shaky my legs are, I don’t have much choice. Oleg disappears below deck to talk business and earn himself another client.

Meanwhile, I grip the metal railing to keep from crying out for him to come back and give me some damn relief, please.

I spend half an hour waiting for Oleg to return. The music is growing louder as champagne flows, and I’m forced to admit I’ve lost my date to the lure of business.

Apparently, the sex appeal of my dress is no match for the sex appeal of a check with many, many zeroes on the end of it.

So I abandon my post and start exploring the rest of the floating palace. The guests look completely at home amidst the yacht’s luxury. Women in tall heels kick their feet up on tables; men spill drinks as they roar with drunken laughter.

Everyone seems to have a group they belong to, a face they recognize. The fact that I’m a nobody among them gives me a strange hit of confidence.

No one knows me here.

Which means I could be anyone.

A trust fund princess with degrees from schools I can’t pronounce? Sure!

A self-made tech mogul who sold her startup for billions? I don’t see why not!

A celebrity chef with a Michelin star and a mansion in the Hollywood Hills? Say the words and it will be so.

I giggle to myself. Then I snag a glass of champagne as I make the rounds, observing.

And since Oleg still doesn’t come back after one lap of the yacht, I help myself to another glass.

And another.

Maybe one more after that, too.

By midnight, the swanky boat christening party has morphed into something darker. Something hungrier. I pass a bartop dusted with cocaine and come to stand at the edge of the makeshift dance floor under a canopy of stars, watching bodies writhe to the pulsing beat.

There’s a feverish sheen in everyone’s eyes, but the champagne bubbling through my veins makes it hard to care.

“Ciao, bella.”

An unfamiliar man in a sharp Italian suit is giving me a predatory smile. I didn’t see him approach, but he’s standing close enough that all I can smell is his overpowering cologne.

Next to him is a woman with hair dark as an oil slick flowing down her back. Her midnight blue dress pops against her olive skin.

I give an awkward little wave, immediately hating myself for losing my mysterious allure so quickly. “Hi.”

“It would be criminal for beauty such as yourself not to dance,” he purrs in a heavy accent. “This is what you want, no?”

“T-to dance?” I stutter like an idiot. “Um, sure, I love dancing. But my fiancé is busy, so⁠—”

“Do you always wait for permission to enjoy yourself?” the woman cuts in. Her accent is softer, but her attitude sharper.

“No, of course not.”

“Then dance with us.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Francesca. This is Antonio.”

I look between them. “You want me to dance. With… both of you?”

Francesca’s dark eyes slide down my body like a caress. “You looked lonely. We couldn’t bear it.”

Back at home, I’d refuse. I’d thank them for the offer and make my excuses, slipping away. Hiding.

But I’m in another country—practically another world—and just drunk enough to think this might be an adventure.

Besides, it’s just a dance.

No harm, no foul.

My face is warm as I take Francesca’s hand. “Okay. Why not?”

She pulls me against her, the sequins of her dress pricking my skin like tiny warning signs. Under the strobing lights, she looks like one of those music box ballerinas come to life: beautiful, perfect, and somehow slightly sinister.

“Relax, chérie.” Her breath fans my neck. “You’re young and beautiful. There is so much to celebrate.”

She spins me and I laugh despite myself. The champagne hits at just the right moment, making the colors brighter, the music deeper, the night more electric.

And it’s not just the alcohol. I’m in Sardinia.

On a yacht.

Living a life I never thought possible.

I let my body move to the beat, and Francesca claps in delight. “Brava! The girl can dance,” she says in approval, her gaze lingering in places it shouldn’t.

I’ve always loved dancing. I just haven’t had much reason to lately, with the weight of survival pressing down on my shoulders and all.

But tonight feels different.

Alive.

Like anything could happen.

A hand slides around my waist and suddenly, Antonio is there, pressing against my back.

“Bellissima,” he croons in my ear.

I’m not sure if the compliment is meant for me or his wife. I try to shimmy away so they can dance together, but they both seem much more interested in me than in each other. They keep me trapped between their bodies.

Weird, but not enough to set the alarm bells ringing quite yet.

But as the bass drops and the crowd presses closer, those hands start to wander.

Francesca grinds against my front while Antonio grabs my hips and pulls me against him.

I slow my movements, plotting my escape as soon as the song ends. But Francesca doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. The strap of her dress starts to slip down, and Antonio grabs it and teases it further down, exposing one of her breasts.

Shit. Mayday. Abort mission.

I spin away, only to collide with Antonio’s chest. He clutches my hands, keeping me close as we move.

“I think I’ve had enough…”

He grins down at me. “No, no, you cannot go. We’re having such fun with you.”

Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.

“But—”

“My Francesca and I, we love Americans so much.” His fingers thread through my hair. “And you are so beautiful. Please… stay…”

“I—”

A hand clamps down on my shoulder like an iron vise. Before I can process what’s happening, I’m yanked backward off the dance floor.

Antonio glances from me to the beast of a man over my shoulder, his eyes wide with what looks a lot like regret.

Even Francesca breaks from her trance. She yanks her shoulder strap back into place as I’m dragged away without another word.

“Hey!” I try to twist free of Oleg’s grip.

No such luck.

He drags me below deck where the music fades to a dull throb and the silence rings in my ears. After the chaos above, it’s downright eerie.

“Let me go!”

His teeth grind together but he refuses to release me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Those gold eyes burn with a heat that could melt steel. His jaw is sharp enough to cut throats, but it’s the stare that terrifies me most.

I haven’t seen the Beast in a while.

He’s making an appearance tonight.

“I was dancing!” I snap. “What did it look like?”

“It looked like my fiancée was cozying up with all the wrong people.”

I could tell him I was actually trying to leave said “wrong people,” but the possessiveness in his voice strikes a chord of defiance in my chest.

“I was having fun. Maybe you’re too busy working to notice, but this is a party. I was just dancing with a nice guy and his wife.”

“‘Wife’?” He barks out a harsh laugh. “Is that what they told you?”

I replay our introductions and it was admittedly brief. We went from “hello” to grinding a bit too fast for specifics, but I’m not about to tell Oleg that.

“Francesca is Conti’s mistress,” he explains. “And that dipshit you were dancing with is her fuck boy.”

“Conti’s mistress…” I do my best to draw the tangled web in my mind, but it still doesn’t make sense. “But we met his wife! She’s here on the yacht.”

“Oligarchs have complicated social lives.” His lip curls. “It’s not for us to get in the middle of. Literally or figuratively.”

The champagne buzz is fading fast. “I… I didn’t know.”

“You would have if you’d asked me first.”

I bark out a laugh. “Well, you weren’t exactly around to ask, Oleg. I was alone for over an hour.”

“I can’t trust you to be alone? Do I need to order you to keep your hands to yourself while I’m conducting business? Do I need to cuff you?”

I jab him in the chest. “You have no right to order me to do anything.”

“That ring on your finger says otherwise.”

I gasp. “Then maybe I’ll take it off.”

I grab for the ring, but before I can twist it off my finger, Oleg closes the distance between us and snatches my hand. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His chest brushes against mine with every breath. The world has narrowed to this empty room, the thrum of my heart drowning out the music above deck.

“I may be your fiancée, but I’m not your property, Oleg. You don’t own me. I can make my own decisions.”

He folds my hand in his, pinning it between our chests. His heart thunders against the back of my hand. “You’re in my world, princess. These people… They want more from you than you understand. Those two wanted to take you to bed.”

“They wanted to dance!”

“They wanted to fuck you.” His voice descends into a growl that vibrates through my bones. “They like inviting thirds into their bed. They propositioned me at a party last year.”

An image of Oleg tangled up with Francesca while Antonio watches fills my head, and I hurry to shove it down.

I feel sick. Jealous over something that never even happened.

And that’s when it hits me.

I look into his dark eyes, shimmering with rage and something else, something possessive. “You’re jealous.”

His brows jump in surprise before he grinds out a condescending laugh.

“It’s true!” I pull my hand away from his. I’m pressed against the wall, so there’s nowhere to escape to, but I lean back to give myself more space. “You are! You didn’t like seeing us dancing together.”

“I didn’t like seeing you acting like some innocent little lamb in a pack of hungry fucking wolves.” He reaches for my chin, but I swat his hand away. “You’re going to be my wife, Sutton. You have to know who these people are and what they want from you. Everything comes with strings and everything has consequences.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Like how dancing with another man comes with the consequences of making Oleg very jealous.”

His nostrils flare as he looms over me, blotting out the dimmed lights in the ceiling. “You think I’m jealous?”

“I don’t have to think about it. I can see it in your eyes.” I meet his glare head-on. “You didn’t like me dancing with Antonio. And not just because I’m your ‘fiancée,’ not just because of what people will think. But because of what you felt when you saw me with him.”

“Someone certainly thinks highly of herself.”

I slip out from between his body and the wall, heading for the stairs. “Fine. If you weren’t jealous, then I’ll go back upstairs and find someone else to dance with.”

He jerks me back before I can reach the first step.

He crushes me against his body, knocking the breath out of my lungs. “Don’t test me, woman. The only man you’re going to touch tonight is me.”

“I’ll agree to that,” I breathe, tipping my head back to meet his eyes. “If you tell me the truth.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he warns in a low whisper. His breath is hot against my lips.

I lift my hand to trace the scars on his face with gentle fingers. “I’m not afraid of fire. Tell me the truth, Oleg.”

As my fingers slide over his mouth, his lips part. He grabs my fingers between his teeth. “Fine.”

Our bodies rock together, and I lick my lips—a move he locks in on. “Fine what?”

“I was jealous.” His hand slides up my thigh. He picks up right where we left off earlier, stroking his thumb over the damp center of my panties. “And it seems you like it.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he shifts the lace aside and touches me, skin to skin. He works a thumb through my soaking center, circling over my clit.

The only thing that comes out of me is a groan.

“You like being mine, princess,” he whispers, working a thick finger into me. I part my thighs to invite him deeper. To take more. He pushes a second finger into me, stretching me like it’s nothing. “You want me jealous.”

“And you want me all to yourself,” I gasp, cupping the throbbing erection pressing against the front of his pants.

Anyone could walk past the stairs and see us. But as I unzip Oleg’s pants and free him, feeling him hard and hot in my palm, I don’t care about anything else.

He gives a rough thrust into my palm as he strokes his fingers into me. Our lips meet in a moan, moving together in sloppy, desire-drunk kisses as we stumble back against the wall.

Oleg slides his fingers out of me as I bring him to my entrance.

And with one thrust, he’s buried inside of me.

“Fuck, Sutton,” he breathes, finding my hands and pinning them to the wall above my head. Our fingers intertwine as he pushes into me again and again.

I curl my thigh around his hip, and he slides home even deeper. I cry out, but it’s lost when he kisses me again.

We’re as close as we can be, but it isn’t enough.

This entire week of fucking and talking hasn’t been enough.

I want more.

I think I’ll always want more.

And the way Oleg holds me, breathing only my name as we come together while the wealthy, insane people who populate his world carry on with their reckless sins somewhere above our heads…

I think he wants more, too.

When we fall apart together, gasping and crying out, all I can think is, He’s just as much mine as I am his.

Whether he admits it or not.