Page 38 of Deliah

T he next morning, I woke to the smell of more fresh coffee and something warm and sugary. My eyes blinked open to see Damion standing at the edge of the bed, shirtless in grey joggers, tray in hand, wearing that same cocky, satisfied smirk he’d had the night before—like he’d conquered something.

“Morning, trouble,” he said, setting the tray down beside me. “Eat up. We’ve got places to be.”

I rubbed my eyes, still sore in all the best ways, and tried not to stare at his abs. “Places?”

“We’re going shopping. Now move, before I decide you’re staying in bed all day—for a different reason.”

My eyes lit up despite myself. “You’re taking me shopping?”

“Yes, really. Now get that cute little arse in gear.”

That man knew exactly what he was doing.

I don’t care what anyone says—no one in a tracksuit should look that hot.

Especially after the way he’d ruined me last night.

I could still feel him. Still taste him.

Still remember how it felt when his hands gripped my thighs like he owned them.

I scrambled out of bed with a grin, trying not to let the butterflies show.

I didn’t say anything—not about last night, not about how it made me feel—but the silence was buzzing.

It was only our first time, and now he was spoiling me like this?

Like I was his? I threw on something glam, layered with perfume and lip gloss, masking the frenzy in my head with eyeliner and attitude.

We drove down to Puerto Banús—where the sea sparkled like a fucking Cartier showroom and even the pigeons looked expensive.

The air was thick with salt, money, and perfume that probably cost more than most people’s rent.

It was the kind of place where girls didn’t wear bras and men didn’t check price tags.

Damion walked like he belonged there. Like I belonged with him. Louis Vuitton, Prada, Chanel—he dragged me through them all like a kid in a candy store, picking pieces like he’d spent his life dressing women in silk and secrets.

He wrapped his arm around my waist, murmuring against my ear, “This one. It’ll drive me fucking insane.”

“You saying you want me to behave?” I teased, holding up a backless red dress that was one wrong move away from illegal.

He looked me up and down slowly, his jaw twitching with restraint. “Not even a little.”

I should’ve been floating. On cloud nine.

And part of me was. The other part? That messy, insecure voice inside my chest?

It was panicking. This was fast. Intense.

Real. But I kept my mouth shut. Smiled. Let him spoil me.

He carried my bags like a gentleman, held my hand like a boyfriend, pulled me into him like something much more dangerous.

Told me I was beautiful at least five times—and once when I was just cackling at my own joke, nearly tripping over a kerb.

He paused, thumb brushing a smudge of gloss from my lip. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me when you laugh like that.”

A shiver crept down my spine. It was the way he said it. Low. Possessive. Like I was already his and he hadn’t decided whether that was a good thing or not. I swallowed. “Don’t go all soft on me now, Daddy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about soft?”

God. Help me.

We stopped for lunch at a boujee terrace overlooking the water, all white linen and overpriced olives.

He ordered us champagne like it was water, and I was too giddy to pretend I didn’t love every second of it.

“Only you could walk into Gucci, flirt with the sales girl, and get us free champagne,” I teased, swirling the glass between my fingers.

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “She was flirting with you, actually. I just enjoyed the view.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jealous?”

“Of her? Nah.” He leaned in close, voice dropping. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to bend you over the counter when you tried on that little black dress.”

I nearly choked on my drink. “You’re a menace.”

He clinked his glass to mine. “You love it.”

He grabbed my chin, just enough pressure to make me pause, and kissed me—slow, soft, filthy in its sweetness.

My heart fluttered. My body remembered everything.

I wanted him all over again, and yet somehow I was still sore from the night before.

Still reeling. I was floating. Spoiled. And underneath it all…

terrified. Because no one had ever treated me like this.

And I didn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness.

After we’d eaten, I stretched out on the lounger and looked over at him, still half dazed from the champagne and the way he’d spoiled me all day. But something about him still had me curious—like the more he gave, the more I wanted to know why.

“So… can I ask you something?”

He didn’t look up from his drink. “You’re going to anyway.”

“Fair. But… how did you get into all this?”

He raised a brow. “All what, exactly?”

“This. The whole dominant, in control, punish-me-if-I-misbehave thing. You weren’t born this way.”

He gave a small shrug. “No. I had a normal upbringing, actually. No trauma to report. Bit rare, I know.”

“Okay, so then what? What made you turn into the guy who ruins girls in bed and then takes them to Prada the next morning?”

He smirked at that. “I was nineteen. Thought I was the shit. Used to go to this swanky members-only club in London with a couple of older mates. Met this woman there—late twenties, legs for days, sharp tongue. She worked the floor and had the kind of energy that made men sit up straighter just to get a glance.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You shagged the hostess?”

“Not right away,” he said with a lazy smile. “She made me work for it. Made me wait.”

“And she was into all this… stuff?”

“She introduced me to it,” he said. “Subtly at first. I didn’t even realise what was happening. She had a way of handing over the reins while making you think you were the one taking them. It was psychological.”

“So she trained you?” I grinned.

He gave me a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

I laughed. “Too late.”

He leaned forward slightly. “But yeah, she was the first. She liked to be told what to do. Liked structure. Obedience. But she was wild with it—testing limits, pushing buttons. It wasn’t about control for the sake of ego. It was about what it did to her. How she softened when things made sense.”

I tilted my head. “And you liked that?”

“Yeah, I did. It wasn’t just sex. It was like… creating safety inside the wildness. Giving someone permission to let go because you were holding it all together.”

I studied him. “So it stuck?”

“Clearly.” He raised his glass. “She moved on, but the dynamic didn’t. I read everything I could, learned what worked. Tried, failed, adjusted. I’ve never been one for playing around without purpose.”

“And you’ve been like this ever since?”

“Pretty much. But not everyone can handle it. Some women like the idea of a dom until they actually get one. Others… want saving. That’s not me.”

“And what do you want?” I asked.

He glanced at me, jaw tightening just slightly. “Someone who can handle being seen.”

I blinked. “Seen?”

“Yeah. Properly. Someone who can take the heat but still show up. Someone who knows it’s not about punishment—it’s about structure. Growth. Trust.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It is.”

I sipped from my glass. “And you think I can handle that?”

“I know you can,” he said, eyes darkening slightly. “You don’t need saving, Deliah. You need direction. You need someone who sees through the lashes and the lip gloss and all the little distractions you throw around when you’re scared.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not scared.”

He leaned in, voice low. “No? Then why are you asking all these questions?”

I looked away, biting my lip. “Shut up.”

He chuckled. “There she is.”

“I hate you.”

“You wish you did.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The more I looked at him, the hornier I got.

It was annoying, actually—how smug and composed he looked sitting across from me, sipping espresso like he hadn’t ruined my entire existence just last night.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, jaw ticking slightly as he listened to some story the waiter was telling about wine pairings.

I didn’t care about the wine. I cared about the way his hand looked wrapped around the stem of the glass.

I crossed my legs under the table. Uncrossed them again. He didn’t even glance up.

Brat mode: activated.

I leaned back in my chair slightly, letting my dress ride just a little higher, the soft cotton hem resting dangerously on the tops of my thighs.

I caught his eye, then slowly—deliberately—spread my legs beneath the tablecloth.

No knickers. His gaze dropped. Just for a second.

Blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment. But it was enough.

I smirked and sipped my drink like butter wouldn’t melt.

“You think you’re funny?” he asked casually, like we were talking about the weather.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I tilted my head, innocence dialled up to eleven.

His eyes darkened. “Don’t test me in public.”

“Why not?” I said sweetly. “Scared you’ll fail?”

His jaw clenched, and I swear I saw his hand twitch. Then, without warning, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Up. Now.”

I blinked, but the way he said it—low, tight, full of that simmering control—I was up before I could think.

He grabbed my wrist and led me through the restaurant like we were just a couple heading for a smoke break, nodding politely at the staff as we passed the bar.

We didn’t stop at the door. He dragged me through a service corridor, past crates of wine and swinging kitchen doors, until we burst out the back of the restaurant into a quiet little alley tucked between two buildings.

I barely had time to gasp before he spun me to face the wall.

“Hands flat. Legs apart.”

“Damion—”

“Now.”

I obeyed, heart hammering, the rough brick cool against my palms as I braced myself.