Page 21 of Hellbent (Snakes & Daggers #1)

THE GARAGE IS quiet today. Damian’s working on a Chevy with a fucked-up suspension, and there are no other cars in.

I’m standing at the terminal bay, updating work orders.

Wyatt’s gone for the day, out “handling something” and leaving Damian in charge.

It’s just the two of us, the stillness broken only by the clink of tools, the soft tap of my keyboard, and the low drone of the radio.

It’s the first time we’ve been alone since that day at the unfinished house—when he fucked me right after Jake.

It’s been two weeks of working side by side, flirting playfully and exchanging glances, but Wyatt’s always around at the garage, a silent buffer between us.

And I haven’t stepped foot inside Ryder’s house since that night of whiskey and unspoken tension that led to his parting question, laced with malice: Or is it just whoever fucked you last?

But today, Wyatt’s not here. Today, there’s no distraction. It’s just the two of us for the first time, and I don’t know what happens now.

Jake’s voice echoes in my mind: You don’t have to hold back, baby. I know you want him.

The words hit the same way they did two nights ago, murmured against my skin as Jake pressed me deeper into the mattress. His breath had been warm on my ear, his arm heavy around my waist, keeping me pinned exactly where he wanted me.

The idea of you being with him doesn’t make me jealous. That’s fucking hot.

There was no possessiveness in his voice, just pure heat. Like he got off on the idea. He hadn’t just given me permission, he’d encouraged it. Damian wants you so bad it hurts. You should let him have you.

Knowing that he feels that way twists something inside of me. It’s part thrill, part fear.

No jealousy. No control. Just permission.

The idea that my body, my choices, belong solely to me.

With Billy, my body was his to use and claim—until I stopped wanting to be touched at all.

But now, no one decides for me. No one owns me. I can do what I want. Even if what I want…is Damian.

I shift my weight, refocusing on the screen and trying to ignore his presence—the subtle scrape of metal against metal as he works, the quiet way he exhales when he concentrates.

I force my attention to the work order in front of me.

The radio has been playing in the background for hours, nothing I’ve paid much attention to, until an unfamiliar guitar riff drifts through the speakers and Damian pushes up from where he’s crouched by the wheel well and whoops, startling me.

“Turn it up!” he calls out.

I jump at the outburst, then shake my head, smiling despite myself. “What is it?”

He exhales sharply, like he’s actually pained, and drags a hand down his face before shaking his head in slow disappointment. “Are you fucking serious?”

I laugh, the sound escaping a little too fast—part amusement, part relief, grateful for the sudden break in silence. “No. I don’t know this song. Is that a crime?”

He shoves the wrench into his back pocket and wipes his hands on a rag. His expression is pure disbelief. “You don’t know Wave of Mutilation? ”

I shrug. “Never heard of it.”

He’s already shaking his head, crossing the garage like a man on a mission. “Unacceptable.”

He reaches over my head for the stereo and cranks the volume. Before I can react, his hands close around mine, and suddenly he’s twirling me under his arm. A startled laugh bursts from my lips as the motion spins me off balance, my shoes scuffing against the concrete floor.

“Damian!”

He spins me again, pulling me in closer this time. His body is all hard lines and coiled strength, the plane of his chest against mine as solid as the feel of his hands.

“This might be the best thing I ever teach you,” he quips, just a little cocky.

I have to force my voice to stay light. “That so? Guess I’ll have to rank it against all the other things you’ve taught me.”

His grip tightens, his gaze flicking to my mouth as he gives me a sly smile.

“Finch,” he drawls, teasing. “What are you implying?”

I laugh as he spins me past the Chevy with his tools scattered around it, past the Mustang Fastback that Wyatt still doesn’t know we took out that time.

It’s just a game, just Damian being Damian—loud, reckless, and impossible to ignore—until it’s not.

The change creeps in slow, pulsing underneath the easy rhythm of our movements.

He moves one hand to my waist, pulling me in closer.

All the while, the music sways around us, dreamy and strange, the hollow twang of the guitar curling through the air.

It makes everything feel hazy, softened around the edges.

My laughter fades, and his does too. His grin lingers for half a second before slipping away.

I feel it coming like a storm about to break—an electric charge humming in the air, skin prickling, bracing for the strike…

His hands slip down my back, dragging heat over my spine as he pulls me flush against him. My breath shudders out between us. He bends his head, his nose tracing the curve of my jaw in a slow, teasing drag.

“Fuck,” he mutters, just under his breath, almost to himself. Then his lips brush the hollow beneath my ear—soft and barely there.

A slow shiver rolls down my spine. “Damian—”

One hand tightens at my waist, the other tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

My pulse beats against his fingers as his lips ghost over mine, lightly teasing…and I answer him. My lips press firmly back against his, my hunger for him snapping free.

Damian groans, deepening the kiss by increments and making fire skate down my spine.

Then he’s pushing me with him as he moves forward. One step, two, until my butt hits something solid. The workbench.

He lifts me onto it in one smooth motion, stepping between my legs and pressing his forehead against mine. Before I can even catch up, my fingers are already curling over his shoulders, anchoring me to him.

I hesitate, laughing nervously. “What if someone walks in?”

He shakes his head, certainty threaded through the rough edge of his voice. “No one’s coming in today.”

He’s right. It’s been dead slow all week.

“You know how much I’ve been thinking about that day at the house?” His nose skims mine, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can still fucking feel it.”

A slow roll of his hips, pressing against me, shows me exactly what he means.

God.

I don’t answer. I can’t answer.

My thighs clench around him. Every inch of me is already burning. I grab the front of his coveralls and pull him into another kiss.

A low moan slips from him, swallowed against my mouth before his lips wander, tracing down to the fluttering pulse in my throat.

His breath is hot against my skin as he whispers, right against my ear: “I want to ruin you for anyone else. I want to come in you so deep that you drip with me for days.”

My stomach drops and slickness blooms between my thighs.

“You like that, don’t you?” His whispered voice is pure sin. “The thought of me stretching you open. Filling up your tight little pussy. Knowing I’ll still be inside you hours from now.”

When a sound escapes me, needy and desperate, he chuckles low in his throat and pulls the zipper of my coveralls, yanking them down, pushing the thick fabric off my shoulders.

The sleeves slip down my arms, pooling at my waist, and when he pulls back just enough to look at me, he sucks back a breath.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath.”

His voice is hoarse, like the sight of me—bare and exposed before him—just knocked the wind out of him.

I grin and say nothing—I don’t have enough t-shirts to waste wearing them when I’ve got something else on. His hands slide up my stomach and ribs and then cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples and making them pebble.

“Look up at me,” he growls.

I lift my eyes and his gaze burns into mine, molten and dark.

I swallow, my pulse beating against his fingers as they circle my throat, claiming me in a firm grip before he kisses me again.

He groans like he’s barely holding himself together, so I roll my hips against him—a teasing, barely-there grind.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

He shoves my coveralls down the rest of the way, dragging my underwear with them, the fabric catching against my thighs before I kick them off.

I reach for his zipper, but he catches my wrist, stopping me.

“Not yet, princess,” he commands. “Put your hands down and spread your legs for me.”

I obey, parting my knees, achingly aware of how bare I am beneath him—Damian still dressed in his coveralls while I’m not wearing a scrap of clothing.

He drops down to his knees, hands sliding up the sides of my thighs to my ass, dragging me to the edge of the workbench. He leans in, his breath hot against my inner thigh as he presses a kiss there. Then another, higher.

“You have such a pretty little pussy,” he murmurs. “I’ve been thinking about it for days. How tight and wet you felt on my cock, how sweetly you squeezed me when you came.” He brushes a soft kiss on my clit, and my whole body jolts. “But this time I wanna taste you.”

I whimper, unable to speak, and he grins against my skin. “That’s my girl.”

And then his mouth is on me.

He parts me with his tongue and I gasp—head tipping back, thighs trembling, a moan spilling from my lips before I can stop it. He groans like he’s tasting something he’s been craving for years, working over my clit and circling it with rhythmic precision before sucking it into his mouth.

I clutch the edge of the workbench with both hands, hips rocking forward, chasing his mouth without even meaning to.

He’s relentless—licking, sucking, devouring me with single-minded focus. Every drag of his mouth sends sparks racing through me as he strokes my clit, arms locked around my thighs to hold me still while I writhe and gasp his name like a prayer.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters between strokes. “You taste so goddamn good. So wet already. You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you?”