Cottage Getaway Pt. 9

The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the deck, the lake shimmering under the golden light. The air was warm, buzzing faintly with distant laughter and the occasional splash of water. But here, tucked away in the shaded corner of the patio, it was just you and Damian.

Everyone else had peeled off into their own groups—Richard with Bianca, Ethan with Vanessa (who had clocked your cozy conversation and made a very conscious decision not to interrupt), while Leo, Julian, Madison, and Sienna lounged by the water, deep in their own chatter.

But you? You had your prize right here.

Damian Kane, Ares' golden boy, was relaxed.

Not stiff, not watching you like a potential threat or a transaction to be evaluated, but actually at ease. His posture, still composed, had lost some of its usual rigidity. His arms were crossed loosely, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. He wasn’t looking at you like he was waiting for you to prove something.

He was enjoying himself.

You sat side by side on the sleek leather couch, the space between you damn near nonexistent, knees occasionally brushing, shoulders just barely grazing. A silent challenge neither of you acknowledged, but neither of you moved to change.

The conversation had started as something casual—investments, business trends, the utterly fucked state of Wall Street—but had slowly unraveled into something else.

Something closer. Something dangerous.

"You’re quieter than usual," he observed, tilting his head slightly. "That’s not like you."

You smirked, swirling the last of your drink in its glass. "Maybe I just like watching you squirm."

Damian huffed a laugh, low and dry. "Cute."

"I’m serious." You leaned in a little, resting your chin on your palm as you studied him. "I think you hate being studied, but you love doing the studying. You don’t like being read."

"That would require someone actually being capable of reading me."

You grinned. "And yet, here I am, breaking you down one conversation at a time."

His smirk twitched—barely—but it was there. "You think you're making progress?"

You tilted your head, deliberately slow, watching him. “Aren’t I?”

Damian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for his glass, took a slow sip of his whiskey, and watched you over the rim.

His eyes—dark, assessing, unreadable—held yours for a long, heavy second before he set the glass down with a quiet clink.

"You know," he murmured, "I don’t usually tolerate this kind of persistence."

"Maybe it’s because I’m not persistent," you mused, shifting slightly so your knee brushed against his. "I’m just interesting."

Damian let out another quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly, but he didn’t pull away. You had his attention. And, more importantly, you had his curiosity.

"You really think that’s why I’m still here?" he asked, voice low, amused.

"That, and I’m incredibly fuckable," you teased, taking a sip of your drink. What you said wasn't entirely out of character, but now that the trial was hopefully nearing its end, you had to put all the cards on the table.

Damian exhaled sharply—not quite a laugh, but close.

"You think I don’t have a line of women trying to get my attention?"

You smirked. "Oh, I know you do." Your gaze flicked toward the house, where Vanessa had been watching earlier, taking note of how close you and Damian had gotten before wisely deciding not to interrupt. You looked back at him, dropping your voice slightly. "But none of them bother you like I do, do they?"

Damian studied you for a beat, then leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping into something quieter, something just a little more dangerous.

You tilted your head, studying him. “So, you really don’t do relationships?”

Damian exhaled a quiet scoff, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Define ‘relationship.’”

You smirked. “A connection beyond money, power, and mutual orgasms.”

His lips twitched. “Then no.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

You arched a brow. “Why?”

He took a sip of his drink, gaze steady, cool, unbothered. “Because emotions make people stupid. They cloud judgment. They compromise leverage. They create weakness.”

You hummed, tapping a manicured finger against your thigh. “And you hate weakness.”

“Despise it.”

Your lips curled. “So, what happens when you start catching feelings?”

He laughed at that. A low, dark sound, like the very idea was laughable.

“I don’t.”

You leaned in slightly, just enough to test him, just enough to watch the flicker of something he barely caught himself in time to hide.

“You sure about that?”

His jaw ticked. Just a little.

But instead of answering, he turned his head slightly, letting his gaze drag over your face, your lips, the delicate slope of your throat. Not like a man caught off guard—like a man making a choice.

And fuck. It did something to you.

Maybe it was his status—the weight of his power, the sheer command he had over a room. Maybe it was the fact that this was your trial, that he was the last piece of Aphrodite’s game against Ares, another step toward your freedom.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the way he was looking at you.

And that? That caught you off guard. But you didn't hate it.

By the time Damian returned, whiskey glasses in hand, you were already finishing off the last of your drink, the warmth spreading low in your stomach, leaving the edges of the world just slightly softer, your body just a little looser.

You tilted your empty glass toward him with a smirk. “Good timing.”

He handed you a fresh one without a word, settling back beside you on the couch. This time, there was even less space between you, his thigh brushing yours, his arm stretched along the backrest, fingertips just barely grazing your shoulder.

You hummed, taking a sip, the warmth of the **** spreading through you now, a slight haze settling into your limbs. Not drunk. Just… loose.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to let your lips hover near his ear. “I know you like me.”

His jaw tensed, the barest flicker of amusement ghosting across his face. “I like watching you run your mouth.”

You smirked, trailing your fingers along the rim of your glass. “That’s such a nice way of saying yes.”

Damian exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “You’re something else.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s not a no.”

His gaze flicked to yours, and this time, he didn’t look away.

The whiskey made everything feel hotter, heavier, closer—and maybe it was the ****, or maybe it was just him, but something in you wanted to push, to test the limits, to see just how much of that steel exterior could bend before it snapped.

So you let your fingers trail—just lightly, just teasingly—along the edge of his sleeve.

“Do you always have your walls this high?” you murmured.

Damian tilted his head slightly, his eyes dragging over your face, your lips, lingering just long enough that you felt it.

“They keep the weak out.”

You smirked, lifting your fingers to trace the rim of his glass this time, watching the way his breath caught for just a second.

“And yet,” you murmured, “I’m still here.”

His fingers tightened around his drink, knuckles flexing, but he didn’t move, didn’t pull away, didn’t do a damn thing except watch you, his gaze dark and unreadable.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured.

Your lips curled. “And you like it.”

His smirk was lazy, dangerous. “I tolerate it.”

“You’re lying.”

He didn’t answer, just watched you, waiting—daring you to keep going.

So you did.

You let your hand drift, resting lightly on his thigh, not high enough to be obvious, but not far enough to be innocent either.

Damian’s gaze flicked down, then back up, and his jaw tightened, his fingers flexing again.

But he still didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. Didn’t tell you no.

Your heart thrummed, something dangerous and thrilling coiling tight in your stomach.

This was a game. A high-stakes one. And the best part? Damian Kane was playing it too.

He took another sip of his drink, slow and measured, and when he set the glass down, he turned fully toward you, his arm along the back of the couch lowering, fingertips just barely grazing the exposed skin of your shoulder.

“You still think you’ve got me figured out,” he murmured, voice low, almost amused.

You smirked, tilting your chin up slightly. “I think I’m getting closer.”

Damian’s gaze flickered, dark and sharp, and when he exhaled a quiet chuckle, there was something dangerous in it.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Your fingers tightened on his thigh, just slightly, just enough to make his muscles tense beneath your touch.

“Then maybe,” you murmured, low, “you should show me.”

Silence. Tense. Heavy.

And for a split second—just one—you thought he might.

That he might grab your wrist, pull you in, press his mouth to yours, make you regret teasing a man like him.

But then—A sharp inhale. His.

Like he was reeling himself back, like he had felt it too and was shutting it down before either of you could let it spiral.

Damian pulled away first, exhaling slowly, running a hand through his hair.

“You,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, “are a fucking problem.”

You smiled, settling back into the couch. “But you like this problem.”

Damian huffed, rolling his glass between his fingers. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep not denying it.”

His eyes—they lingered. Just for a second.

His hand brushed against your thigh, casual, fleeting, but deliberate.

And fuck. You felt it.

The heat. The electricity. The way the room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick, the weight of his presence too much—

Damian’s voice dipped, low, smooth, sinful. "You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Your breath hitched, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “So are you.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t move away. Didn’t break the moment.

Just held your gaze, his smirk slow, teasing, something dark simmering just beneath the surface.

And for the first time, you knew. This? This was something else. Something real. Something that, if you pushed just a little further, could spiral into something more.

And fuck—you weren’t sure if you were ready for that. But goddamn, did you want it.