Leaving Billionaires’ Row, Damon was already hard.
Not fully but just that low restless half-swell that meant his body knew where they were going before his brain admitted it. Home. Bedroom. Locked door. Phone; the same routine he swore off every morning and crawled back to every night like a dog returning to a bowl it already licked clean.
The Uber Damon was in smelled like cheap air freshener and somebody’s twelve-hour shift.
Damon had dropped into the back seat and leaned his head against the window while Manhattan smeared past in red and gold. The city looked clean from behind glass, which was a lie.
’But it’s at least an expensive lie.’
His phone sat in his pocket like a loaded weapon.
He could feel it warm against his thigh and his stupid brain was already scrolling through what he’d open first. Same sites. Same category, because let’s be honest, he had a type, and the type was older, thicker, and completely out of his league.
’Mature women with soft or sometimes toned stomachs, heavy chests and that hot bored knowing look that makes my cock jump like it has been personally addressed.’
He was eighteen... adopted into billions and ate food cooked by people with degrees and after he slept under sheets that cost more than most people’s rent.
And he still lost every night to a glowing rectangle and a fake message from some paid Onlyfans actress calling him handsome.
’Pathetic. Genuinely pathetic. But my dick has never once cared about my dignity.’
And tonight was clearly not going to be the night it started.
The Uber turned into quieter streets...
The loud city thinned out and the houses started hiding behind walls and black gates, whispering old money instead of shouting it. Then the driver slowed and whistled under his breath over the beauty of each house, and Damon already knew why.
The man checked the GPS twice, staring at the mansion glowing beyond the gate, pale stone and huge glass and a pool lit blue like liquid jewelry poured into the ground.
"This can’t be right," the driver muttered.
Damon opened one eye.
"Bro." The driver looked back at him, soul visibly folding. "What devil did you sell your soul to to be living in this place? And how the hell do you live here and still take Ubers?"
Damon smiled before he could stop himself. "A sold my soul not to the devil but a demoness..."
He paid through the app, opened the door, and leaned down just enough to ruin the man’s night. "...called Lilith Corvin Viremont. And that’s not metaphorical... she’s a real demoness!"
He shut the door on the driver’s open mouth and turned toward the gate while the car crawled away, stealing one last look at the property.
The estate waited with its usual arrogance. Glass walls. Palm trees lit from below. Cream sofas around the pool arranged for beautiful people to ruin marriages on. Damon pressed his palm to the biometric reader, blue light slid under his hand, and the mansion said:
{Welcome home, Mr. Damon Corvin Viremont} in the smooth female voice Lilith had picked... even the security system in this family sounded like it could make a grown man beg as he entered the back gate of the estate like usual.
"Hey, creepy," he muttered, and stepped inside.
He should have gone straight to the doors, head down, eyes forward, straight to bed like a functional human being.
His eyes went up instead with zero hesitation.
His common sense had clocked out hours ago and left the pervert running night security, and the pervert had one job, and the pervert was excellent at it:
On the second floor in a one lit room with curtains half open.
’There she is.’
The woman from upstairs... the mature woman... from the second floor.
’Like usual... she’s hot like all those MILFs I’ll give anything to touch.’
He hated that his brain reached for that MATURE word before her name, before anything decent, but the word was already stamped across her whole existence in his head, and it fit so well it should have been illegal.
She stood in front of her mirror, half-turned, and God, the shape of her:
She wasn’t built like the girls his age, all sharp angles and gym-app abs.
She was soft and heavy in all the places that made his brain stop producing thoughts.
Her wide hips stretched the pale green skirt tight across her ass, making the thick thighs shift under the fabric every time she moved her weight, and a chest that made the white blouse work overtime, the thin fabric pulled snug over breasts that sat full and heavy, swaying just slightly when she leaned toward the glass.
The blouse was tied low at the front.
The knot sat loose against her stomach, and above it, the open collar showed a deep line of cleavage, soft and shadowed in the warm light, the kind of cleavage you could lose a whole future in.
His cock reacted so hard against his zipper he actually shifted his stance behind the palm tree like a guilty schoolboy hiding a tent, which was exactly what he was, so fine. Fair.
Then she reached back and pulled the skirt down over herself, adjusting it over her hips, and Damon’s brain flatlined.
Because she had to bend, just a little... just enough for the skirt to strain, for her ass to push back round and full against the fabric, for the blouse to ride up and bare that strip of soft waist. Then her hands smoothed the skirt down over her hips slowly, palms gliding along her own curves the casual way women touched themselves without ever knowing what it did to those watching, and Damon felt every inch of that slide in his own body like she’d dragged her hands down him instead.
She was just fixing her clothes, probably thinking about dinner or makeup.
He was fully hard now, aching; his cock pressed tight against his jeans, pulsing with every heartbeat like it was counting the distance to her window.
He’d watched women online wearing nothing at all, spread their pussies open in 4K, moaning his subscription’s name, and none of it had ever hit like this. One clothed woman fixing a skirt through a real window in his own real house, and the whole animal woke up starving.
He looked away.
He looked back in under two seconds.
"Don’t be weird," he whispered.
He stayed anyway.
She leaned toward the mirror to fix her makeup, and everything got worse.
’Better.’
The lean pushed her breasts forward against the blouse until the fabric looked genuinely stressed, the deep valley of her cleavage pressing together, and the knot pulled looser over her bare waist.
She tilted her chin, lips slightly parted as she worked something along her mouth, and his imagination was with her but with that blouse gone, the skirt gone to... turning from that mirror, all soft weight and warm skin, and finding him down here with a face full of guilt and a raging problem in his pants—and instead of screaming, she just smile at him that same slow, older-woman smile that said "come upstairs and stop pretending."
His cock jumped, imagination running wild.
In reality, she turned, checked herself from the side, one hand resting on her hip, and the profile alone was criminal—the heavy push of her chest, the dip of her waist, the round swell of her ass in that skirt.
His eyes tracked every inch before shame even punched in for its shift. His shame was decorative anyway; it showed up after the damage, looked concerned, contributed nothing, and left early.
She eventually walked out of view.
The room stayed bright and empty, and Damon stood there like an idiot waiting for the window to apologize.
Then he laughed, low and dirty and completely defeated.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I’m cooked."
He pushed off the tree and headed for the rear doors before someone caught him looking guilty enough to need a lawyer and hard enough to need an ambulance. Warm air rolled over him inside.
Marble, gold light, art worth more than hospitals. He barely registered any of it.
His mind had already locked the whole sequence in the vault: The bend, the hands smoothing down her hips, the blouse straining and the strip of waist.
To her, it meant nothing.
To him, it was a whole night.
His room was on the ground floor, his choice, and everyone thought it was weird because the upper rooms had better views. The ground floor had the only view that mattered: privacy.
Nobody close enough to hear him when his dignity died after midnight, and tonight dignity was already flatlining in the hallway.
His hand hit the back door handle of the mansion. Some better version of him tried to say something about respect and self-control.
He ignored it. Obviously.
The lock clicked and his room sat dark except for blue pool light bleeding through the curtains.
Damon pulled out his phone, caught his reflection in the black screen, and smiled like a man who’d already lost.
"Not even lying to myself tonight."
The screen lit up in his hand.
***
A/N: Was writing this and I heard a movie, a girl said; I can’t believe he made us come... I thought it was the other come given what I was writing at the moment😂