The mansion was always quiet in the morning, save for the soft hum of the ocean through the tall windows. Claire lingered in the living room, still dressed in one of Damien's oversized shirts, fingers tracing the embroidered patterns on the cushions as her thoughts drifted. She had agreed to stay, but the reality of it—the intensity, the unknown—still made her pulse quicken.
When Damien returned from his meeting that afternoon, she found him in the study, reviewing a stack of documents.
He didn't look up immediately, letting the quiet tension stretch between them. Finally, he spoke, low and deliberate:
"Before anything… I should have asked about your age. How old are you Claire?" he had ignored such an important detail because of his selfish desires. It had now struck him light a lightning bolt when he noticed her pale legs in his shirt.
Claire tilted her head, curiosity shining in her green eyes. "What does that matter? It's not like I'm child" she asked, though uncertain of why he cared about her age. Something in her whispered twenty five so she chose to go with that.
Damien set the papers aside and approached her, his presence commanding yet calm. "I don't indulge in anything to do with kids, and now that I notice it. You look like one."
Claire swallowed, nervousness coiling in her stomach. "I'm twenty five, no one is coming after you"
He smirked faintly, eyes darkening with intent. "Good," he said, his voice dropping lower, "you can stay as long as you wish then, use my body and money but no expectations beyond that. Do you understand?"
"I do," she whispered, her voice steady though her pulse raced.
The first day was deceptively simple. Damien led her to the mansion's private terrace, where soft sunlight spilled over the marble floor. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the glass railing, waves rolling in hypnotic rhythm. He guided her slowly through the most basic explorations: a hand brushing against hers, a lingering touch on the shoulder, learning how each caress felt, how she responded.
By evening, they moved inside to the lounge, where soft music filled the room. Damien traced a finger along the curve of her jaw, letting her feel the power in his touch but never overstepping. Each moment was measured, deliberate, forcing Claire to focus entirely on the sensations, the closeness, and the silence between them.
"It's about noticing," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not just touching… but seeing. Feeling. Responding."
Claire nodded, the words sinking in as her heart thudded in her chest. "I think… I'm starting to understand," she said, her voice a whisper.
Over the next several days, the rhythm of their days became a carefully constructed intimacy. Mornings were slow—tea on the terrace, the soft scent of salt in the air, quiet conversations about nothing and everything. Damien never rushed her; he observed, corrected, guided.
Afternoons were about closeness. A brush of fingers while reading together on the chaise lounge, whispered observations about each other's habits, tentative explorations of skin under casual clothing. Claire found herself learning how to respond to the smallest gestures—the tilt of his head, the pressure of a hand, the way his eyes lingered.
Evenings were the most intense. Candles flickered in the study, the soft hum of music filling the space. Damien taught her about patience, restraint, and attention—how to anticipate, how to give, how to surrender in trust. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word was a lesson, and Claire absorbed it all like a dry sponge, soaking in each moment of sensation and control.
Sometimes they would simply sit together, silent, watching the waves outside, letting the intimacy build without words. Other times, laughter would erupt at a playful touch or a teasing comment, breaking the tension before they returned to their slow, deliberate dance of connection.
And not once did she stop to wonder if she was making the right decision, staying with man who made it clear he wanted no attachment or emotions involved.
By the end of the second week, Claire realised something remarkable: she had never felt so alive. Each day with Damien taught her more than she had ever imagined about herself, about desire, about trust. She was learning not only how to give herself, but how to hold herself together in the midst of such intensity.
And Damien—who had always been distant, precise, controlled—was showing a side of himself only she had access to. The tenderness behind the smouldering eyes, the subtle vulnerability beneath the controlled exterior… Claire saw it, and in turn, she began to trust him entirely.
On the night of the fourteenth day, they stood on the terrace again, the moonlight painting silver patterns on the waves. Claire's head rested against Damien's shoulder, his hand tracing her back in slow, deliberate circles.
"Two weeks," she thought. "And I feel like I've known you forever."
Claire closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of salt and him, the warmth of the night.
"Come with me," he said, leading her to the far end of the coast she had not reached before. Did he own half the island?
To her surprise, he had set out a bed by the coast. The stars seemed to align with his wishes, they were brighter than ever.
She took in the breath taking scene, and for a moment she hesitated. It felt too open, too revealing.
"Are you scared?" his voice was firm and measured. With everything they did he never wished to force her.