The Last Time He Touched Me Novel – Chapter 1 Three months after breaking up with my mafia sugar daddy, I accidentally use his card to buy a box of ultra-thin condoms. He sends me a text soon after. [Who’s better, him or me?] I ignore it. That night, after a business trip, I return to my hotel and find a tall figure blocking my way. He is lean, sharp-edged, the kind of man who lives at the edge of gunfire and power. Even exhaustion clings to him like pressure rather than weakness. He should be in a city thousands of miles away, ruling his underworld empire. But now, Don Grimholt, the powerful head of a mafia family, is standing in front of me. As if crossing every boundary in the world just to get an answer. From me. “Kristen.” He calls my name in a low voice, his tone rough. “You’re playing with fire.” Before I can respond, he grabs my wrist and pushes me straight into the room. He tears open my blouse and stockings, pressing me against the floor-to-ceiling window of the hotel.
His heavy breathing fills my ear. On the bed, he keeps pushing me to my limits. When I beg him to go faster, he bites my earlobe and deliberately asks, “Can he do this to you too?” I bite my lip and say nothing, secretly pleased by his jealousy. After it is over, he leans against the headboard. The desire in his green eyes fades little by little, returning to the calm, dangerous composure of a mafia Don who controls everything. He looks at me like this is a transaction that must come to an end. “Kristen,” he says, “I’m getting married next month.” “This is the last time.” I freeze. It feels like a bucket of ice water is poured over my head, freezing me from scalp to toes. Damien gets out of bed. A moment later, the sound of running water comes from the bathroom. I lie on the messy sheets, staring at the ceiling light until my eyes sting. So I was never going to become his Donna, was I? I can no longer remember exactly how we broke up months ago. I only remember that we had a huge fight. Because he never says he loves me.
Out of anger, I suggested we break up. He didn’t comfort me, didn’t even ask why. He only said, “Are you sure about this?” I nodded. Then I flew to New York for a business trip in silence. I thought distance would help me get over it. But I was wrong. For the past three months, I throw myself into endless work, trying to numb myself. Yet whenever I stop, my mind is filled with him. So today, I deliberately used the card he left behind at my place in a convenience store to buy a box of ultra-thin condoms, just to see how he would react. And he came. He flew all the way here overnight, straight to my hotel. I thought we were going to reconcile. Instead, after one wild night, he tells me he is getting married. What a jerk! When Damien comes out of the bathroom, he is only wearing a towel. His muscular back and shoulders look smooth and powerful under the dim light. He walks to the bed and glances at me still frozen in place, frowning slightly. “Go take a shower.” I get up mechanically, my legs barely able to hold me.
The next second, he steps forward and lifts me into his arms, carrying me into the bathroom. Like countless times before, he squeezes shower gel into his palm, lathers it, and washes every inch of me clean. His movements are gentle, almost careful, as if I am something fragile. But my heart feels like it is breaking, unable to breathe. He rinses me off, turns off the water, and wraps me in a towel without saying a word. I stand there, wet hair sticking to my shoulders, watching him walk toward the door. “Congratulations.” My voice comes out hoarse, almost unrecognizable. He stops. Turns his head slightly. His brows tighten almost imperceptibly, as if he is confirming what he just heard. After a moment, his throat moves, “What did you say?” “Congratulations on your marriage.” I force a smile. He looks at me for a few seconds, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Go to bed early,” he says, “I’ll get a room next door.” I am already used to this. He sleeps lightly and does not like having anyone beside him. Over the years, after every encounter, no matter how exhausted I am, I always move to the next room.
The next morning, the sky is already bright when I wake up. I check my phone. 9:30 a.m. Three unread messages from colleagues. [Kristen, where are you? Today is the day the director announces your promotion to program lead.] I suddenly sit up and rush to get ready. Last night, Damien pushed me to exhaustion until around three in the morning, and I couldn’t fall asleep until almost two hours later. My entire body feels like it has been run over by a truck. When I finish getting ready and rush downstairs, I immediately see a black Maybach parked at the hotel entrance. The window rolls down slowly. Damien is sitting in the driver’s sea