He seems to always know exactly what I need.
He runs his thumb gently across the thin, sensitive stretch of skin between my thumb and forefinger, back and slowly forth.
I close my eyes and lean against the window, savoring the cold against my cheek. Damon is calm and warm and comforting in a way he can’t possibly know the depths of. I don’t know how I survived the last ten years without him.
Somewhere along the way, Damon’s touch turns from comforting to something more. The press of his thumb against the tender skin of my hand shifts slightly firmer. He adjusts in his seat. I begin to feel the bump of the road between my legs, my entire sense of touch heightened to a state of blood-rushing sensitivity. I squeeze his hand tighter.
Twenty minutes later, I pace the small space between my room door and window, roiling with nervous energy. Thoughts of Damon tickle across my belly and thighs, rippling me with an itchy sensation. Things hum restlessly open between us, and I feel the overwhelming need to satisfy all that is unsettled in me. When I saw Damon that first day in the courtroom hallway, I thought it was a punishment of some kind, being trapped here with my past. Now, I might just believe it’s a gift. A settlement, at least. We get to exist, together, in this sphere of separation from the outside world, where we don’t have to consider the real-life ramifications of us. The end is looming. What if this case is all we’ll ever get? I can’t let it end without more of him.
Before I know it, I am tapping softly at his door.
I glance nervously at the corner where George is stationed, silently begging him not to turn. As I wait, there’s a zing through me from the back of my throat to the pit of my stomach, as I think I should have taken the time to fix myself up. Smooth my hair, change my clothes, brush on some lip gloss. But I didn’t—the force of Damon pulled me straight to his door.
When the door opens, my heart practically leaps from my chest to him. He’s wearing those joggers, the gray ones that hug his backside(and frontside). He’s shirtless, which only adds to the utterly unfair scene at his hotel room door. He leans, forearm above his head against the doorframe, the skin of his side pulled taut over the ridges of his midsection from the stretch. He is the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen.
I inhale him.
Horse camp.Myhorse camp. Me.
I’ve been thinking about it since I found his cologne bottle the other night. If love is gradual or all at once. I know that when I saw him climb out of the back seat of my mom’s car at Sagawa, face twisted in soft concern—it’s the moment I began loving him. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t know it until now. But the answer is—falling in love with him was both gradual, sneaking up on me in our everyday moments, and also a lightning bolt of realization. One instant, like that very first kiss on my doorstep, to make me see clearly.
I loved him.
I never stopped.
He stares at me, and, as I have come to expect, he says so much in the weight of his gaze. His jaw muscle flexes. I’d say he’s looking in my eyes, but it’s more than that. He’s mirroring my wants, desires, and fears all back to me through his silent, intrepid eyes.
He steps forward, so close that our chests touch with each rise, leans farther into me to close the door silently behind me so we are alone. I bathe in his heat.
He is not surprised to find me here. No. It’s like he knows. Like he could feel my need through the walls and came rushing to the door.
He still doesn’t say anything. Why would he? There’s so much to say, but none of it matters right now, and none of it would suffice. He doesn’t speak from his mouth. He speaks from the blue green of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the intensity of his jaw. He speaks from the surge of his chest. From his hands that are clenched then released, then fists again. I watch as each time he clenches a vein running up his forearm presses against his skin, causing the angel wings to pulse.
I scan him, some unconscious thought gnawing at me to pay attention. His chest. It’s largely bare of tattoos, in stark contrast to his arms, a blond happy trail spanning from the bottom curve of his belly buttonand dipping below his waistband. But there is one tattoo etched across his inner left pec. I’d laugh if I didn’t know better, because it would otherwise seem obscure. So out of place.
But I can’t laugh. Instead, there’s a searing heat between my thighs.
Round eyes. Three perfectly spaced whiskers sprouting from each side of its muzzle.
A gerbil or hamster or guinea pig. It could be any.
Prince Hamsterdinck, stationed directly over his heart.
His hands remain tension-filled fists at his sides while I stare at him, at that tattoo. His body is a living history of all the people and things that have ever mattered to him. His passion for motocross. Fishing with his dad. Kara is everywhere, from the wings to the owl. But me—I am etched over his heart, on the otherwise blank canvas of his chest.Me.Us. There is no other reasoning. That ridiculous yard sale ceramic hamster didn’t mean anything to anyone else. Only us. It was—is—the representation of what he meant to me back then. My solace, my safe place to be silly and free. An escape from all that was broken.
He clenches his jaw again, and the muscle along it flexes tightly against the skin. His lust could be mistaken for anger, the intensity just the same. But I know when I look at him, he is brimming with want.
I raise my fingertips to his chest, then my eyes to his in question.
“You’ve always been with me, Syd.” His pec twitches under my touch. I don’t move my hand. “I’ve tried to give you space. I’m clearly failing.” His eyes go down to my fingertips pressed against his skin. His heartbeat accelerates beneath my touch.
“I don’t want you to stay away.”
His eyes search mine, and I recognize the struggle in his. “I meant it when I said I’m bad at relationships, Syd. I don’t... I don’t know if I can give you—”
“I haven’t asked you for anything,” I tell him.
“No, you haven’t,” he concedes. “But I can’t go there with you without being clear about that.”
