Page 100 of Give In
He tried to look stern, but a smile pulled at his lips. Using his shoulder to hold his cell to his ear, he gripped my hips and lifted me, setting me on the island. His palms slid down my thighs to my knees, pushing them apart and moving between.
“Mmhmm,” he said into the phone, bending to press light kisses to my collarbone. “Right.” He stood, his eyes moving from my chest to linger on my mouth before going to my eyes. “Sorry, I have to run. I’ll be in touch between classes tomorrow.” Clicking off, he tossed his cell to the side and cupped my cheek, his mouth about to crash down on mine when I turned my head at the last second.
“Unless you’ve got an odd friendship with a restaurant and you call them during the day to chat, that wasn’t you ordering dinner,” I surmised.
He chuckled. “No, it was Peters.”
“You were talking to your boss while I’m here?” My hand flew to my collarbone. “You kissed me!”
“It wasn’t a FaceTime call. He couldn’t see us.”
“Still!” I gestured between us. “Your… My… They’re close.”
“And they’re gonna be a hell of a lot closer,” he growled, gripping my hips and slamming me against his hardness.
I melted slightly, getting distracted before I remembered my panic. “I shouldn’t be here while you talk to your boss.” I gasped. “What if I would’ve said something?”
“Unless you yelled, ‘Hey, it’s me, Eden Wilder, your student!’ I don’t think a woman’s voice would raise red flags.”
Jealousy clenched my stomach. A question I did not want to know the answer to was burning on the tip of my tongue.
Damien smirked, though it quickly grew into a grin. “About fifty percent of the population is female, so hearing one in the background isn’t unrealistic.”
“You’re at home,” I pointed out. “Are you saying that, based on the population and your square footage, it’s expected to have a certain number of random women milling about?”
“Wow, that would be impressive, if not cramped. Is there a system in place or just an open, rotating door policy?”
“I’m assuming they’d have a schedule so as to never accidentally run into you.”
Unfazed by my insult, he nipped my jaw. “First of all, Peters had no clue I was at home. Had you spoken, and had he heard, and had he miraculously recognized your voice, he’d have likely assumed I was still on campus. More likely, however, he’d have thought nothing of hearing a muffled voice because people have friends and family and acquaintances and, for some, even rotating doors of lovers. Second, it’s worth pointing out that you didn’t speak, so all this is a moot point. And third,” he paused to nip harder at my jaw, making me hiss out of breath before he whispered, “I like your jealousy.” Shifting forward, his hard cock pressed between my legs. “A lot.”
“I’m not jealous,” I protested, though it came out feebly.
“So you wouldn’t mind if I had women milling about?”
“No, not at all. It’d befine.” Even to my own ears, the word was snippy, so I gestured around me. “You’re free to fill your home with your allotted number of women. In fact, have mine. I’m low on space.”
“As generous as that offer is, I only have one allotted woman.” He ground into me again. “You.”
Mentos were added to the Diet Coke in my veins, leaving my heart pounding and effervescent giddiness racing through me.
He kissed me again, as if he couldn’t help himself. As if he couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t fast and hard or intense and bruising. It was slow. Teasing. Savoring.
Like he was memorizing my taste but was in no hurry because we had all the time in the world.
Catching my bottom lip between his teeth, he slowly pulled away. I was about to yank him back to me when he muttered, “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
I glared up at him, reminding myself I didn’t want more slow, tender kisses because I hated him. “No, I’m not.”
Damien chuckled, and since we were pressed close, I got the sensory experience of being able to hearandfeel it. My resolve and I almost melted again, but were saved by the doorbell.
“Dinner,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of my head before stepping away to gesture to another entryway. “We’ll eat in the dining room. Grab plates and drinks.”
“Right.” When he went to the door, I hopped down and scanned the foreign room with its copious amounts of cupboards and drawers. “Plates and drinks, no biggie.”
It took me a few attempts to find the dishes and utensils. The glasses were conveniently in the cupboard next to the fridge. There were mugs—both traditional and travel. Short, etched glasses that looked expensive. Taller ones that looked similar to the curved beer cups we used at Sinners, though I was betting his were glass and not plastic. Wine glasses with decorative stems. And deep, dark blue drinking glasses so close to his exact eye color, they had to have been chosen specifically.
One single man doesn’t need this many cups.
