Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Then let me show you how it should be,” he said.
He kissed me again, deeper this time but still unhurried. His hands remained at my waist, waiting for permission to explore further. I felt the heat of his palms through my thin t-shirt, his touch both grounding and electrifying. When his tongue traced the seam of my lips, I opened to him with a soft sigh.
The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely Damian—flooded my senses. His tongue stroked against mine, not demanding but inviting, and I found myself pressing closer, wanting more. One of his hands slid up my back to cradle the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with exquisite tenderness.
I was the one who took the next step, my fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. My hands trembled slightly, and he covered them with his own, steadying me.
“No rush,” he murmured against my lips. “We have all night.”
The simple promise in those words—time, patience, consideration—made my chest ache with something that felt dangerously like hope.
I continued unbuttoning his shirt, revealing inch by inch the smooth skin beneath. When I pushed the fabric from his shoulders, I couldn’t help but stare. In the soft lamplight, Damian’s chest was a study in elegant strength—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, light dusting of dark hair across his pectorals, skin golden and warm.
“Is this okay?” I asked, suddenly shy despite my boldness.
His laugh was low and warm. “More than okay.”
I let my hands explore the contours of his chest, learning the texture of him—the firmness of muscle beneath smooth skin, the slight roughness of chest hair, the surprising softness at his sides. When my thumbs brushed across his nipples, his sharp intake of breath emboldened me.
“You like that,” I observed, not a question.
His eyes, normally so clear and controlled, had darkened to stormy blue. “I like everything you do.”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. His hands settled on my hips, thumbs tracing circles through the fabric of my jeans. When I dragged my teeth gently across his nipple, his grip tightened momentarily before relaxing.
“Alex,” he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips.
I looked up at him through my lashes, feeling a surge of power at seeing the composed lawyer so affected by my touch. “Yes?”
“May I?” he asked, his fingers playing with the hem of my shirt.
I nodded, lifting my arms to help him. He drew the fabric up slowly, his knuckles deliberately brushing against my skin as he went. When the shirt cleared my head, I resisted the urge to cross my arms over my chest. With Marcus, my body had always been something to be criticized, controlled, displayed according to his preferences. With Damian, I felt seen in an entirely different way.
His gaze travelled over me with undisguised appreciation. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and the sincerity in his voice made me believe him.
His hands followed the path of his eyes, skimming over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. When his palms flattened against my ribs, I couldn’t suppress a shiver.
“Cold?” he asked, concern immediate in his voice.
I shook my head. “The opposite.”
His smile was slow and heated as understanding dawned. He stepped closer, until our bare chests were nearly touching. The proximity was intoxicating—the heat of him, the scent of his skin, the tangible electricity between us.
“May I kiss you again?” he asked, and the formality of the question in such an intimate moment made me smile.
“You don’t have to ask permission for every—” I began, but he cut me off with a gentle finger against my lips.
“Yes, I do,” he said simply. “Until you tell me otherwise.”
The words struck me to my core. How long had it been since anyone had truly cared about my consent? Since anyone had seen it as ongoing rather than given once and assumed forever after?
“Yes,” I whispered against his finger. “Kiss me, Damian.”
This kiss was different from the ones before—deeper, hungrier, yet still with that underlying care that made me feel cherished rather than consumed. His hands slid up my back, pulling me flush against him, and the first contact of skin against skin drew matching gasps from us both.
The solid warmth of his chest against mine, the slight friction of hair, the thundering of his heart echoing my own—it was overwhelming in the best possible way. I let my hands wander to his lower back, feeling the shift and play of muscles there as he moved against me.
When his lips left mine to trail along my jaw, I tilted my head to give him better access. He explored the sensitive skin beneath my ear, hisbreath hot against my neck as he discovered a spot that made me gasp.
