“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off, desperate to spare us both the awkwardness of acknowledging what we’d both felt. I sat up quickly, keeping my back to him, grateful for the loose t-shirt that now partially covered my still-evident arousal. “I should probably get up anyway.”
Buster, disturbed by our sudden movements, stretched lazily at the foot of the bed, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.
“Alex, about last night—” Damian began.
“You really helped,” I interrupted, still not looking at him. “The nightmare. You helped with the nightmare. Thank you.”
I risked a glance over my shoulder. Damian sat propped against the headboard, sheet strategically arranged across his lap. His hair was tousled from sleep, stubble darkening his jaw. He looked rumpled and human in a way the polished lawyer never did. Something twisted in my chest at the sight.
“Any time,” he said, then winced slightly at his choice of words. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” I stood up, keeping my back partially turned. “I’ll go get dressed. Let you have some privacy.”
The double meaning hung in the air between us.
I made my escape, scooping up Buster as I went. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, heart pounding ridiculously. My body still hummed with unresolved desire, the phantom sensation of what might have happened if fear hadn’t intervened. I could still feel the weight of him against me, the hardness, the heat. Part of me—a significant part—wanted to turn around, go back into that room, and finish what my body had started. To throw caution aside and feel something other than fear for once. To reclaim that part of myself that Marcus had stolen—my ability to want without consequence, to give and take pleasure freely.
Behind me, I heard Damian sigh heavily. Something thudded softly—perhaps his head falling back against the headboard in frustration.
In my arms, Buster chirped questioningly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered to the cat. “It’s complicated.”
But was it really? For the first time since leaving Marcus, I’d felt desire that wasn’t tangled with fear. Desire for someone who had never tried to control me, who had put my safety above his own comfort repeatedly.
I carried Buster to my room, my mind racing with possibilities and warnings in equal measure. The professional boundaries Damianmaintained weren’t just for show—they protected us both. And I was still healing, still learning who I was without Marcus’s influence.
But something had firmly shifted between us this morning, something we couldn’t easily ignore. The question was what we would do about it.
Damian
I STAREDat the ceiling, listening to Alex’s footsteps fade down the hallway. The moment my bedroom door closed, I let my head fall back against the headboard with a dull thud.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, running a hand through my sleep-mussed hair.
My body remained stubbornly aroused, painfully hard against the confines of my pyjama bottoms. The memory of Alex’s warmth against me was more than vivid—it was seared into my skin like a brand. I’d woken minutes before he had, instantly aware of our tangled position. His back had been pressed firmly against my chest, the curve of his ass nestled perfectly against my groin. My arm had been draped possessively around his narrow waist, my fingers splayed across the soft cotton of his t-shirt, just inches from the waistband of his sleep pants.
I should have moved immediately. Should have disentangled myself and maintained the professional distance I’d been so careful to preserve. Instead, I’d surrendered to temptation, allowing myself those few stolen moments of forbidden closeness. I’d breathed in the intoxicating scent of his hair—sandalwood and something uniquely him—and felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my arm. Hisbody had been warm and pliant in sleep, fitting against mine as though we’d been designed as two halves of the same whole.
When he’d awakened, I felt the change in his breathing first—a subtle quickening that matched my own. For one heart-stopping moment, he’d pressed back against me, his body responding to mine with unmistakable interest. I’d felt the slight arch of his back, heard the soft catch in his throat that wasn’t quite a moan. In that suspended fragment of time, I’d allowed myself to hope.
Then awareness had fully dawned on him, and everything changed. His body had tensed, panic replacing desire in an instant. The mortification in his hasty retreat, the way he’d practically leapt from the bed, told me everything I needed to know about how conflicted he truly was. The flash of confusion and fear in his eyes when he’d glanced back at me had been like a bucket of ice water—a stark reminder of all he’d suffered at another man’s hands, and how his body’s natural responses now frightened him almost as much as I did.
I threw back the covers and stalked to the bathroom, desperate for the clarifying effect of water. The shower hissed to life, steam quickly filling the glass enclosure as I stepped inside. I turned my face into the spray, hoping it might wash away both my arousal and the inappropriate thoughts accompanying it.
It didn’t. If anything, the hot water cascading down my body only heightened my awareness of every nerve ending, every sensitive patch of skin.
Instead, my mind replayed the feeling of Alex’s body against mine, the perfect way he’d fit in my arms. I closed my eyes, water streaming down my face, and remembered how his backside had pressed against my groin, how his hair had tickled my chin, how he’d sought me out in the darkness, trusted me enough to be vulnerable.
My hand drifted down my stomach of its own accord, fingers tracing the trail of dark hair that led downward. I was achingly hard, morearoused than I’d been in years.
I tried to redirect my thoughts—case precedents, the Halston acquisition, the quarterly budget meeting. But my treacherous mind circled back to Alex. Not Alex as he was now, traumatized and healing, but Alex as he could be someday. Alex laughing in my kitchen. Alex sketching in the garden. Alex looking at me with desire instead of fear.
I wrapped my hand firmly around my throbbing length, giving in to the fantasy with a low groan that echoed off the tile walls.
In my mind, this morning had gone differently. Instead of pulling away, I’d pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver against me. He’d turned in my arms, eyes dark with want, and whispered my name like a prayer. “Damian, please.” I’d taken my time with him, exploring every inch of his body with my hands and mouth, gentle at first, then responding to his urgings for more. In my fantasy, he was whole and healed, his legs wrapped around my waist as he arched beneath me, choosing me not from gratitude or dependence, but from genuine desire.
