He slips one hand into my jeans, under the thin cotton of my panties, and the first brush of his fingers over my clit makes my breath catch hard in my throat.
“Damien—”
“God, I’ve thought about this,” he growls softly, his thumb circling with just the right pressure. “Thought about you… about making you fall apart for me.”
The cold is gone, burned away by the heat spiraling low in my belly. I gasp his name again, my hips moving against his hand, chasing the friction I’ve needed for too long.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice low and certain, like he’s guiding me somewhere only he knows. “Come for me, Lyla. I need to hear it.”
The waves crash louder, my pulse racing with them, and then I’m breaking apart, my cry lost in the wind as every muscle tightens and releases all at once.
He doesn’t stop until I’m trembling under him, my name still on his lips like a prayer and a promise all at once.
The wind whips around us again, sharp and cool against my overheated skin. My chest still rises and falls too fast, every muscle loose but tingling, my body buzzing with the aftershocks of what he just did to me.
Damien leans over me, one big hand braced in the sand beside my head, the other still resting low on my stomach — not possessive, exactly, but like he’s staking a claim. His gaze is locked on mine, dark and unflinching.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen here,” he says quietly, though there’s no regret in his voice.
I swallow hard, still catching my breath. “Then why did you—”
“Because I’ve wanted to for too damn long,” he cuts in, his thumb brushing the edge of my waistband before he finally pulls his hand free. He shrugs his jacket over my shoulders like he’snot the least bit cold without it. “And I couldn’t stand one more second of pretending I didn’t.”
Something in my chest twists, because this isn’t just physical for him. I can feel it in the way he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, in the way his body shelters mine from the wind.
“You make it sound like this… us… was inevitable,” I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to be.
His mouth curves, but it’s not amusement — it’s something heavier, more certain. “It was.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The waves crash, the gulls call overhead, and the cold seeps into the edges of Damien’s jacket — but inside it, I’m warm.
And I know, as surely as I know my own name, that whatever line we crossed here on this beach… there’s no going back.
Chapter Eleven
Damien
The ride back feels shorter, even with the cold cutting across the road.
Lyla’s pressed against my back again, her hands under my jacket where I put them before, fingers resting over my stomach like they belong there. Every bump in the road makes her hips shift against mine, and I grit my teeth, trying not to think about how she sounded when she came apart in my hands.
Impossible.
I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the sharp hitch in her breath right before she whispered my name. I’ve replayed that exact second a dozen times already, and we haven’t even made it back into town yet.
I didn’t plan it. Hell, I’ve spent years making sure something like that didn’t happen. But the second I kissed her, I knew I wasn’t stopping. Not until I’d finally given her what I’d been thinking about since—
No. Thinking like that isn’t going to help.
The problem is, I don’t want to help myself.
By the time we hit the edge of Mariner’s Bluff, I’m not thinking about Colton, or the gossip, or the fact that everyone in this town will find out sooner or later. I’m thinking about how I’m going to get Lyla alone again — and what I’ll do to her when I do.
Ronnie’s truck is gone when we pull into the driveway. No note, no “see you around.” Just silence.
I park the bike and help Lyla down, my hands brushing her waist longer than they need to. She doesn’t say anything, but the look she gives me is… knowing. Like we’re sharing a secret neither of us is in any hurry to give back.
She heads across the street toward her mom’s place, my jacket still on her shoulders. I tell myself I should ask for it back, but the truth is I like the idea of her wrapped up in it — inme— a little longer.
