I groan against her, the sound vibrating through her, and circle her clit until her hips are lifting off the mattress, chasing more. Her breaths come faster, broken by little whimpers she can’t seem to hold back. I slip two fingers inside her, curling them just right while my mouth stays on her clit, and she comes apart hard, moaning my name like it’s the only word she knows.
I kiss my way up her body as she’s still catching her breath, her skin flushed and damp. “Not done with you,” I murmur, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on my tongue.
Grabbing her hand, I pull her up from the bed and guide her to the desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of books with one arm. “Turn around,” I tell her, and she does, bracing her hands on the wood.
I press against her from behind, pulling her hips back to me as I push inside in one slow, deep thrust. She moans, dropping her head forward, and I grip her waist, setting a steady, driving rhythm. The desk creaks under us, but neither of us cares — not when it’s this, finally this, after years of wanting and never touching.
Her knuckles are white on the edge of the desk, her breath coming in sharp gasps. I lean over her back, my lips brushing herear. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” I growl, thrusting harder.
She turns her head just enough for our mouths to meet, messy and desperate, until I feel her tightening around me, her body clenching as she cries out. I follow her over the edge, every muscle straining as I bury myself deep one last time.
For a long moment, the only sounds are our ragged breathing and the rain against the window.
Her breathing is still uneven when I ease out of her, my hands steadying her hips as if I’m afraid she’ll crumble without the support. She stays bent over the desk for a moment, catching her breath, before straightening slowly.
“Come here,” I say softly, hooking an arm around her waist.
I guide her back to the bed, the lamplight painting her skin in warm gold. She sits, hair tangled, cheeks flushed, and for a second, I just look at her. This woman who’s always been fire and care wrapped into one.
I grab the T-shirt she’d given me earlier and use it to gently clean her, my touch unhurried. She doesn’t speak, just watches me with an expression I can’t read — something between wonder and disbelief.
When I’m done, I tug her panties back into place, then pull one of her soft, oversized sleep shirts over her head. It hangs down past her thighs, swallowing her in fabric.
I strip the last of my damp clothes, pulling on the T-shirt she’d meant for me earlier, and crawl into bed beside her. She shifts without hesitation, curling into me like she belongs there, her head on my chest.
Outside, the storm is still going, rain ticking against the glass in uneven rhythms.
I wrap an arm around her, my fingers brushing through her hair. “Sleep,” I murmur.
She hums something soft — maybe agreement, maybe just exhaustion — and her breathing starts to slow.
I stare at the ceiling, my hand still stroking her hair. I’ve wanted her for so long, in so many ways, but lying here now, it’s not just about that. It never was.
When her breathing evens out completely, I let my eyes close, holding her like I’m afraid she’ll slip away if I don’t.
Chapter Fifteen
Lyla
The first thing I’m aware of is warmth. Not just from the blanket pulled up to my shoulders, but from the solid wall of heat pressed against my back.
The second is the steady rise and fall of Damien’s chest behind me, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of my neck.
I should move. I should slip out of bed before he wakes and pretend last night was nothing more than a lapse in judgment — a heat-of-the-moment mistake brought on by the storm, by old wounds and even older longing.
But I don’t.
His arm is heavy around my waist, his palm splayed over my stomach like he’s keeping me there even in sleep. Every time I try to shift, his grip tightens just a fraction, and I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or just instinct.
The storm must have passed sometime in the night. The house is quiet now, the only sound the faint creak of the old floorboards as they settle. The air smells faintly of sawdust from his jacket draped over my chair, of my own shampoo in my hair.
And him. I can smell him on my skin.
Memories from last night flicker through my head — his mouth on mine, the rough scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, the way he’d looked at me like I was something he’d been starving for.
I press my eyes shut, because the thought of facing him this morning feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Morning.”
