His voice is low, still gravelly from sleep, and so close to my ear it sends a shiver down my spine.
I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still heavy-lidded, and he’s wearing that faint, knowing smirk like he can read exactly where my mind went.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice scratchier than I want it to be.
He studies my face for a moment, like he’s checking for regret, then his gaze dips to my mouth. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, though the truth is I barely slept at all. My body’s still humming from last night, from the way he touched me like he’d memorized every inch of me long before he actually had.
His thumb brushes just under the hem of my shirt, over the bare skin of my hip. “Good.”
I sit up quickly, pushing the blanket back before my body can betray me any more than it already has. “We should—”
“What?” he prompts, leaning on one elbow to watch me.
“Talk. About… last night.”
His smirk deepens, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “Okay. Which part? The part where I’ve been wanting you for years, or the part where you came apart on my desk?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Damien—”
“What? I’m just making sure we’re talking about the same night.”
I huff out a breath, half exasperated, half something else entirely. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still in my bed,” he says, voice dipping lower. “So maybe we’re both a little guilty.”
I throw the blanket off completely and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “We should probably get over to the Lawson place before lunch if we want to get anything done today.”
Damien doesn’t move. He just lounges there, bare-chested, propped on one elbow like he has all the time in the world.
“You’re running,” he says.
“I’m getting dressed,” I counter.
“Uh-huh.” That faint smirk is back, but his eyes are sharp, tracking every move I make. “So, last night…”
“Was—” I start, but he cuts in.
“—not part of the deal.”
I glance over my shoulder, and he’s dead serious now, all traces of teasing gone.
I cross my arms, trying for nonchalance. “We were both… emotional. And there was a storm, and—”
“And you wanted me,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a question.
I open my mouth to deny it, but the words stick. My pulse thuds in my ears.
“I’m not saying you didn’t,” he adds, “I’m saying… I need to know this wasn’t just you playing a part.”
I meet his gaze, and for once, I don’t try to dodge. “It wasn’t. I wanted it.”
Something shifts in his face — satisfaction, sure, but also something deeper. His smirk fades into a slow, genuine smile that does things to my stomach I’d rather not analyze.
“Good,” he says, like that’s all he needed to hear.
He pushes the blanket off and swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiatingoff him. “We smell like we’ve been up to no good,” he says, glancing at the clock. “Your mom’s gonna notice.”
