“Where are we—”
“You’ll see.”
The sand gives way to the worn wood of a narrow walkway, the wind tangling my hair as he carries me toward a dark shapenestled just beyond the dunes. My pulse spikes with every step until he kicks the door open with one boot and carries me inside.
It’s small. Cozy. The kind of place you could overlook if you weren’t looking for it. A couch, a kitchen table, the faint smell of salt and cedar.
And that’s when it hits me.
“This is where you live?” I breathe.
“Yeah.” He sets me down on the couch, his hands lingering on my hips. “I never left, Lyla. Not really. I’ve been here. Close.”
The truth of it sends a shiver through me. Before I can say anything, his mouth is on mine, the kiss hotter now, deeper, like the tide finally rushing in after holding back for years.
My hands are already pulling at his shirt, pushing it up, desperate for skin. His clothes come off fast after that — not careless, but with the kind of urgency that comes from knowing exactly what you want and not wasting another second.
When our lips break just long enough for air, I taste him in my mouth, feel his heat pressed against me, and know this is the real thing. Technically, it always has been.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Damien
She tastes like the ocean and every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.
The second I set her on my couch, I think I’m going to take her slow, make it last. But then her hands are in my shirt, shoving it up, nails dragging over my stomach like she’s marking me, and I’m gone.
We’re kissing like we’re trying to breathe through each other, but then she pulls back with that look in her eyes — the one that says she’s about to wreck me — and drops to her knees between mine.
“Lyla…” I start, but my voice is already wrecked. My jeans are open before I can think of a reason to stop her, her small hand wrapping around me and pulling a groan straight out of my chest.
When her mouth closes over me, hot and wet and perfect, my head hits the back of the couch. My hand finds her hair, not to push, but to keep her there — to feel every inch of what she’s giving me.
“Slow, baby,” I grit out, guiding her with my hips. “Fuck, you feel so good… gonna have me losing it before I even get inside you.”
Her tongue swirls along the underside, and I feel my control fray. “Christ. I’m gonna fuck this pretty mouth… then I’m gonna fuck you on this couch, on that table, against that wall—every damn surface in this place until you can’t remember your own name.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, lips wet, eyes burning. “Then do it.”
My blood turns molten.
I haul her up, kiss her deep, tasting myself on her tongue, and then scoop her into my arms. Two steps and her ass hits the kitchen table. I push her hoodie and shirt up in one move, and the second I get my mouth on her breasts, I know I’m not stopping tonight.
Her nipples harden under my tongue, her hands tangling in my hair as I suck and bite, and I swear I could get drunk off the sounds she’s making.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her leggings and panties and yank them off in one move, letting them hit the floor without a second thought.
She gasps, half from the rush of cold air on her skin, half from the way I grab her hips and drag her right to the edge of the table. My chair used to sit here — now it’s me on my knees.
The sight of her spread open for me, flushed and glistening, is enough to make my cock ache.
I start slow, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh, then another higher up, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her shiver under my hands. She makes this sound — a soft, frustrated whimper — and it’s all I can do not to bury my face between her legs right then.
When I finally lick her clit, her whole body jerks.
“Damien—”
I groan into her, the taste of her filling my mouth, and I press two fingers inside her. The tight, wet heat squeezes around me, and I curl my fingers just enough to make her cry out.
