Ah, I get it. This morning, I acted like I didn’t even want him to touch me. He’s probably got whiplash from my change in mood… join the club.
“I’ll let you decide that, Grinch.”
He fires back with his own nickname. “In that case, Snowdrop, you’d better come and sit on my lap.”
He drops onto the couch. I roll my eyes, taking a seat next to him, our legs touching.
“You wish,” I say.
“I can’t deny that.”
I don’t look at him, reasoning that, well, that might make this less surreal, less wrong. He turns on the movie and leans back. Every so often, I look at him, especially during Grinch’s grumpiest parts.
He shakes his head. “I don’t see the similarity.”
At some point, I lean against him. He lifts his arm and wraps it around me like it’s the most normal thing in the universe, like we’re not betraying Julian, like the hand that gently andnaturally slides through my hair didn’t end a man’s life less than twenty-four hours ago.
My eyelids grow heavy. My shift, the stress, and everything are catching up with me.
When I wake, Damian has got his hands on me, one slipping under my legs and the other beneath my shoulder blades. I don’t open my eyes. It’s classic Celine behavior, classic head-in-the-sand behavior.
His hands just feel too good, warm, rough, sturdy, and powerful as he cradles me against his chest. I let my head fall against him in a sleepy way, murmuring softly.
He carries me up the stairs as if I weigh nothing. I curl into a warm ball, savoring the feel of his solid muscles.
In the bedroom, he lays me down. I feel his presence looming over me. My mind flits with the first half of the movie, his warmth, his eyes only leaving the screen to look at me with confusing heat.
He stands over me for a long time. A shiver dances across my body when I wonder if he’s debating touching me… if he’s thinking about ‘waking’ me with a kiss or something else. I press my legs together, my body throbbing, my lust an insistent ache that doesn’t know how or when to quit.
When he turns to leave, I murmur, “Stuh-stay.” I try to make it sound like I murmured it in my sleep.
I’m not sure if he believes me, but he does as I ask. He climbs into bed next to me and pulls me into his arms. I moan and move closer, pressing my back against his torso, feeling his manhood as he groans and presses against me.
He gently kisses the back of my neck, sending an army of butterflies coursing through my body.
“I know you’re awake, Celine,” he whispers. “I know you’ve been awake ever since I picked you up.”
I moan, shifting my hips from side to side, grinding my ass against his thick, solid rod. He lets out a rasping sigh and smooths his hand over my stomach, guiding it down toward my sex.
I roll over, facing him, eyes open.
“You need to be the mature one,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “I might be older, Celine, but there’s no damn way I can be mature when it comes to you. Tell me to leave. Fucking beg me.”
“If I beg you…” I lick my lips, knowing it’s wrong, but it feels so, so right. “It won’t be to leave.”
The killer kisses me with passion, his hand gliding to my hip, pressing down as he groans like he can’t get enough of my curves. My self-esteem is like a rocket ship as I grind against him, my hand following my instinct and desire, smoothing down his body toward his crotch.
“Oh,fuck,” he growls when I rub him over his pants. He’s wearing sweats, his thickness easy to feel through the material.
I pull back from the kissing so I can look at his face—the tangled confusion, the undeniable pleasure.
I keep rubbing, moving faster each moment, feeling his desire swell even more somehow.
“You’re so hard,” I whisper.
“Because you’re so—fucking—per…”
