I take the ball of string from him, our hands touching, that familiar yet always new electricity humming between us. I walk up a couple of steps and take a snowflake, carefully piercing the edge with the tip of the scissors and sliding the string through.
“What do you think?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
He’s not looking at the decorations. He’s staring at my ass with no shame on his scarred, devastatingly handsome face.
He’s staring like he can’t look away.
“Damian?” I murmur.
He slowly looks up, faces me. “Yeah… uh, good.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I looked at what matters,” he growls.
He takes the steps slowly, as if with each danger-laced second, he’s trying to convince himself to stop. His hands magnetize to my hips, a groan escaping him as he squeezes.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and it sounds like letting go.
I smooth my hands over his shoulders, shaking my head, but I don’t have it in me to tell him to stop. I lost that ability the first time our lips clashed.
“Did you wear those shorts on purpose?” he growls. “Because, hell, Celine… I’ve never seen more perfect legs. A rounder, thicker ass. Tell me to stop.”
“I can’t,” I admit.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t think you need me to.”
He pulls me against him. The heat is somehow new, like before it was a struck match, but now it’s wildfire. He lifts me off my feet as though I’m weightless.
Instinct drives me to wrap my legs around him. His thickness pushes through his pants and grinds against the thin material of my shorts. He snarls as we rock together, his powerful arms lifting me up and down so that my sex can grind against his cock through our clothes.
His lips are on mine hungrily, his hands squeezing my bare legs, choked noises of guilty pleasure escaping him. He sets me down. I think he’s going to stop, and that feels bad even if I know it’d be the right thing.
But then he gently pushes me so that I sit on the step. He steps back so that he’s level with my hips, then stares up at me, all control gone from his wild eyes.
“I need you,” he growls. “I need to fucking taste you.”
His savage hands grab my shorts and hook my underwear at the same time. I know this isthemoment, the only possible one, I might be able to end this. Then the moment passes, and he’s tugging my shorts around my knees.
When he sees my naked sex, any sense of control slips away from him. He throws himself forward and buries his hands in my thighs, kisses up and down my legs, warm imprints that get closer to my sex with each round.
I grip the stair banister, shivering, knowing he should stop, knowing I’d hate him if he stopped.
Finally, he opens his mouth with a growl and presses his face against my pussy. I gasp as my world rocks, his hands pinningme in place so my shivers and shudders don’t send me hurtling down the stairs.
He strokes his tongue over my clit, one hand clutching me tighter as the other slides across my leg to my entrance. He groans when he finds the slickness there, my body responding instantly like I was made for him.
“Your wet-as-fuck slit is ready for me,” he groans, circling my entrance with his finger, talking with his mouth still pressed against me so that he paints my need with his heat. “Fucking hell, Celine. You’re perfect.”
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He looks up sharply.
“Stop,” I finish.
A smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
