Damian moves first. A step toward me.A decision made.His fingers graze my wrist, warm and gentle, and then, slowly, he takes my hand. His grip is firm, like he’s bracing himself for something he can’t stop. As if he’s already being pulled under. Slowly drowning.
I hold my breath as he draws me closer, his other hand sliding to the small of my back. His fingers press against the fabric of my shirt and the room spins a little.
I lift my other hand to his shoulder, hesitating for only a second before I let myself rest it there. The music swells, filling every inch of space between us, and then, we move.
It’s slow, tentative at first, our bodies trying to resist, neither of us willing to surrender. But his grip tightens, his palm pressing firm against my lower back, guiding me with unspoken force.
He leads. And I let him.
We step in time with the song, our movements syncing, the world narrowing to the quiet drag of our feet against the floor, the soft melody playing from Cody’s phone, the steady heat of Damian’s body close to mine.
I don’t know when my heart started pounding, or when my fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring me to him. But they have.
My throat thickens, words lodged somewhere behind the sharp, uneven rhythm of my breath.
Damian’s breath ghosts across my cheek, and God, he’s close. Closer than he should be. And he’s not pulling away.
I don’t either.
Around us, the kitchen fades.
Damian’s fingers flex against my back, just enough for me tofeel it, that hesitation, that split-second of restraint before he gives in. Before his palm presses me closer, stealing what little space remains between us.
I feel everything now. The warmth of his breath against my temple. The solid press of his chest against mine. The slow, instinctive shift of our bodies moving together.
And then there’shim—already hard beneath the denim, nudging against my stomach with every subtle shift. A sharp pulse of heat blooms low in my belly—hot, unexpected, unwanted. It’s confusing. I’m still furious about who he turned out to be—but I want the stranger from the bar. The man who helped me escape my problems for a night with the flick of his perfect tongue.
My nipples tighten against my shirt, aching with the friction of his body—and the memory of his tongue between my legs.
His fingers dig into my back, just slightly, just enough to shift me against him even harder. He lowers his head and his lips press into my hair, brushing warmth past my ear. “I don’t trust you,” he breathes roughly, breaking apart on the last word. The words should hurt. Should cut through whatever’s building between us. But they don’t. Because I don’t trust him either.
The rhythm is slow, but the heat between us isnot. Every inch of me is pressed against every inch ofhim, and the worst part? I don’t want to move away.
My breath shudders. My lips part. His do too. I can feel it, the way his head tilts just slightly, the way his nose brushes against my temple, then lower, just a little closer to my jaw.
One breath.
Two.
His lips part.
Fuck, he’s going to kiss me.
And then, the scrape of a chair. A murmur of voices. The shuffle of footsteps.
Delilah. Cody. Bridger. Leaving. Then Delilah’s voice, “Laura could always calm him down. Thank you, Laura.”
Laura? Who the hell is Laura?
I feel Damian’s entire bodytense, every muscle in him going rigid, like he’s just remembered where we are. His grip loosens fast, his fingers releasing me like I’m fire.
I jerk back at the same time he does, breaking away, cold air rushing into the space that had been burning between us just seconds ago.
Silence stretches between us, raw and wild.
We were about to kiss. I was about to let him kiss me.
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and fiery. The air crackles between us, thick with everything that just happened, and everything that didn’t. Damian’s chest heaves. His fingers flex at his sides, like he’s warring with himself, like he’s deciding whether to walk away or give in.
