How could I have forgotten him? How could my mind erase him so completely? How?
When even my skin recognized him from the first moment. When I finally understand why I flirted with him from the beginning. Because he'd been mine for so many years. All those years I waited for him to appear, to come and stop this emptiness from bleeding so painfully.
"You didn't get on one knee that night," he whispers, almost laughing against my lips.
I roll my eyes, but with his hands still on my face, I try to lower myself down. His eyes widen in surprise.
"Don't you dare," he growls. "If anyone's ever getting on their knees, it'll be me, never you." His mouth crashes against mine, and I feel my heart flip with joy.
At his scent of musk, amber, and leather. At his firm lips. At the way I open my eyes to see a tear trailing down his cheek.
My hands rise to his neck, deepening the kiss that somehow feels like our first official kiss. A kiss twenty-two years in the making.
In one motion, his palms lift me by the hips, and instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist as he starts climbing the stairs.
"Your wound," I whisper between kisses.
"Fuck it," he answers.
"Damien—" But the next second his lips move to the base of my throat, and he bites down.
"You owe me days, months, years I've lost." His tongue presses lightly where he bit, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
With my hands in his hair, I rest my head against his as we reach the bedroom door.
"I promise I'll get right on that after I strangle you for hiding this from me. Why didn't you tell me anything?" I ask softly because as much as I want to be angrier, I can't be.
Not when this moment—my body pressed against his—feels like the definition of Heaven. My Heaven.
After we enter the room, he sets me on the bed and kneels at my feet.
"I didn't want to mess with your mind, Roxanne. I'm selfish with every piece of you, but I'd go through the agony of you not knowing who I am a thousand times rather than know I caused something up here"—he touches my head gently—"to hurt you."
God, why does he say all these perfect things?
My hands lift his shirt, and his throat works.
The fabric doesn't hit the floor before he's on me, and I can't hide the laugh that escapes. His hands strip every piece of clothing from me until I'm completely naked beneath him, then he sits back on his heels, looking at me.
His hand goes to his jeans, pulling down the zipper, and I can't help how my eyes fixate on his erection straining against the fabric covering it.
"I changed my mind," he says, and it takes me a few seconds to tear my gaze from the sight of his tattooed fingers pushing down his jeans and boxers.
"About what?" The words come out hoarse, so I clear my throat.
"You don't owe me years. You owe me centuries. You owe me a millennium of this. Of the way you look at me right now, baby. Like you'd let me do anything I want to you, like you know everything you see is yours."
His hand reaches for mine, positioning both over his heart.
"Especially this."
"Damien," I whisper softly because I've had too many emotions for one day and can't handle them anymore.
I know he sees it in my eyes, because the next second he's on top of me, kissing me.
"But especially this is yours, baby." He takes my hand and guides it to his cock, which I feel pulsing in my palm.
Rolling my eyes, I slide my hand from base to tip, squirming beneath him when I feel the wetness at the tip. I run my finger over it several times, fascinated by my husband’s face. Awe and control hanging by a thread.
