My fingers drifted to my nails, picking lightly as the memory unspooled in my mind.
“Shall we get started?” he asked, lifting the remote.
“Sure,” I murmured, pulling a piece of dark chocolate from the platter and letting it melt on my tongue.
The projector flared to life.
Warm gold light washed over the terrace as the opening sequence sharpened into view—sleek black title cards, a city skyline reflected in dark water, shuffling cards overlaid with the mechanical click of locks and safes, layering a quiet, steady undercurrent beneath the night.
Damien uncorked the bottle beside him with a brightpopand poured us each a glass. The wine was luscious—dark berries, a little smoke—pairing perfectly with the chocolate lingering on my tongue.
We settled in as the movie played on, my attention far too occupied with the inches between us—his proximity a current I couldn’t ignore—to catch the first ten minutes.
“What’s happening?” I asked, my voice thinner than I intended.
“That’s the bad guy.” He pointed toward a man with slicked-back dark hair, a tailored charcoal suit, and the kind of cool, detached stare that belonged to someone who’d never been told no in his life. “He’s—”
“Wait,” I interrupted, my brows tightening. “Isn’t that the guy who hires them all?”
He went still. “No…”
I stared at him. “Did you just give away the ending of the movie in the first fifteen minutes?”
“No…” he repeated—suddenly fascinated by a piece of chocolate on the tray.
“Damien Holt,” I chastised, scandalized. “This had the potential to become my favorite movie, and now it’s ruined forever.”
“Come on,” he groaned, sounding genuinely wounded. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Sure you didn’t.” I waved him off with exaggerated disinterest.
The movie droned on, but I barely registered any of it. There was no point. He was too close, the wine spreading a warm glow through me, and besides—he’d already spoiled the ending.
I let myself lean against his shoulder.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then he shifted, wrapping an arm around me, drawing me with him as he reclined against the pillows. My cheek settled over his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing sliding beneath my ear like it had been waiting there.
My fingers drifted across the fabric of his shirt, tracing the faint dip and lift of muscle underneath. A burst of light flared from the projector—pyrotechnic magic exploding across the terrace—and with it, an image cut through my mind so sharply I went still.
Damien above me.
His weight, his heat.
The flex of his body as he moved over mine.
Air caught. Something low in my belly tightened, a slow ache gathering between my thighs. It had been years since I’d beenwith anyone, and the last time had been a drunken mistake I’d walked away from before sunrise.
But this…
This didn’t feel anything like that.
With Damien, the idea of being touched didn’t spark regret or shame.
It sparked a slow, still want that felt terrifying and right.
His hand drifted along my spine, kneading the spot at the base that had throbbed all last week. The pressure melted something inside me.
