“Can I come closer?” The words came out almost hopeful.
I nodded.
He moved to sit beside me, wrapping his arms around my body the moment I leaned into him. I snuggled closer, letting the warmth of him soak into my bones. His chin rested on the top of my head, a tender kiss pressed into my curls.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little overwhelmed,” I admitted, inhaling the warm spice of his cologne.
A chuckle vibrated through his chest. “I can understand that.”
I burrowed deeper, needing him close—needing the connection that had frayed last night and nearly detonated tonight.
“You’re… not mad about today?”
“No,” he said simply. “I’m not. I understand where you were coming from. Your reactions make sense when I think about how you’re wired.”
Guilt evaporated so fast it stole my breath. I pulled back just enough to look up at him. Then I kissed him. Soft at first, athank-you, a plea. He answered immediately, fingers threading through my hair as our mouths fell into a steady rhythm.
I deepened the kiss. He accepted, his hand sliding to the back of my head, angling me exactly where he wanted me, taking control so subtly it made something molten unfurl in my chest.
I shifted, sitting up straighter, my hands fisting in his shirt, needing more, needing him.
He broke the kiss with a winded laugh. “Careful. You’ll rip the buttons off.”
“I don’t care,” I said against his lips.
He stilled—just for a heartbeat.
Then he moved.
His hands grew hungrier, more certain, skimming under my shirt before tugging it upward. I raised my arms, letting him peel it away. The cool air hit my skin—and then warmth replaced it, mouth tracing the edge of my shoulder.
I reached for his tie, loosening the knot with clumsy, eager fingers. Before I could reach the first button, he beat me to it—gripping both sides of his shirt and yanking.
Buttons scattered across the floor in tiny metallic pings.
My lungs stuttered.
His eyes—dark, focused, unguarded—lifted to mine.
And he let go.
My body answered.
I moved before I even thought to—swinging a leg over his hips, settling into his lap as if my body had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact man. Our mouths collided again, the kisses turning wild, messy, hungry. His hands roamed everywhere—spanning my waist, gripping my ass, dragging blunt nails up my spine until I gasped against his lips.
My bra was next.
He pushed the cup aside with a low, guttural sound in his throat, his mouth closing around my breast like he’d beenstarving for the taste. The scrape of his teeth stole the air from my lungs. My body jolted, shuddering, fire flooding straight between my thighs.
“Damien—” I choked, but it came out more plea than protest.
His hand slid between us, and under the layers of fabric separating us, feeling the slickness there, and he let out a sharp, tortured groan.
“Jesus Christ, Emma.” The words tore from him, forehead falling to my shoulder for one ragged second. His chest heaved against mine. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
I kissed him fiercely in answer.
