Page 72 of Damiana | AllFreeNovel

“This is what I want,” Damian said to the sky. “To do this without looking over my shoulder.”

I turned. He was staring at the sky, his body finally slack and washed of vigilance. He blinked at the stars through dark lashes, like he’d had a quiet conversation with them. I watched the rise and fall of his chest through his sweater, his hand resting on his sternum, half-hidden by a cuff worn thin with age. The stars were hypnotically beautiful, but so were the contours of his body just an inch from me.

“I know,” I said, deciding that inch was too much space between us. I folded myself against him. His arm cradled my neck.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Marlowe?” he said against my forehead.

“No. Absolutely not. But I’m going to try.”

“I can’t do it for you, or even with you, but I can show you how to stay calm when your body’s screaming at you to run.”

“I’m still trying to accept the fact that I said yes. And that this is real. I keep wondering if I’m going to wake up from the strangest dream.” I leaned closer, my hand resting on his chest.

“When you called me about the peony,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I meant what I said.”

“You said a lot of things.”

His fingers lazily brushed hair from the side of my face. He didn’t say anything. His heart beat right beneath my hand, saying it for him, and I decided that was enough.

He turned to me and his hand touched my jaw, tilting it so my eyes found his. He kissed me softly at first, the taste of tea on his lips. Then, maybe because we were truly, deeply alone under those stars, or because he was tired of wearing control like armor, he stopped being careful. His lips traced my neck, and I arched my head back, yielding and dissolving under his mouth, his hands now hungry and lightly pinning me to the truck bed. I lay on my back, one thigh between his, as he kissed the skin at the neckline of my sweater. The stars shimmied in and out of focus, quietly watching me come undone beneath him.

I heard my name murmured against skin, and then I was mapping the movement of his hands over my sweater, soft but insistent, my own palms finding skin above his jeans, warm and responding with the slightest shiver.

Heat fizzed and rose from somewhere deep, and I pressed against him, wanting nothing left between us. His breath was ragged against my throat, and he met my pressure with pressure, so I knew exactly what that did to him.

A truck rumbled in the distance. It wasn’t close enough to be a threat, but it was close enough to remind him that it could be.

He pulled back, and the cool air where his warmth had been quietly destroyed me.

“We should get back.” He said it like it hurt.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He drove with one hand on mine, still relaxed, focused on nothing but me and the dashed white lines ahead. Then power lines and strip malls appeared, and vigilance crept back into his neck, his jaw, his attention.