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Me: Nothing a bribe won’t fix.
Matthias: You’re so fucked up about her.
Me: One day you’ll understand.
Matthias: Never going to happen.
Me: We’ll see.
When he doesn’t respond, I pocket my phone, finish my cigar, and head back up to our place. I’m quiet as I make my way toward her room, and just as I expected, she’s passed out on her bed just where I left her. Pink panties on the floor catch my eye.
I close the distance so I’m looming over her mattress and bend down to pick the scrap of lace up, bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply. My lungs fill with the sweet scent of her, and the limited amount of control I had remaining snaps.
I snap the button on my pants and pull out my throbbing cock, wrapping the delicate fabric around it. With each stroke, the lace scrapes against my skin, making my dick twitch. I watch her sleep as I fuck my hand roughly. Her lips are parted, and I picture painting them, then thrusting deep into her throat. I picture her with tears in her eyes as I thrust in the back of her throat, and she takes every inch I give her.
My orgasm starts in my balls, tightening, sending a nearly painful pressure until my cum explodes from my tip. I wipe it with her panties, internally smirking at the mess I’ve made of them. I strip out of my clothes and climb in beside her, hating the distance between us, no matter how small. I pull her small frame over my chest until her leg drapes around me and her breasts press into my chest. She lets out a soft moan and cuddles further into me, her mouth brushing my skin as she sighs out my name.
She might be fighting it, but her body and subconscious have already accepted their fate.
Chapter 22
Misty
I bury my nose into the pillow and breathe in the sweet smoke and expensive cologne…Damon. My eyes snap open as the memories of last night rush to the surface. The ghosting of his hands over my skin, the barely there brush of his lips, the way his words lit a fire within me that feels impossible to put out.
I groan, flipping onto my back, and rub the sleep out of my eyes, frustration building inside me. He just left. Like we weren’t in the middle of the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me, like he didn’t have control over every fiber of my being. Maybe it’s good he left because I would have done anything he wanted to get him to touch me.
I’d think he left for the night if it wasn’t for the vague memories of him pulling me into his arms sometime later last night and his fingers stroking my hair, so faint they could’ve been a dream.
Knowing there’s no way I’m going back to sleep, I roll out of bed and grab my giant unicorn robe, hoping he’s already left.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of a shirtless Damon leaning against my counter, casually drinking coffee from a neon pink cup while staring at his phone. My heart skips in my chest at just how domestic he looks, like he’s done this every day.
Meanwhile, I’m about to swallow my tongue to stop myself from drooling over the way his gray sweatpants mold around his curves. I can’t stop staring at the way his long, slim fingers dwarf his phone. Tingles scatter over my skin of the memory of how they felt against my skin.
“Morning, Nymph,” Damon says, his voice filled with amusement. “I like the unicorns. Cute.”
Suddenly feeling completely exposed, I pull the corners of my robe tighter. The realization of just how bad I look in the morning, hair a wild mess, half sticking to my face, sinks in and has me fidgeting with my hair.
“I like your sweatpants.” I go for sarcasm but fail miserably. I’m never like this. I’ve spent years mastering the art of hiding my irritation, but one look from Damon has me bristling like a defensive cat.
He chuckles. “I can tell.”
Dammit. My cheeks heat, only bringing him more amusement.
“Whatever,” I grumble and make my way to my coffee maker, only to stop dead in my tracks. My little box-store-bought pot is nowhere to be seen. Instead, it’s been replaced with a stainless steel, state-of-the-art espresso machine. I go to turn it on, but my fingers hover over the dials. I don’t even know where to start. An underlying frustration builds within me, sparking a fire in my chest. “Who said you could bring your coffee maker?”
“Grumpy in the morning, I see?” Damon’s voice is right next to my ear, and a shivery heat tracks down my back.
I scoff. “I’ve been told I’m a joy in the morning.”
“Mm-hmmm,” he hums in mock agreement before grabbing a cup from the top shelf. It’s a pale blue mug printed with the words “Oh” and “It” and a cute fox in between them. He moves to the machine and turns a few dials. He hits a button, and it comes to life with a loud rumble. I stand, mouth dropped open, as he uses the machine, effortlessly frothing milk. He dumps several scoops of sugar into my cup, and his arm moves in tightly controlled gestures as he combines the frothed milk with the espresso.
My mind is so monumentally surprised at the scene that’s playing out for me it takes a second to catch up and realize he made it exactly how I order them at a fancy coffee shop. “How did you know?—”
Damon thrusts the warm mug into my hand, cutting me off. “You have half an hour to get ready. I thought it would be better to let you sleep in as long as possible.”
“I’m not coming with you.” I hum as the perfectly made cappuccino passes my lips.
