Damian’s voice is low and scratchy from sleep, threaded with too much amusement already. I don't respond. I just step slightly to the side like I’m presenting a crime scene.
He stops beside me, still damp from his shower, towel riding low on his hips, water trailing down his chest. He looks like the fucking villain in a tropical romance novel—dangerous and smug and too damn satisfied with himself.
When he sees the card, he hums once. Then that smirk starts to spread. Not just his mouth—his whole face, like every muscle is committing to the bit. Like his soul just smiled. “Loud, were you?” he murmurs, brushing up behind me, mouth at my ear.
I make a sound that might be a squeak. “Youwere the one—”
“I was the onewhat, baby?” His hand slides around to my waist, dragging me back into the heat of his body. “The one who rocked the hammock until it begged for mercy? Or the one who made you scream my name into the trees so hard they had to file a fuckingnoise complaint?”
I smack his hand. “Ihateyou.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Youloveme.”
“I hate how smug you are.”
“Youlovethat too.”
“I’m going to drown myself in this coffee.”
He slides his palm down to the waistband of my shorts, warm and slow and absolutely not helping. “You’re gonna sit your pretty ass down,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at my neck, “and let me feed you instead.”
My knees nearly give out.
I groan loud and dramatic, head tilted back like the universe just personally wronged me. Then, with a huff, I turn away from the tray of public shame and flop down on the edge of the bed. My thighs ache—just a little. My lower back twinges. The ropeburn from the hammock isfaintly visibleif I twist in the mirror just right.
I pout harder.
Across the suite, Damian is still fuckingglowingwith post-shower smugness. His towel clings to his hips like it knows better than to slide off uninvited. His wet hair drips onto his chest, and his limp is more visible now—but not enough to stop him from crossing the room with the same deliberate predator energy he always carries.
He picks up the tray like it’s sacred. Balances it effortlessly in one hand, closes the door behind him with the other, and walks toward me with that small, devastating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“See? Now this is how you treat a husband,” I mutter, pretending not to watch his abs flex with every step. “Feed him before he has to eat his own shame.”
He just raises an eyebrow and sets the tray on the nightstand. Then he picks up a slice of peach—perfect, golden and sticky—and brings it to my mouth. “Open,” he says softly.
And fuck me, Ido.The moment it hits my tongue, sweet and cold, I groan again—but for averydifferent reason. My eyes flutter shut. The juice drips slightly, and Damian catches it with his thumb, swiping it from my lower lip before I even have a chance to react.
“You’re so dramatic in the mornings,” he murmurs, sliding another piece between my lips. “But at least you’re edible.”
“That’snot how that saying goes,” I mumble around fruit, cheeks full.
He just shrugs. Reaches for a piece of mango next.
The movement’s slow. He leans in as he feeds it to me, gaze locked on mine. I feel my breath hitch in my throat. The taste of the fruit melts into the taste ofhim—heat and comfort andunrelenting control—and the whole world shrinks down to his fingers, his voice, the slow rock of the bed beneath us.
The card on the tray? Forgotten.
The embarrassment? Distant.
Right now, all I can think about is how his fingers brush my lips like he’s savoring this more than I am—and how I’malready hard againand we haven’t even gotten to the croissants.
Damian keeps feeding me like I’m not two seconds from combusting. Bite after bite—peach, mango, pineapple—slow and sticky, dragged across my bottom lip like he’s testing how much I’ll take before I melt into the mattress. I’m already half-reclined, thighs spread, hands braced behind me on the bed, cock stirring under the soft fabric of my shorts while he just sits there like heisn’tactively seducing me with fuckingfruit.
He leans in between bites. Kisses my mouth softly, then my jaw, then lower. “Elias,” he murmurs, lips brushing my neck. Another bite. Another kiss. “Nathaniel.” His voice dips, dragging the syllables out like he’s unwrapping something filthy andprecious.
My breath catches. “Don’t—”
He smirks against my throat. “Kade.”
