My hips meet the counter behind me, and there’s nowhere to go. His chest presses against mine, his body solid and completely certain of itself. He dips his head and kisses me.
I let him. That is the ugliest part. Not that he does it, but that I allow him to.
His mouth moves over mine with practiced heat, a kiss meant to bypass thought and go straight to instinct. His fingers tighten at my waist. His other hand slides up, fingertips brushing the curve of my breast through the thin fabric of my shirt. He’s a man who has learned the architecture of me and uses it like a blueprint.
My body knows this pattern—the kiss, the hands, the pressure building in small increments, and the expectation sitting underneath all of it like a current. Damien wants me when I’ve been quiet too long. As if sex is a reset button he can press until I return to the version of myself that causes him the least inconvenience.
I try to kiss him back.
I do.
My mouth moves. My hands lift to his chest, flat against the warmth of him.
His heartbeat is steady beneath my palm—the heartbeat of a man who has never once lost sleep over the right thing.
But nothing inside me answers.
Not the heat.
The ache.
Nor that reckless spark I used to feel from a single glance.
Zane never had to touch me to ruin me. A single glance across the room and I was already gone.
Damien has his whole body pressed against mine, completely present in a way I cannot match, no matter how hard I try. His hands know where to go. His mouth knows what it’s doing.Everything about him is skilled and completely disconnected from what’s happening inside me.
And all I can think about is the boy who used to gaze at me as if he wanted to set the world on fire and keep me warm with it.
Damien’s thumb brushes my nipple, then he pinches it.
My breath catches. It’s a sharp little inhale, involuntary, my body responding to sensation the way bodies do, regardless of what the rest of you is experiencing. Just nerve endings doing what nerve endings do.
He mistakes it for want.
His grip tightens at my waist, and he presses closer, his mouth dropping to my neck, his breath warm against my skin.
And I stand there, inside it, with my hands flat against his chest, my eyes open, my mind somewhere else entirely. On a night on a rooftop, under an open sky. On a boy who would say my name, carefully, like it was something worth saying.
Damien lifts his head to kiss me and I turn my face just slightly, causing his lips to drag against my cheek instead of my mouth.
He stills. It’s small. Barely anything. A half inch of movement, a fraction of a degree. Nothing that should register. Yet, he senses it.
He pulls back. His eyes move over my face. Studying me. Taking inventory. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, then lifts up to meet my eyes.
Whatever he finds there, he doesn’t name right away. He just looks. Hunger first. Annoyance close behind.
“You’re somewhere else again,” he says.
“I’m right here.”
“No. You’re not.”
I don’t argue because I’ve been somewhere Damien has never been and will never reach.
He lifts his hand and touches my face. His thumb traces slowly along my cheekbone, almost tenderly. It moves higher toward the small scar just above my eye. He traces it slowly and I stop breathing.
“You are beautiful, Skylar,” he says, voice soft and tender. “It’s such a pity that this scar ruins the symmetry of your face.”
