“Yes.” I drag a hand slowly down my face before deadpanning, “I made sure she got to bed early last night.”
“Excellent. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” The ambassador, thankfully oblivious, sounds satisfied and ends our call, while Gunnar nearly falls out of his chair.
“I fucking hate everything about you right now,” I snarl at Gunnar, only making it worse.
He bends forward in his chair, laughing boldly, with one hand pressed against his ribs, as tears gather in the corners of his eyes like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all year. Gunnar manages to wheeze out, “Proper rest,” before losing his shit all over again.
I’m so fucked.
The shower does little to calm me. Hot water cascades down my skin while my mind replays every single moment from this morning in merciless detail—Damon’s rough voice against my ear, his long wavy hair falling over his face, and the way his hands felt sliding over my body.
And God… The way he’d looked at me.
It wasn’t just desire. It was possessive, but tender.
I stand under the spray far longer than necessary, trying—and failing—to steady the riot happening inside my chest. My body still aches pleasantly from last night, the dull soreness between my thighs making heat creep into my cheeks all over again every time I move the wrong way.
For some reason, I can’t stop smiling. Eventually, I force myself out of the shower before the water can cool, wrapping myself in one of the oversized towels from the marble counter. Steam curls through the massive bathroom as I brush out my damp hair and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I don’t look different—other than the cheeky grin I can’t seem to lose. But Ifeeldifferent. Not in afinally-lost-my-V-cardkind of way, but like some missing piece inside me finally settled into place last night.
The realization should terrify me, considering who Damon is and the danger he’s surrounded in constantly. Especially when I stop to admit the fact this entire arrangement started because my father hired him to protect me. It might be one of the few decisions my father has made that I don’t actually resent him for.
I pull on a pair of fitted black jeans and Damon’s hoodie, which I stole yesterday, before padding barefoot toward the door. The sleeves swallow my hands entirely, and his cologne still clings to the fabric.
The embassy residence is quieter than usual this morning as I make my way downstairs, the private residential wing almost vacant. When I reach the foyer, I smell coffee and something sweet. My stomach growls instantly. I follow the scent into the kitchen and stop short in the doorway.
Damon stands at the stove, his back partially toward me, his broad shoulders stretching beneath the same black shirt I slept in. The short sleeves reveal his tattooed skin while he works at the counter with his phone pressed against his ear. Even from here, he looks intimidating and lethal—less the bowl of pancake batter sitting beside him.
He’s hot, protective, and he cooks. Could he be any more perfect?
“No, I want the eastern perimeter doubled tonight,” hebarks into the phone, his voice clipped and focused. “I don’t care if it’s redundant. That’s what I’m asking for.”
He pauses, listening to whoever is on the other end. When he glances up and his eyes land on me, everything about him changes. The hard edge leaves his expression instantly, and his mouth softens. Nobody has ever looked at me the way Damon does—like seeing me is the best part of his day.
“Call me back in an hour,” he gruffs into the phone before hanging up without waiting for a response.
I lean lightly against the doorway, smiling despite myself. “You know,” I start, eyeing the pancakes, “I’m never going to get skinny for you if you keep cooking for me like this.”
Damon goes completely still, his eyes sharpening dangerously as he slowly sets his phone on the counter. He turns to face me and stalks forward, every step deliberate. His dark brown pools never leave mine, and heat crawls up my spine with every inch of distance he closes between us. The seriousness of his approach should be intimidating, but it causes my pulse to flutter wildly instead.
He stops directly in front of me and plants a hand beside my head against the doorframe. “Don’t talk like that,” he demands quietly. The intensity in his voice wipes the teasing smile right off my face. His gaze drags slowly over me, hungry and adoring. “You are absolutely fucking beautiful the way you are.”
When his eyes reach mine again, he looks almost offended that I could think otherwise. His hands slide lower, over my hips, and drift around to the softness of my stomach. My breath catches when his knuckles brush lightly over the small roll there.
Every insecurity I’ve ever carried is ready for shame to follow, but it doesn’t come.
“You don’t need to change a thing about yourself for me,” he insists firmly.
Nobody has ever looked at me like this before, like my softness isn’t something I need to apologize for. To him, my body isn’t a problem to fix.
Before I can even think of a response, Damon suddenly dips lower, gripping beneath my thighs. I yelp softly as the floor disappears, my arms and legs instinctively wrapping around him as he lifts me effortlessly into him.
“Damon—”
“I’m not an insecure little boy,” he muses, carrying me across the kitchen like I weigh absolutely nothing. “I’mmorethan confident that I can handle you.”
My entire face burns, because somehow that sentence is both outrageously cocky and devastatingly sincere.
