He sets me carefully on the marble counter beside the stove, stepping between my knees immediately after, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Damon’s hands slide slowly up my thighs beneath the oversized hoodie while his gaze stays fixed on my face.
“And maybe you didn’t notice last night,” he whispers roughly, “but I’mobsessedwith every inch of you.”
My heart genuinely stutters. There’s no teasing in his voice. It’s raw and honest.
“Damon…”
He kisses me before I can say anything else.
His lips move against mine with enough intensity to leave me dizzy almost instantly, one hand sliding into my damp hair while the other roams possessively over my waist and hips. I melt into him without resistance, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
Kissing him feels so dangerously addictive, because Damon doesn’t kiss casually. He kisses like he means every second of it, and he’s trying to consume me whole.
His mouth drifts briefly from mine to my jaw, then lower toward my neck, and I tilt my head back with a soft breath.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice mutters behind us, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Damon doesn’t even flinch.
I, unfortunately, do.
Mortification slams into me as I realize Gunnar is standing near the kitchen entrance, holding a mug of coffee and lookingdeeplyexhausted by our public display of affection.
“Oh my God,” he deadpans. “It wasn’t enough pulling you off her this morning? Give the girl a break.”
I make a horrified squeak and immediately bury my burning face against Damon’s chest, his body shaking with silent laughter.
One of his arms wraps around my waist protectively while the other flips a pancake with infuriating calmness. “You’re a fucking asshole,” Damon informs Gunnar. “No wonder Jag calls you ‘Dad.’”
Gunnar points at him immediately. “Don’t start with that shit.”
I can hear the grin in Damon’s voice now. “You literally carry ibuprofen in your pocket and complain about your back.”
“That’s called surviving past forty.”
“That’s called beingelderly.”
“Watch your mouth before I tell your girl about your cage-fighting phase.”
I lift my head instantly. “His what?”
Damon groans. “Don’t encourage him.”
Gunnar looks delighted now. “Oh, sweetheart, your scary bodyguard used to?—”
“Finish that sentence,” Damon warns darkly, “and I’ll bury you under the embassy.”
“—spend Friday nights getting punched in underground basements for grocery money.”
“You had a Fight Club phase?”
“It wasnota phase.”
Gunnar gestures triumphantly. “That’sexactlywhat someone with a Fight Club phase says.”
“You’re breaking the first rule,” Damon grumbles under his breath while I laugh helplessly against his shoulder.
And suddenly the kitchen feels strange in the best possible way, like we’re three people having breakfast together. The realization hits me unexpectedly hard, because I can’t remember the last time something felt this safe or natural.
Damon slides a plate in front of me, stacked with pancakes and fruit, while Gunnar steals coffee and continues making smug comments from across the island.
