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“Walking distance, actually.”
“Let’s go.”
It had occurred to me, sometime between drinks two and three, that going back to the hotel tonight would be cataclysmically stupid. Going back at all might be stupid, especially if those guys who’d chased me had been a little bit more than just muggers.
And I strongly suspected they were.
In truth though, the whole thing was just a convenient excuse to go home with Damien. Not that I needed an excuse, but one always helped.
We held hands along the way, and his
fingers felt like they interlaced perfectly with mine. There was a chill in the air. I found myself snuggling into him. The whole thing felt natural, like we’d known each other for weeks instead of minutes. An inexplicably strong connection I was prepared to roll with, rather than analyze.
You sure you’re okay with this?
Memories came flooding back, memories of the last time I’d been this close to someone. I banished them respectfully. Damien’s apartment was every bit as close as he said it was, and one promised short walk later, there we were.
No sooner had the door closed than we were kissing again, our bodies melding against one another in the silence of the foyer. We devoured each other, making out like teenagers on the way to his bedroom. Our hands moved irrespective of our lips, twenty eager fingertips exploring the exciting new frontier of each other’s bodies.
His bedroom was small but functional. There were two piles of laundry, one clean one dirty, and thankfully, a cozy-looking queen-sized bed. Shit, it was even made.
“You’re American obviously,” I murmured, still kissing him as my hands traveled down his big arms. “West Coast?”
He flexed his hands upward, to hold my face. His biceps were hard as rocks.
“California.”
I laughed into his mouth. “That’s funny, I had you pegged for a surfer.”
He shoved me backward, onto the bed. So abruptly I bounced.
“I am a surfer.”
He smiled that incredible smile, then pulled his shirt up and over his head. I literally gasped as his chest came into view. It was beautifully cut in every direction, two perfect pectorals above a set of washboard, six-pack abdominals.
And he had that ‘V’ I liked so much. The one that started just above the black strip of his Calvin Klein waistband… and ended somewhere below it.
He was looking at me now, sprawled across his bed like some prize he’d won and taken home. His eyes finally left mine, scanning downward. They paused at my heaving chest, and again at my midsection. Somewhere along our journey my jeans had been unbuttoned and my fly undone. We both looked down together, our eyes meeting at the lacy red edge of what would be revealed to be one of my favorite G-strings.
Thank God you wore cute panties…
There was a short pause as our eyes met again, his sapphire irises now burning with a strange inner fire. Without looking away, he began unbuckling his belt. It hung down on one side, obscenely reminiscent of something else.
“I want you,” he told me, his expression completely unapologetic.
His pants dropped to the floor and he stopped out of them. Peripherally, I could see the growing outline of the bulge between his legs as he climbed onto the bed.
Onto me.
“I’m yours,” I breathed, as his mouth went to my neck. I wanted him to know. I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt, no reservations at all. I needed this. Needed it more than I probably ever needed it before. More than—
“Mmmmm…”
He hands were on my hips now, yanking my jeans off. I kicked them to the floor as his tongue continued tracing downward. His knee went between my legs and I writhed against it, just as he began chewing deliciously on my shoulder.
“God,” he growled… and it was definitely a growl. “You smell so fucking good…”
He was inhaling me. Breathing me in. I could feel the air from his nostrils as they flared hard against my skin. And beneath it my heart, beating. Pounding now. His mouth… hovering like a vampire over my neck. Brushing against the heated rush of blood, just beyond.
