He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares at the sand for a long time.
“I’m not in love with nor fucking Chloe.”
“You’ve said that.”
“And I’m certainly not sleeping with Thalia. It might be illegal not to mention disgusting since she’s my cousin.” I swallow back the humiliation and give an unfeminine grunt, feeling as if the air is too thick to breathe right now.
“From now on,” he stalks towards me and hauls me against him so hard the wind escapes my lungs. “I would like to have only one girl in my bed.”
My heart stutters in my chest and my hands rest against those rockhard abs.
“So if we are both clear on who I want to have lunch with,” he rasps, forehead to mine, “let’s move on to my question – favorite movie?”
“Harry Potter,” I answer without even thinking. Hell, my mind is in the cloud, trying to back up the data of what just happened, as well as trying to retrieve what it means, while my body is lustfully frisky.
And then I finally gather all the information together and I blush.
Dammit. Now I am all heated up and having a hot flash to boot. And I’m still melted to his front.
“You really want only me in your bed.” He frowns. Even with knotted brows, he’s super sexy. Fuckit.
“I thought we already cleared that up.” He cups the back of my head in one big hand and kisses me. I give up to the taste of him, to the pleasure of his tongue. Our bodies are still plastered together – he is rock solid against me – in more ways than one. With a groan, he pulls back as if it’s a rather hard thing to do and I feel cold without his heat.
He grabs my hand and pulls me forward towards some rocks in the sand. “Come, we’re close.” And only now do I remember he wanted to show me something.
“Look,” he points to some sort of nest in the sand between two rocks. “It’s a gull nest.” There are four eggs, ranging from buff to greenish, with dark spots, speckles, splotches, and short swirls.
“I’ve googled … it takes 23 to 27 days for them to hatch … so it should happen in the next week or so.” I never expected a badboy like him to get excited over seagull chicks.
Who exactly is this man really?
The playboy of the tabloids; the champion of the racetrack; the little boy who saved us; my brother’s badboy best friend; the devil that broke my heart.
Or an angel that needs rescuing.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
D Stalker: Spending the night – I don’t like sharing!
Doesn’t he have anything better to do than stalk me?
Then I type a reply.
Mel: Come talk face2face coward.
He answers almost immediately.
D Stalker: Soon!
Damion looks at me with a silent face and I shrug, but am just as still as him, as if I’m waiting for him to react. To tell me it’s going to be alright.
“Mel, I’ll do everything to keep you safe.”
Date = 9 November
Place = San Francisco (Damion’s house)
POV – Damion
“So, what are we making?” She jumps onto the counter and the scent of my soap comes to me, light and familiar, and I fucking love the idea of her covered in my scent – and I love it even more that she’s covered in my shirt.
I purposely didn’t pack shirts, only pants, since my pants are too big.
I move between her legs, putting my hands on either side of the counter, boxing her in. I bend forward so we are eye to eye. Hers are dark and buzzing and skeptical as she stares at me. Then, there is the slightly unsure posture, saying she is at least a little out of her element and knows it. If she only knew how over my head I’m feeling she would probably laugh.
“So, it’s we now?” I tease, “And here I thought I am supposed to make the food so you can fall in love with me.”
“I think it’s too late,” she murmurs as if to herself, and as if she said too much, she adjusts herself with a scowl. “Let me help. What are YOU making?”
There are a lot of little things I love about her. This is one thing, her mouth runs too fast for her brain. She always blames her ADHD. Maybe it’s a mundane need – the need to blame something or someone for the things you can’t control.
For me it’s the other way around – my demons blame me. They thrive on the guilt.
But she’s right. We’ve crossed a line and there’s no going back now.
“Pancakes,” I say. “With chocolate chips, double fudge syrup, bacon and -”
“Bananas,” she interrupts with a gruff bedroom voice. “It’s my favorite breakfast food.”
“I know,” I say smirking in her face. Her eyes are wary – as if she’s digesting what I said. I realize I’m going to have to work to earn her trust. But I’m willing to put in the effort.
Not wholly in charge of my faculties, I pull her in before covering her mouth with mine. With a low sigh of consent, she wraps her arms around my neck, letting in my tongue to deepen the kiss. Which suits me just fine.
When she pulls back, breathless and panting for air, she licks her lip as if she needs to savor the taste of me.
I know the feeling of not getting enough. Hell, I’ll never get enough of her. She feels so good. Good and soft and responsive. One hand cups her jaw, while the other is low at her back where my fingers tuck into the waistband of her jeans, against warm, smooth skin and something lacy.
“Shit,” my breath hisses harshly. “You feel good. So damn good.” My gut is stringing an emotion somewhere between yearning, affection, adoration, and lust.