“Jackson finally hit the hay.”
Damion hands me a cup of coffee and sits next to me on the sand. A few seagulls are fighting for scraps and a crab scatters to safety between the rocks. I wish it could take my heart with it to hide the stupid organ in one of the cracks, well out of reach from the man to my side.
“What are you thinking about?” You. My heart.
“Ren.” He gasps, his badboy eyes looking a little upset.
“You’re thinking about your ex?” Yep, his voice is a little upset too.
“Some asshole told me we had no passion, like that of an asexual female panda.” I know he’s looking at me but I’m not turning, my eyes are fixed forward on the breaking waves.
“Clever asshole, you should listen to him more.” Now I turn toward him to catch his goofy expression.
“Maybe passion is overrated.”
“No, believe me, passion is everything.”
“What about friendship and trust?”
“Important too. But you can work on that. Passion, not so much. It’s either there or it’s not. We’re lucky, you and me … it’s lingering between us waiting to be discovered.”
“How do you know?” I ask unsure.
“Because I can feel it when we kiss.”
He plays with a strand of my hair, twirling that strand on a finger, reeling me in until we are nose to nose. He moves his head, and now his lips are so close I can lick them if I stick out my tongue. Instead, I stare at him like a turkey that survived Thanksgiving. His mouth curls at the corner, suggesting his thoughts are not at all pure and innocent.
“Let me demonstrate.”
Before I can finish processing that, he closes the small gap between our mouths and kisses me.
And not a warm little peck.
A lengthy, hot, wet kiss that involves a lot of tongue, and spontaneous moans. And a boatload of passion. My fingers dig into his flesh. When he leans back, I feel all warm and giddy.
“Fuck. It gets better every time.” We both breathe heavily like lunatics.
“Yeah, your kisses are unexpectedly great.”
He nods. “It’s either passion … or voodoo.” His voice is low and a little rough, and I feel my nipples harden again on cue as if they’re tuned in to him alone. “But I’m thinking both.”
True. “But …. we’re not doing it again.”
“Right.” He looks at me through those thick dark long sexy lashes. “Why’s that?”
“Because . . .” Oh hell, those eyes. “Because you made a promise to Jackson. Because I’m not your angel. Because you scare me. Because I hate being in the press. Because my brothers will kill you. Because you don’t do relationships. Because you’re not a forever kind of guy. Pick one.”
“Right,” he says again. “I only promised Jackson I won’t fuck around with you … not that I would stay away from you or that I won’t fuck you.” I swallow down the stupid desire crawling up my throat.
“Oh.” I’m a little thrown. “Isn’t it like the same, though?”
“No, fucking around is not sincere. And I plan to be sincere.” He has me there. Clever selection of words. I wonder if Jackson knows he’s been fooled. Hell, probably … it’s Jackson. He usually knows.
“You are my angel, and you scare me too.” He angles his head to kiss me deep, and I whimper out noises I’ve never made before, while I clutch at him in necessity.
He moves me onto his lap so I’m cradling him without breaking our kiss. He tastes like coffee, recklessness, and everything badboy Damion, and even though I know this is wrong in so many ways, I can’t get enough.
“As for your brothers killing me, forget about that.” A wave of desire floods me and my heart pumps hummingbird fast. He can make me forget everything – my brothers, that he doesn’t do forever, that I’m on a roller coaster ride to heartbreak, including my own name, and that I’m supposed to hate him.
“But I can’t control the press.” No one can. That’s what scares me. I’m rattled by one stupid stalker knowing my every move … how will I handle the whole world?
An alarm rings in my head. Or maybe it’s my ears ringing.
“Damion …” I push him away. “This is too fast. We’re supposed to first ask each other’s names and maybe exchange phone numbers.” My brain is not working properly.
“We’re past that,” he chuckles with horny eyes.
“What about the dare … or pact … the one where we first become friends?”
“Fuck that. I’m not that patient. I want you now.”
“Okay, then we should go on a date … I guess since you can’t sit still for long, you’re not the movie type … so dinner then. You should take me someplace nice … without cameras. We’ll talk and get to know each other … and after a few more dates, I may start to trust you. But you’ll have to earn that. Only then will I drop my panties for you, we both get what we want, after which we tell my brothers, and then you die and I get locked up in a tower.”
“At least I get some before I meet my demise,” he gibbers and cracks up.
“And I won’t be a virgin.” He laughs even harder.
But then I slide my hands down his chest, over a very distinct six-pack, and slowly lower, feeling him. He is hard and big.
And hard.
He stops laughing.
I jerk away and accidentally … my foot sort of steps … on his goods, taking out a few hundred Grimm sperm on the go.
“Fucking shit,” he hisses in a pained raspy voice, clutching his junk. Bewildered I jump up, shouting “Sorry!” He rolls into a heap. My brain secretes cortisol and floods my body with a super high dose of adrenaline which stupefies my mind and puts me into full flight alert.
I take off and run in a direction. Any direction.