Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Damon keeps trying to snag my gaze, and I evade him, fussing about with my little sewing project.
He laughs softly and disappears into his room, and when he comes back out again in only his boxers, I cut too deeply into my pattern. I yank my gaze back to the fabric.
“Made the bed fresh.”
“Go right ahead to sleep,” I say.
Damon hums thoughtfully, grabs a book, and throws himself onto the sofa. My ears strain for the churring sound of turning paper, and hearing none has me flustered. He’s watching me. Waiting for me.
Well, I can outwait him. My chef’s apron will be perfect, and will have a front pocket. And I’ll embroider my name onto the straps . . .
Mum comes home, yawning, during these musings. “Stars are lovely.”
“Very nice indeed,” Damon says, aiming a wee smirk at me.
I roll my eyes. Unbelievable.
Within minutes, Mum’s snore is rattling through the door. I finish my apron and Damon steals it from me to inspect it. “Did you know you’ve been smiling since I sat on the couch?”
“Rubbish.” I grab more fabric and lay it on the floor. But yeah—mortifyingly, my lips are still upturned.
Damon peers over the apron. “You’re procrastinating.”
“What? Never! I want us dressed in matching aprons for our date tomorrow—what are you doing?”
Damon tosses the apron on the couch and takes me by the arms, tugging me to my feet. “Lovely as you are, smiling on your knees,” he says, and fireman’s me over his shoulder with a smack to my arse, “it’s time to change position.”
“Damon.”
“Wriggle all you want, Leon.” He plunks me onto his bed and crawls over me with a wicked gleam in his eye. “That’s exactly the point.”
He presses his weight on me and I gasp. “You’re not satisfied?” I’ve been on an agonising precipice since the tea rooms, and no amount of procrasti—sewing has calmed me down.
“No.” Hot, damp breath spools around my ear. “I like to give as good as I get. And Leon? I got very, very good.”
I shiver. Right. I suppose Damon has a certain reputation to uphold. Or rather, re-establish.
He rolls his hips over my stiff prick.
Couldn’t hurt to indulge him! “It’ll be awkward after,” I warn, breathless. “You can’t kick me out of be—”
Damon scowls and kisses away the last of my words. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and elicits a rumbling moan. My dick is in heaven under a thin layer of flannel; every outline of Damon’s hard cock bores against mine.
I arch into him instinctively; he hums at my ear and nibbles a line down my neck that has me bucking. His lips twitch at the base of my throat, and I can imagine their curve: wicked.
His palm sneaks between us—hot; practiced—and strokes up my aching length. My mouth parts on a hard gasp and his lips hit mine, drinking it in. “I remember how much I like doing this.”
Sexy as hell. It won’t be long before people are throwing themselves at him to become a notch on his bed post. A tendril of achiness makes a fleeting appearance; I cup a hand around his corded nape and push myself up into his kiss. My other hand fishes between us and clasps the wrist so expertly stroking me. “I want . . . like this.”
Damon bites my lip and takes charge, fist a worshipping pressure around my pyjama-clad cock.
He wrecks my mouth with his keen kisses, and he absolutely wrecks my body with his perfect hand. I sink into the mattress, clutching sheets, soft gasps turning to seeping groans. He is like waves lapping at a beach at night, stroking to tease, stroking until I see all the stars.
“Damon . . .”
He considers my wordless plea and continues his exquisite, slow torture.
“Please?”
He smirks into a softer kiss, and then his grip shifts; lapping waves become a sea at storm and my body locks under his as it crashes through me, from clenched fingers to curled toes.
A smug grin. I roll my eyes into his follow-up snog.
“We shall sleep very well now,” he decrees, flops his weight onto the mattress beside me, and pulls me into the position of little spoon. I don’t even mind my wet pyjama pants.
Damon is still cuddling me when I wake up. The vibrations of his contented sleep roll through me from my scalp to my feet, where he’s twitching against me. Something else is twitching too, and I quietly extract myself from it. I can’t imagine he’d be thrilled to wake up and find himself clinging to me like a security blanket.
Asleep in the glow of the dawn stretching through his windows, Damon is beautiful. Angelic even, when he’s not spouting cheeky come-ons. Gently, I pull the blankets over his exposed back and shoulder, and sneak out into the living area. I have an hour and a half before meeting Scott, and I’m serious about showing up in matching aprons.