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 drawls, “I’d offer a drink, Troy, but I’d rather you guys head off.”
Outrageous.
Troy appraises us. “I thought you were only . . .” He shakes his head, grabs the nappy bag—and Tommy’s pants—and heads for the nearest exit. His gaze is soft when he glances back at us. “Take care.”
His tone is steeped in warning, and Damon hums at my ear as Troy disappears. “You bet I will.”
I turn in his arms. The living room is a blur of colour edging his outline. He’s a wall of heat against me. The possibility of what’s happening thickens over me like his shadow, big, deep, and I’m lost in it. I’m clinging to his gaze. His breath pebbles over my lips—
“I have to sew something!”
Before he can so much as blink, I wriggle free and am off to rummage in the bedroom dresser, where my clothes are stacked neatly next to his. I recall the way Damon’s lips quirked and resettled as he leaned against the dresser and watched me pile away pyjama set after pyjama set. How he’d shoved his own, smaller stack over to create more space.
I pull out a hot pink flannel pair and hug it on my way back to the living room.
Damon has thrown himself lengthwise over the couch with a book. He peers over it as I trot past, humming. “Let me know when it’s time to continue.”
Veins fizzy with shivers, I sling myself behind my sewing table, thread a needle with the thread from my finger, and start stitching. It’s not enough, but I use more of the same colour. After an hour, my fingers start cramping, and Damon is getting jiggly on the couch. He jumps up with a wink my way and feeds Fidget and Fishy, then makes us a cup of tea—which I instruct him to leave on the counter.
“What are you doing?” he asks when I slip over for the tea.
The warmth from the cup soothes my poor fingers and I soak it all in. “Fixing a pair of PJs.”
He frowns and cocks his head. “Is this you being nervous?”
“If it is?”
He draws the cup from my hands and sets it down. His fingers rub against the red mark left by the thread, and his nose hits the shell of my ear in a ticklish whisper. “That makes two of us.”
I shiver. “You? Nervous?”
He stills a moment, like a footnote. “Not about the sex part.”
I roll my eyes.
His posture softens around me. “But . . . this part . . .” And I remember: the last time he admitted his love, he was told he wasn’t enough.
I swallow. “You are everything just the way you are.” He closes his eyes and a rush of shyness has me pushing against his chest. He folds obligingly at my touch. “Five minutes.”
“Right. I shall prepare the oil.”
“Damon.”
“For the backrubs I owe you.” He slinks out of the living room with a happy—albeit diabolical—grin, and I hurry to put the finishing touches on my pyjamas.
True to his word, Damon has prepared the bedroom. The new curtains are drawn, one bedside lamp casts a golden glow over the bed, and Damon is stretched out like a Roman god in the middle of it, one hand cupping his chin, the other resting on a bent knee. He’s lost his top and wears loose pants. Flannel. I’ve walked into various attempted seduction scenes like this. Of course, those times what followed was me picking up a pillow and whacking him with it before slipping into bed to sleep.
Today my shivers linger, pooling low in my belly.
He looks me up and down and his soft hum vibrates between us, thickening the air.
I clear my throat and move to the bed, each step an electrical riot in my chest. “I think these will be your new favourites.”
“Hot pink certainly does something for me.”
My voice cracks. “Take a closer look.”
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and draws me in by my hips. His gaze roams over my front and he hooks his hazel eyes to mine as he opens each button. Fingers graze over my stomach, my chest.
“You haven’t looked everywhere yet.”
“I’m checking the inside.”
“Always wanting dessert before dinner.”
He pulls my open shirt and tugs my face close to his; his curved lips slide against mine. “I like sweet things.” He nips another kiss. “Turn around.”
My heart slams against my ribcage.
I rise, and turn.
Chapter Seventeen
Damon is quiet.
So quiet, I wonder if he can hear the ruckus of my heart as I stand, back to him, waiting.
I breathe in and out slowly and close my eyes on the warm glow of his bedroom. I’m shivering. And then.
A soft touch at my back. A finger tracing over my shoulder blades.
Damon’s breath shudders. He gathers up the fabric of my pyjama top and I feel tugging, like he’s dropped his face into the flannel and is inhaling deeply.