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Damon eyes the name on the screen, his brow arching up, before he stands up, his hand fixing his hair.
I take a deep breath and walk away from him, needing distance for this call.
“Hey,” I say as normally as I possibly can. I’m not sure I succeed. My hands are shaking, my heart is aching, my pussy is screaming for the abandonment issues it already has.
“What time will you be back?” Why is he asking me this? He never does. Is Claire still over? Is he doing the same thing I’m doing? The thought etches into my stomach like an acidic potion.
“I’m heading out soon. Why? Do you need anything—”
“—I’m fine . . .”
“Are you sure?” I ask, staring at the painting on Damon’s wall. Such a sad painting, like the one in his office.
Oh Damon, what happened to you? Will you ever tell me?
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.” I hesitate a few seconds to see if he’ll say anything else. When he doesn’t, I say goodbye and end the call.
I feel Damon behind me. I need a second, a minute, to calm my nerves.
His erection presses against my ass, and I lean my head on his shoulder, eyes closed. I want to savor this moment because I don’t know if it’ll happen again.
“I have to go.” My voice sounds so raw and pained.
He grabs me gently by the hair, tilting my head to give him access to my lips. A first kiss. A second one. I’m so weak I don’t know how I’ll drive back home. I’m high and drunk on Damon Dreygon, and the side effects don’t easily dissipate.
He kisses my forehead before he says, “I’ll drive you back to work.”
That’s all he says. He pulls away, and I turn to face him, catching a glimpse of an unreadable shadow in the pit of his eyes.
“Don’t you have work to do? Deadlines? I can cab.”
His expression is serious. “After. I’m driving you back.” I know he could call Joey, but instead he chooses not to. He chooses to spend more time with me. Time where we won’t be kissing or moaning. And that makes me feel utterly special.
He takes my coat, and we reach the entrance of his home. I slip it on before he grabs the collar to pull me to him.
I just stare at him. I know his lesson is coming, something more is coming.
“I won’t share you, Gemma.” His hand traces down my neck, over my breasts. It doesn’t matter that I’m wearing a coat. My nipples are excited, delighted even. “If I’m to haveyour body—he can’t have you.” His pupils are almost black as he says this, and I can’t deny the rush I feel at the slight possessiveness in his tone.
I swallow. “And me? What do I get in return?”
“I’ll extend the same courtesy. I won’t do other women.” There they are—the words I’ve desperately been looking for—the words I’m hoping meansomethingto him.
“So you won’t share me physically but you don’t care that I love another man?”
He pulls back and walks to a massive closet where he puts on his coat and black boots. Why does he have to look so darn good?
“I’m not after your heart.”
My eyes sting, but I quickly recuperate. I don’t know why it hurts, just that it does. Maybe it’s because I’m facing so much rejection from two men at once?
I need time to formulate a response, to bargain, to ask for more. I don’t even know why. I’m clearly not thinking straight, not thinking of Harvey or his family or mine.
Only my own needs.
I have my heels on and my purse in hand when I finally manage to ask what it is that I want to know. We’re both sitting in his Tesla, driving away from his house.
