21. Angel
The weight of Damien’s arm across my waist is the first thing I feel when the morning light filters through the sheer curtains.
It’s a heavy, warm anchor that tells me exactly where I am before I even open my eyes.
I’m in California. I’m in a hotel room that smells like salt air and expensive linens. I’m in the arms of my husband.
The word husband still sends a little thrill through my chest, but it’s quickly followed by a sharp, jagged pang of shame.
I stare at the sunlight dancing on the ceiling and think about last night.
I hate it. I hate that Brian’s ghost followed me across the Atlantic and into this bed.
I hate that his hands, which are hopefully rotting in the London dirt, still have the power to make me flinch.
It started so perfectly—the heat, the way Damien looked at me like I was the only thing in the world, the raw, beautiful intimacy of him finally being mine.
And then I ruined it. I turned the moment into a scene of terror, and I saw the way it broke him.
I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want to be “fragile.” I want to be the woman who can handle the man she married. I want to enjoy him, to feel his strength without fearing it.
I shift slightly, and the movement is enough to wake him.
Damien doesn’t wake up like a normal person; he goes from dead still to fully alert in a heartbeat.
His grip on me tightens for a split second before he realizes it’s just me.
He hums, a low, vibrating sound in his chest that I feel against my back, and presses a kiss to the space between my shoulder blades.
“Morning, Mrs. Mercer,” he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper, turning in his arms to face him.
His eyes search mine immediately, checking for the shadows from last night. I try to smile, try to show him that I’m okay, but he sees right through it. He brushes a thumb over my cheek, his expression softening into something so tender it hurts.
“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t overthink it, Angel. We’re okay.”
“I ruined it,” I blurt out, the guilt finally spilling over. “I wanted it so bad, and then I just... I freaked out.”
Damien moves, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at me.
“You didn’t ruin anything. You’ve been through hell, baby. If you think I’m going anywhere because you had a moment of fear, you don’t know me at all. Now, quit beating yourself up. I have a whole day of fun planned for us, and I’m not letting you spend it in your head.”
“A day of fun?” I ask, a little surprised. Damien isn’t exactly the “planned itinerary” type.
“Beach,” he says, a playful glint appearing in those grey-blue eyes. “Sun. Shitty boardwalk food. And I might even let you beat me at air hockey if you’re nice.
The Santa Monica beach is a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. The air is thick with the scent of funnel cake and salt, and the roar of the ocean provides a constant, soothing backdrop.
Damien is a sight to behold in this environment.
He’s ditched the leather vest for a simple black tank top that leaves his tattooed arms on full display, and he’s wearing a pair of dark board shorts.
He looks like a predator trying to blend in with the tourists, and the way women turn their heads as he walks past makes a smug little spark of possessiveness flare in my gut. He’s mine.
He buys me a giant stick of blue cotton candy, watching with a smirk as I tear into it.
“You’ve got blue on your lip,” he says, leaning in.
“Where?” I ask, reaching up to wipe it away.
He catches my hand, his eyes darkening. “Allow me.” He leans down, his tongue darting out to lick the corner of my mouth. It’s a slow, deliberate movement that makes my breath hitch. He lingers there for a second, his lips grazing mine. “Tastes like sugar,” he murmurs. “But not as sweet as you.”
“You’re a cheeseball, Damien Mercer,” I laugh, though my heart is racing.
“Only for you, baby.”
We spend the afternoon lounging on a secluded patch of sand Damien managed to find away from the main pier.
He sprawls out on the towel, his skin bronzing in the sun, while I sit beside him, tracing the lines of the tattoos on his chest.
We talk—not about London, not about the club, but about the future.
He tells me about a house he saw up the coast, a place with a big porch and enough land for the dogs I’ve always wanted.
He makes me laugh until my sides ache, teasing me about the time I tried to “fix” his bike when I was twelve and ended up covered in oil. Every time he touches me, the fear from last night recedes a little further.
He’s rebuilding the bridge, brick by brick, making sure I know that his touch is safe.
By the time the sun starts to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of pink and orange, the tension in my body has completely vanished, replaced by a low, humming ache of a different kind.
We’re standing near the water’s edge, the foam of the retreating waves swirling around our ankles.
Damien is standing behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his arms wrapped around my waist.
He’s been nipping at the sensitive skin of my neck for the last ten minutes, his hands wandering just low enough to make me whine.
“You’re being a menace,” I breathe, leaning my head back against his shoulder.
“Am I?” he rumbles, his voice vibrating through me. His hands slide up, his thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts through my bikini top.
“You’re making it very hard to stand straight,” I admit, my skin tingling everywhere he touches.
He turns me around in his arms, his face inches from mine. The sunset reflects in his eyes, making them look like molten silver. He looks hungry. He looks like he wants to devour me right here on the sand, and I realize the thought doesn’t make me want to run. It makes me want to pull him closer.
I reach up, sliding my hands into his salt-crusted hair, and pull his head down.
I kiss him with everything I have, my tongue tangling with his, my body molding itself to the hard, unyielding lines of his.
I can feel his heart thundering against my chest, feel the raw, desperate need he’s been holding back all day.
I pull back just an inch, my breath coming in gasps.
“Damien,” I whisper, my eyes locked on his.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I want to go back to the hotel.” I slide my hand down, my fingers brushing against the heavy bulge in his shorts, and I watch his pupils blow wide. “I want to try again. I want you. Now.”
He doesn’t say a word. He just grabs my hand, his grip possessive and fierce, and starts leading me back toward the bike.
I want to be claimed. I want to be his. And I’m not letting anything stand in our way.