2. Damian #2
"Dusty." The nickname rolls off my tongue, unexpectedly fitting for this beautiful little mess of a girl covered in dirt and chocolate. "I'm?—"
"Damian Kensington." She cuts me off, those hazel eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Tech mogul. CEO of Kensington Industries."
My brows lift. "You knew who I was."
"I saw your picture downstairs." Her chin lifts, defiance sparking despite the fear still threading through her voice.
"So you broke into my home knowing exactly who lived here." I push off the dresser, taking a single step toward her. She doesn't retreat this time. "That takes serious guts, little girl."
"Stop—" She bites down on the protest, jaw tightening. "I needed the money."
"For what?"
Her throat works as she swallows. Those slender arms wrap tighter around her middle, fingers digging into the oversized sweater.
"Doesn't matter. You're calling the cops anyway, right?"
"You have two choices, little girl. I call the cops right now—let them sort out why an eighteen-year-old is breaking into homes and stealing—or you accept your punishment from me." I pause, letting the weight of it settle. "You face the consequences of your actions either way."
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth. Those hazel eyes dart from the door to my face, calculating, measuring. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, weighing which outcome terrifies her less.
"What kind of punishment?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"The kind that teaches you not to break into strangers' homes."
Her throat works as she swallows hard. Her fingers twist in the hem of her oversized sweater, knuckles white with tension. But something shifts in those expressive eyes—amber darkening to honey-gold as her pupils dilate.
Want.
Pure, unfiltered hunger wars with the fear trembling through her petite frame.
"I—" She inhales shakily. "I choose you."
The words punch through my chest, igniting something possessive and claiming deep in my gut.
Her hands move to the hem of her sweater even as protests tumble from those soft pink lips. "This is crazy—you're completely insane—I should just run?—"
But she's already lifting the cream fabric, revealing inches of porcelain skin marked with dirt and the faint outline of ribs. The sweater comes off in one fluid motion, honey-blonde waves cascading back down around her bare shoulders.
My lips twitch. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing down the amusement threatening to curve my mouth. She's protesting with words while her body eagerly complies, desperate excitement written in every jerky movement.
"—probably going to regret this for the rest of my life?—"
Her hands fumble with the button of her worn jeans, shoving them down slim hips. No underwear. She kicks them aside, standing before me in nothing but a thin, milk-stained bra that does absolutely nothing to contain those full breasts.
"—this is so wrong—I don't even know you?—"
The bra joins the pile on my floor. Then she's completely bare, vulnerability and defiance mingling in the rigid set of her spine as she crosses her arms over her chest in a futile gesture of modesty.
The air punches from my lungs.
Gorgeous doesn't begin to cover it. She's ethereal—all delicate curves and soft skin that begs to be touched, explored, claimed.
Her slender hourglass frame trembles slightly under my gaze, those full breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath.
Milk continues beading on her nipples, droplets sliding down the gentle swell before dripping to the hardwood.
My mouth waters.
"Come here."
She takes three hesitant steps forward, stopping just out of arm's reach. Her scent hits me—sugar and fear and something intoxicatingly sweet that makes my head swim.
I reach out, catching a single droplet of milk on my fingertip before it falls. Warm. Slightly sticky. I bring it to my lips, tasting.
Rich. Sweet. Perfect.
"That's definitely milk." My voice comes out rougher than intended, gravel scraping against silk.
Her cheeks flame crimson. "I told you—I don't understand why?—"
"I want to taste more." The confession tumbles out before I can stop it, raw and honest in ways I never allow myself to be. "Straight from the source."
Her eyes widen to saucers. "You can't—that's—no!
" But even as protests spill from her lips, her shoulders roll back, spine straightening.
Those full breasts lift toward me in unconscious offering, nipples peaked and glistening with droplets of milk.
Her eyes flutter closed, thick lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks.
I press my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, jaw clenching. The contradiction between her words and body language tugs at something between amusement and raw, aching want. She's completely transparent—every desperate, confused emotion written across delicate features.
But she's not ready. Not yet.
"Bathroom. Now."
Her eyes snap open, confusion clouding those hazel irises. "What?"
I gesture toward the ensuite with a jerk of my chin. "Move."
She doesn't budge, rooted to the hardwood with her arms still crossed over her chest. "I thought—I thought we were?—"
The realization hits. Her cheeks burn scarlet, spreading down her throat and across her collarbone. She thought I'd just take her right here. Dirty and terrified and trembling with want she doesn't understand.
Heat pools low in my gut.
"You think I'd fuck you while you're covered in grime?" I arch an eyebrow, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "You broke into my house, ate my food with chocolate-smeared hands, and probably haven't showered in days."
Her mouth drops open. Indignation flashes across her features, warring with embarrassment. "I showered yesterday!"
"Yesterday doesn't count." I close the distance between us, my shadow swallowing her petite frame. "You're filthy, little girl. And I don't touch dirty things."