Chapter 4
ALYSSA
Istare at Damien, my mind struggling to catch up with what just happened. His words—"Not until I take you out on a proper date"—echo in my head as I sit half-naked on his coffee table, my pajama pants around my ankles, my body still trembling from the most intense orgasm of my life.
He just ... with his mouth ... and now he wants to date me? Did I somehow wake up this morning in an alternate universe where a man like Damien wants a woman like me?
Am I dreaming? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
"You want to take me on a date?" I manage to ask, my voice hoarse. "After ... that?"
Damien smiles, and it transforms his usually stern face into something devastatingly handsome. His stubble is glistening—with my juices, oh God—and somehow that's the detail that makes this all feel real.
"Especially after that." He steps back, giving me space to pull my pants up. "I want to do this right, Alyssa."
My hands fumble with my clothing as I try to process what's happening. This grumpy, gorgeous giant of a man who just gave me a mind-blowing orgasm with his mouth, and now he's acting like a perfect gentleman? The cognitive dissonance is giving me whiplash.
"There's a right way to do this?" I ask, my lips quirking up. "Pretty sure we're already doing things out of order."
He chuckles, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Fair point. But I'd still like to take you to dinner. Tomorrow night?"
I stand up on shaky legs, tugging my sweater back down. "You're serious."
"Very." His gray eyes hold mine, all traces of humor gone. "I've wanted to ask you out for weeks."
My heart does a somersault in my chest. "You have?"
"Since the day you moved in." He takes a step closer, and I can smell myself on his breath. It should be embarrassing, but it's strangely intimate. "So? Dinner?"
"Yes," I say, surprising myself with how quickly I answer. "Tomorrow night sounds perfect."
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven."
As I walk back to my apartment, my legs still wobbly, I can't help the stupid grin spreading across my face. I just made out with Damien Finch. No—I just had his head between my thighs. And tomorrow, we're going on a date.
What universe did I slip into, and how do I make sure I never leave?
My phone pings as I close my door, and I pull it out to see an Instagram notification. One of my followers has commented on my latest post—a video tutorial for a cable-knit scarf.
Marcus_Lover87: You're so beautiful when you concentrate, love of my life. I can't wait to start our life together. Soon.
I grimace, quickly swiping away the notification. Another creepy comment from that account. I get them occasionally—occupational hazard of being a female content creator—but this user has been particularly persistent lately.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, I have more important things to think about, like what the hell I'm going to wear on my date with Damien.
By seven the following evening, I've tried on every item of clothing I own. My bed is a wasteland of discarded outfits, and I'm standing in front of the mirror in a dark blue wrap dress that hugs my curves without making me feel self-conscious about my height.
I'm a jittery mess of nerves. This morning, the reality of what happened hit me—I let my landlord go down on me on his coffee table. The same table where he probably eats breakfast. The same man I've awkwardly avoided eye contact with in the hallway for months.
What was I thinking?
But then I remember his hands, strong and massive and veiny, on my thighs. His mouth, hot and demanding, between my legs. The way he looked at me afterward.
A knock at my door sends my heart into my throat.
When I open it, Damien stands there in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he smells so good.
God, he has no business being this hot.
"Hi." My voice sounds different to my ears, a little too breathy, but he doesn't seem to notice.
His eyes travel down my body, slowly, appreciatively. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," I say, fighting the urge to fidget. "You clean up nice yourself."
He smiles, and I notice Doug sitting quietly at his feet, not barking at me for the first time ever. Progress.
"He likes you now," Damien says, noticing my surprise.
"Just like that?"
Damien's eyes darken. "He knows you're important to me."
The simple statement sends warmth blooming through my chest, the memory of his fingers inside me making my cheeks flush.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we head downstairs.
"Tony's. It's an Italian place a few blocks away. We can walk if that's okay with you."
"I'd like that."
The night air is cool against my heated skin as we walk side by side, close enough that our arms occasionally brush. Conversation flows more easily than I expected, probably because we've already been intimately acquainted in ways that make small talk seem irrelevant.
Tony's is small and cozy, with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. The host—Tony himself, I'm guessing—greets Damien by name and shows us to a corner table.
"You come here often?" I ask after we're seated.
"At least once a week. Best pasta in town." He picks up the menu but doesn't open it. "I always get the same thing."
"Which is?"
"Spaghetti carbonara. Simple, but they do it right."
I smile. "A creature of habit."
"In some ways." His eyes meet mine over the table. "I'm making exceptions lately."
The air between us crackles with tension. I've never been good at flirting, but something about Damien makes me braver than usual.
"I'm glad I'm an exception," I say.
Over dinner, I learn that Damien worked construction for ten years before he could afford to buy our building. It was a foreclosure, practically falling apart, and he's spent the last three years renovating it himself, floor by floor, apartment by apartment.
"You did all that work alone?"
He shrugs, but I can see the pride in his eyes. "I had help with the electrical and plumbing, but the rest? Yeah. Nights and weekends while I kept my day job."
"That's incredible." I mean it. I admire people who build things with their hands. "Is that how you found Doug?"
His expression softens. "Yeah. Someone had abandoned him in the parking lot. Skinny little thing, terrified of everything. I couldn't bring myself to take him to a shelter."
The image of gruff, intimidating Damien rescuing a trembling chihuahua does something to my heart.
"And now he's your loyal sidekick."
"More like my furry dictator," Damien says with a laugh. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
By the time we finish our meal, I've learned more about Damien than I ever thought I would. He's self-taught in carpentry, loves old things that can be restored rather than replaced, and hasn't been in a serious relationship for three years because he's been focused on his building.
And I've told him about my journey from knitting as therapy during college to building my online business, about Diana pushing me to start filming tutorials, about my dream of eventually opening a small yarn shop with a teaching space.
It's the best date I've ever had.
When we walk back to the building, the night has grown cooler, and Damien shrugs off his jacket to place it around my shoulders. The warmth of it, infused with his scent, makes me want to bury my face in the collar.
"Thank you for tonight," I say as we approach the building entrance. "I had a really good time."
Damien stops walking, turning to face me. "Night's not over yet. Unless you want it to be?"
My pulse quickens. "Definitely not."
Instead of heading for the main entrance, he leads me into the parking garage. The concrete space is dimly lit and quiet, our footsteps echoing as we walk toward his Ford Bronco parked in the corner.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he says, his voice low. "About yesterday."
"Me too." I step closer to him, emboldened by the darkness and the memory of his mouth on me.
His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him. "I can't stop thinking about the sounds you made when you came."
"I can't stop thinking about how good you felt. How good you made me feel."
He groans softly before capturing my mouth with his. The kiss is different from last night—almost like him staking his claim. His tongue strokes against mine, and I press myself closer, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach.
"Get in the car," he growls against my lips.
I raise an eyebrow. "Are we going somewhere?"
His smile is wicked. "No."
Understanding dawns, and a thrill runs through me. I've never had sex in a car before. As he opens the passenger door for me, I climb in, watching as he walks around to the driver's side.
The moment he's inside, I'm climbing over the center console, straddling him. The space is cramped—I'm 5'10", and Damien is even taller—but I don't care. I want him too badly to worry about comfort. I can deal with the cramps and soreness later.
My dress rides up as I settle on his lap, and he groans, his hands finding my thighs. "You've been driving me crazy all night in this dress."
"Good." I roll my hips against the bulge in his jeans, making us both gasp. "That was the plan."
His hands slide up to cup my ass, and he frowns slightly. "Are you wearing anything under this?"
I smile, feeling powerful and sexy for maybe the first time ever. "A thong. Barely there."
"Fuck, Alyssa." He captures my mouth again, his kiss hungry and desperate and demanding.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, wanting to feel his skin. When I finally get it open, I run my palms over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath warm skin.
"You feel amazing." I lean down to press my lips to his neck, his collarbone.
He runs his hands all over me—tunneling through my hair, cupping and kneading my breasts through my dress, slipping under the fabric to touch me directly. When his fingers find the edge of my thong, I whimper.
"I need you. Please, Damien."
I lift up slightly as he unzips his jeans and pulls himself free. Even in the dim light, I can see he's impressive—thick and hard, the tip already glistening. Dang. So this is why he found the dildo laughable. It really has nothing on him.
He reaches between us to push my thong aside, his fingers finding me wet and ready.
"So fucking wet for me," he growls, circling my entrance with one thick finger.
I rock against his hand, desperate for more. "Please."
He guides me over him, and I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is delicious, bordering on too much, and I have to pause halfway.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
I nod, breathing deeply. "Yeah, I'm f-fine It's just that … you're not small. You were right to be cocky. The real thing really is b-better."
His laugh turns into a groan as I take another inch. "Take your time, baby."
When I'm finally seated fully on him, we both moan. I feel impossibly full, connected to him in a way I've never felt with anyone else.
I start to move, and immediately bump my head on the roof of the car.
"Ow!"
Damien's eyes widen with concern, but then we both burst out laughing.
"Are you okay, baby?"
I wince and rub my head. "Car sex seemed sexier in theory."
"We're both too damn tall for this," he says, but his hands tighten on my hips. "But I'm not stopping unless you want to."
"Not a chance." I adjust my position, leaning forward more, which brings my breasts level with his face. "Better angle anyway."
He makes a sound of agreement before pushing my dress down to expose my bra. His mouth closes over my nipple through the lace, and I gasp, instinctively clenching around him.
We find an awkward rhythm, laughing every time one of us hits something or cramping my hand. But beneath the laughter is intense pleasure, building with every movement.
"You feel so good," Damien groans, his hands guiding my hips. "So perfect around me."
I can't form coherent responses anymore, just broken moans as he hits the perfect spot inside me.
When his fingers find my clit, circling it in time with our thrusts, I feel myself rapidly approaching the edge.
A sense of desperation builds within me, pleasure collecting and coiling in tight spirals.
My movements grow erratic. "I-I'm close."
"Come for me, Alyssa," he says, pressing harder on my clit. "Let me feel you."
The orgasm crashes over me, more intense than last time, making me cry out his name as I clench around him.
Blinding sparks light the darkness behind my eyes, and I cling to him in shuddering spasms that leave me weak-limbed.
He follows a moment later, his face buried against my neck, his arms holding me tight against him.
We stay like that for several minutes, catching our breath, my forehead resting against his. Eventually, we start laughing again.
"Next time," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, "we're doing this in bed. Where I can spread you out properly."
The promise of "next time" makes me smile. "I like the sound of that."
We clean up as best we can and rearrange our clothing before stepping out of the car. The cool air feels good on my flushed skin as Damien takes my hand, leading me toward the exit.
Just before we reach the door, movement catches my eye—a shadow ducking behind a pillar at the edge of the garage. I pause, squinting into the darkness.
"What is it?" Damien asks.
I stare for another moment, but see nothing. "Nothing, I think. Just a trick of the light."
As we walk inside, his arm around my waist, I can't shake the uneasy feeling that someone was watching us. But I push it aside, focusing instead on the warm weight of Damien's arm and the promise of what's to come.