Chapter 18 – Marlowe
Chapter Eighteen
MARLOWE
The phone explodes with sound, full-on, hardcore, screaming metal.
I jolt, my body seizing from the sudden assault, as the room is suddenly filled with the unholy wail of a lead singer who sounds like he’s actively being murdered.
Cody shrugs, looking way too pleased with himself, but before he can say a word, Delilah smacks him on the hand, hard enough to make him flinch.
“No!” she scolds, shaking her head. “A slow song. A love song.”
Cody grimaces, rubbing his hand. “Jesus, Mom, okay,” he mutters, then glances between me and Damian. His grimace deepens, full of regret, before he sighs. “I tried.”
Then, with the most exaggerated sigh I’ve ever heard in my life, he taps the screen.
The violent screeching cuts off mid-growl, replaced by something softer and slower, something that wraps around the room, horrifyingly intimate.
The first low notes hum through the air, deep and sultry, vibrating in my chest before my mind even registers them.
Damian stiffens. I feel it before I even turn to look at him.
Delilah’s eyes are wide, expectant, her hands folded together in her lap waiting for something beautiful to happen.
I should stop this from happening. But when I look up at Damian, he’s already looking at me.
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
His throat works around words that never come. He doesn’t want this. Neither do I.
But his mother’s eyes shine with a joy that feels too fragile to break. It isn’t real, not in the way it should be, but it’s hers. And I can’t take it from her.
Neither can he.
Damian moves first. A step toward me. A decision made. His fingers graze my wrist, warm and gentle, and then, slowly, he takes my hand. His grip is firm, like he’s bracing himself for something he can’t stop. As if he’s already being pulled under. Slowly drowning.
I hold my breath as he draws me closer, his other hand sliding to the small of my back. His fingers press against the fabric of my shirt and the room spins a little.
I lift my other hand to his shoulder, hesitating for only a second before I let myself rest it there. The music swells, filling every inch of space between us, and then, we move.
It’s slow, tentative at first, our bodies trying to resist, neither of us willing to surrender. But his grip tightens, his palm pressing firm against my lower back, guiding me with unspoken force.
He leads. And I let him.
We step in time with the song, our movements syncing, the world narrowing to the quiet drag of our feet against the floor, the soft melody playing from Cody’s phone, the steady heat of Damian’s body close to mine.
I don’t know when my heart started pounding, or when my fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring me to him. But they have.
My throat thickens, words lodged somewhere behind the sharp, uneven rhythm of my breath.
Damian’s breath ghosts across my cheek, and God, he’s close. Closer than he should be. And he’s not pulling away.
I don’t either.
Around us, the kitchen fades.
Damian’s fingers flex against my back, just enough for me to feel it, that hesitation, that split-second of restraint before he gives in. Before his palm presses me closer, stealing what little space remains between us.
I feel everything now. The warmth of his breath against my temple. The solid press of his chest against mine. The slow, instinctive shift of our bodies moving together.
And then there’s him—already hard beneath the denim, nudging against my stomach with every subtle shift.
A sharp pulse of heat blooms low in my belly—hot, unexpected, unwanted.
It’s confusing. I’m still furious about who he turned out to be—but I want the stranger from the bar.
The man who helped me escape my problems for a night with the flick of his perfect tongue.
My nipples tighten against my shirt, aching with the friction of his body—and the memory of his tongue between my legs.
His fingers dig into my back, just slightly, just enough to shift me against him even harder.
He lowers his head and his lips press into my hair, brushing warmth past my ear.
“I don’t trust you,” he breathes roughly, breaking apart on the last word.
The words should hurt. Should cut through whatever’s building between us.
But they don’t. Because I don’t trust him either.
The rhythm is slow, but the heat between us is not. Every inch of me is pressed against every inch of him, and the worst part? I don’t want to move away.
My breath shudders. My lips part. His do too. I can feel it, the way his head tilts just slightly, the way his nose brushes against my temple, then lower, just a little closer to my jaw.
One breath.
Two.
His lips part.
Fuck, he’s going to kiss me.
And then, the scrape of a chair. A murmur of voices. The shuffle of footsteps.
Delilah. Cody. Bridger. Leaving. Then Delilah’s voice, “Laura could always calm him down. Thank you, Laura.”
Laura? Who the hell is Laura?
I feel Damian’s entire body tense, every muscle in him going rigid, like he’s just remembered where we are. His grip loosens fast, his fingers releasing me like I’m fire.
I jerk back at the same time he does, breaking away, cold air rushing into the space that had been burning between us just seconds ago.
Silence stretches between us, raw and wild.
We were about to kiss. I was about to let him kiss me.
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and fiery. The air crackles between us, thick with everything that just happened, and everything that didn’t. Damian’s chest heaves. His fingers flex at his sides, like he’s warring with himself, like he’s deciding whether to walk away or give in.
And then, he snaps. In one sharp, unstoppable movement, he lunges. I barely have time to breathe before his hands grab my face, palms rough and demanding, tilting my head up just the way he wants it.
A shudder wrecks through me as he breathes me in, his nose brushing against my cheek, his lips so close I can feel the warmth of them hovering just over mine.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush.
Just lingers.
His breath is ragged, his whole body wired tight, his grip firm, owning the moment. It’s intoxicating. Overwhelming.
I grab at him, pulling him in, my fingers clutching at his shirt, silent permission, silent demand, keep going. Keep going. Kiss me.
And he does. He kisses me. Hard.
A sharp, nearly bruising press of lips that sends a shudder tearing through me.
And then, his mouth opens, and suddenly it’s everywhere. His tongue slides against mine, deep and demanding, his whole body pressing into me, trapping me against him.
The kiss turns desperate, filthy, like we’ve both been fighting this for too long, and now neither of us knows how to stop. His hands tangle in my hair, gripping, tugging, tilting my head back as he devours me.
A sound escapes me, needy, breathless, and it only spurs him on. His palms slide down my back, searing heat through my shirt, dragging lower, until his fingers grip my ass, pulling me flush against him.
I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, consumes it, consumes me. His body pins me against the kitchen counter, the sharp edge digging into my lower back, but I don’t care.
All I can feel is him.
All I can taste is him.
It’s too much. No, no, no, it’s not enough.
His lips leave mine only to drag down my throat, biting, sucking, his hands tightening around my hips like he’s about to lift me onto the counter, and I want him to.
Fuck, I want him to.
I want him to undo me right here.
But then, he stops. Pulls back. Ragged breathing. Blown pupils.
I stare up at him, dazed, my lips raw, swollen, hungry. My voice is wrecked, my head spinning. “This is so fucking toxic.”
His hands drop to his sides.
I blink, trying to find my bearing, and push away from him. “Who’s Laura?”
His gaze darkens, his whole body going still. Then, finally he says, “My wife.”