9. Caroline
Balm for Soothing a Familiar:
Rub a small amount of honey mixed with ground valerian root behind their ears.
Ihide my face against his shoulder for half a second, mortified and needy and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, though I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for.
“Don’t,” he answers, and his voice is steady in a way I envy. “Just tell me where your bedroom is.”
I point down the hall. My house feels too small for him, for this moment, for the way my skin hums where he touches me. Every step sends another wave through me.
I’m hyperaware of the press of his arm around my back, the brush of his fingers at my waist. The heat inside me twists, sharp and aching, as if it recognizes him.
When we reach my room, embarrassment hits hard. The sheets are half on the floor, pillows crooked, the bed a disaster that mirrors how I feel. I expect him to hesitate. I expect a look, a question.
He does neither.
He guides me to the mattress and eases me down on top of it, movements careful, respectful. I grip the edge of the bed to keep from reaching for him again. My face burns.
“I’m a mess,” I whisper.
“You’re safe,” he replies, like that’s the only thing that matters.
He straightens, looking down at me, and I have to swallow.
Up close, he is unfairly handsome. Short dark hair plastered back, stubble shadowing his jaw, storm-gray eyes that feel like they see too much.
The uniform only makes it worse. Broad shoulders, solid chest, authority stitched into every line of him.
“What do you need?” he asks.
The question feels enormous.
“Water,” I manage. My throat feels raw, tight. “Please.”
“Okay.” He nods once. “I’ll be right back.”
He turns to go, and panic spikes through me. The idea of him leaving, even for a moment, makes my chest ache. I reach out before I can stop myself and catch his hand.
“Please stay,” I say, the words tumbling out thin and desperate.
He looks back at me, eyes darkening, and for a heartbeat I think he might. Instead, he squeezes my fingers gently.
“I just need to grab it from the kitchen,” he says. “I’ll be right back. One second, okay?”
I nod, forcing myself to let go. My hand feels cold without his.
He pauses, then leans in, sliding a pillow behind my head, lifting me just enough to make it comfortable. The care in the gesture makes my chest ache again.
“Be right back,” he repeats.
The door opens and closes. The room feels emptier without him. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, every nerve lit. The heat inside me doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens. My body feels awake in a way I don’t recognize. I try to slow my breathing. It doesn’t work.
I hear his footsteps returning. My heart stutters.
When he steps back into the room, I notice it immediately. The top button of his shirt is undone now, exposing a hint of skin at his throat. Was it like that before? I don’t think so. The sight sends a fresh wave through me, warm and dizzying.
He carries a bottle of water, condensation slicking the plastic. His scent reaches me before he does, thicker now, concentrated. I inhale without meaning to.
“Here,” he says, setting the bottle down on the floor beside the bed.
I realize I was supposed to take it from him, but he’s already moving, helping me sit up.
I’m so fucking distracted. I can’t think straight.
His hand is warm against my back. I can see his throat so clearly from here, the way it moves when he swallows. My mouth goes dry again.
“Caroline,” he murmurs, bringing the bottle back up. “Have some…”
I nod. He lifts it to my lips, one hand cupping my cheek. The touch sends a shiver through me. I sip the water.
“Good,” he says softly. “More.”
His praise does something involuntary to my body. My thighs press together, a fresh wave of desire coursing through me.
He tips the bottle again. I drink, eyes fixed on his face, tracing the lines of it without thinking. His eyes flicker to my lips, then back to my eyes. The moment stretches.
He lowers the bottle.
We’re too close. Everything feels too close.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, not sure why the word escapes me.
He tilts his head slightly. “Do you want more water?”
“No,” I answer quickly, then pause. “I mean, not right now.”
He considers me, gaze searching. “I could run you a bath,” he offers. “Help cool you down.”
“Yeah,” I say, then realize he hasn’t moved. “Yeah, that would be good.”
He’s still standing there, still holding my face. My heart is hammering. I have never seen him this close, never noticed the tiny scar near his brow.
He’s so fucking sexy. Why is he so fucking sexy?
“Caroline…” He’s giving me a strange look, and his cheeks look a little pink.
“Yes, Damon,” I breathe.
“I think we should get you in the bath. The heat is really messing with you.”
“It’s… fuck… It’s everywhere.”
“I know.” He traces his teeth with his tongue.
Fuck, I want to kiss him. I really want to kiss him. I wonder what he tastes like. Holy fuck, I need to kiss him.
“Please don’t. We… we can’t.” His eyes are darting around. His cheeks look even more pink.
Shit! “Did I just say that out loud?”
“You’re saying pretty much everything out loud, Caroline.”
Heat blooms in my chest. “I’m sorry,” I rush again. “I don’t know why I keep—”
“Don’t be sorry,” he interrupts gently.
His thumb brushes my cheek, just under my eye. The touch is light. It’s devastating. His thumb hovers too close to my mouth. I know I should pull away. I know this is a bad idea layered on top of a worse one.
I move anyway.
Just a little. Just enough.
My tongue traces the pad of his thumb.
The sound he makes is low and involuntary, a shudder that goes through him like a shock. His hand tightens on my face for half a second before he catches himself. His eyes darken, breath hitching.
“Caroline,” he says, and my name has weight in it now. Warning and want tangled together.
I freeze, heart racing, embarrassment crashing back in. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again, though the apology feels thin.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. His thumb brushes gently over my lip.
My body hums with need.
“We can’t do this,” he says quietly. “You’re not yourself right now.”
I nod, swallowing hard. He’s right. I know he’s right. It doesn’t make the ache ease.
I shift just a fraction, my body betraying every ounce of restraint I have left. His gray eyes drop, dragging down to my chest where my T-shirt clings like a second skin, soaked through with sweat. The thin fabric outlines every curve, my nipples hard and visible against the damp material.
Heat floods my face, but it’s nothing compared to the fire building lower. My pussy throbs, slick and aching, my clit swollen from all the times I’ve pressed against it in secret, chasing relief that never quite comes.
When his gaze lifts back to mine, a deep growl rumbles from his throat, vibrating through the air between us. It’s primal, raw, and it sends a fresh wave of wetness between my thighs.
“Damon,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
He shakes his head, those gray eyes stormy. “Amara will kill us. You know that.”
“I know,” I reply, the words tasting like truth and temptation all at once. My best friend’s annoying older cousin—the one who’s been off-limits since forever. The thought twists in my gut, a reminder of the line we’re about to cross, but it only makes the pull stronger.
His finger presses against my lip, firm and insistent. I part my mouth without thinking, and he slides it inside, the salt of his skin exploding on my tongue.
Our eyes lock, his pupils blown wide with hunger.
I suck gently at first, then harder, swirling my tongue around the digit, tasting the faint bitterness of his day mixed with something uniquely him. The heat in the room presses in, making every breath feel thick, every sensation amplified.
He watches me, transfixed, his chest rising and falling faster. I pull back just enough to speak, my lips brushing his finger. “You taste amazing.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, the word rough and broken. Then his mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s happening.
Finally, it’s happening.
His lips are hot and demanding, tongue thrusting past my teeth to claim every inch. I kiss him back with everything I have, hands fisting in his shirt as the world narrows to this—to him. The warning bells in my head scream about Amara, about how wrong this is, but desire drowns them out.
Damon breaks the kiss just long enough to shove me backward. My back hits the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. He’s on me in an instant, his body covering mine, solid and unyielding.
The hard line of his belt digs into my hip, and lower, the thick bulge of his cock presses right against my center through our clothes. I rock up instinctively, grinding against him, the friction sending sparks up my spine.
“Caroline,” he groans into my neck, his breath hot against my skin. His hands roam, one sliding under my shirt to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple until I arch into him.
I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel more. “Please, Damon. I need you.”
He pulls back slightly, gray eyes searching mine, filled with that tangled mix of want and regret. “This is a bad idea. We shouldn’t—”
“I know,” I cut in. I’m trembling, but I don’t stop.
My fingers fumble with his belt, yanking it open.
He doesn’t resist; instead, he helps, shoving his pants down his thighs.
The black cotton boxers hug his hips, the fabric stretched taut over his erection.
I press my palm against it, feeling the heat and the rigid length beneath. He hisses, hips jerking forward.
I lean up, mouth watering as I nuzzle the outline of his cock through the thin material.
The scent of him—musky and aroused—fills my senses.
I suck at the fabric, tasting the salt of his pre-come seeping through, my tongue tracing the thick vein I can feel pulsing.
His hand fists in my hair, not pulling but holding, guiding me as I worship him like this.