Damon (Dark Daddies of Delta Force #3)

Chapter 1

“You know I love you, right?” Gabe asks, as if the answer is obvious.

I do. I mean… I think.

My eyes drift open for a second, taking in the familiar clutter of my half of the room.

The stack of novels on my desk, spines cracked and pages dog-eared.

The string of fairy lights draped over my headboard, casting a warm, golden haze.

The poster of the obscure indie band no one’s heard of, but I love.

It’s my world, and for the last six months, he’s been a welcome part of it—a central part.

I’ve never really fit in anywhere, at least not in the way other people seem to.

It’s always felt like there’s some invisible rhythm everyone else hears, but I’m always half a beat off.

Growing up, it was books over people, quiet over noise, and observing over belonging.

I learned how to fake it well enough to get by, but it never felt natural.

So I did what I was good at: I worked. I pushed.

I finished high school early, packed my life into boxes, and landed at Westbridge University just before my seventeenth birthday, thinking college would be different.

It wasn’t.

Freshman year was lonely in a more isolating way, like being surrounded by people but still somehow still invisible.

junior year didn’t fix it either. By then, everyone else had already found their place, their people, and I was still hovering on the edges, pretending that didn’t bother me as much as it did.

And then, in junior year, there was Gabe, in advanced statistics, of all places.

It wasn’t instant or dramatic. It was quiet and easy.

We started with equations and datasets, and somehow it turned into conversations that didn’t feel forced, into laughter that wasn’t rehearsed, into something…

real. He didn’t make me feel like I was too much or not enough.

Instead, I was enough… exactly as I was.

And now I’m here, pressed against him on my twin XL bed, the mattress protesting weakly beneath our combined weight, telling myself this is what it’s supposed to feel like when you finally find someone who accepts you.

“Yeah,” I whisper, my voice a little breathless. “I know.”

I lift my head, and his lips find mine again.

It starts slow, like it always does. His mouth is warm and familiar, moving against mine with a practiced rhythm that sends a pleasant, humming current through my veins.

My fingers twist into the hair at the nape of his neck, the strands as soft as always.

The slight rasp of his evening stubble prickles against my chin.

Gabe sweeps his tongue through my mouth as his hand, which was resting innocently on my hip, slowly slides upward.

He traces the curve of my ribs through the thick cotton of his hoodie I’m wearing.

My heart beats a little faster—a frantic, excited drum against my ribs—with every inch his hand moves.

It flattens over my breast, and he palms it lightly over the soft material.

The anticipation coursing through me intensifies to a low, pleasant thrum of desire.

I let out a soft sigh against his mouth, encouraging him.

He takes it without hesitation. His thumb makes small, slow circles over the fabric, right over the peak of my nipple.

The sensation sends a jolt straight through me, a spark that ignites a warmth low in my belly.

My hand runs down his neck and his back, his solid muscles flexing beneath his shirt.

He responds by deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine in a way that makes my toes curl.

After releasing my breast, his hand dusts along my side, slipping under the hem of the hoodie.

His fingers are cool against the skin of my stomach.

I break the kiss, my eyes meeting his in the dim light. “Gabe…”

Gabe stares down at me, waiting patiently.

Something he has been doing since our first kiss.

While being a socially awkward gifted student propelled my studies, it has left me years behind my peers in this department.

Gabe was my first kiss. He’s been my first everything.

Not that there’s been much. We haven’t done more than what has already happened tonight.

“Kenz,” he whispers, my name his plea for permission to keep going. I answer by grabbing the hem of the hoodie and his T-shirt beneath it and pulling them up. He gets the message, helping me tug it over my head, leaving me in my bra and leggings. The cool air hits my bare skin, raising goosebumps.

He leans in, his lips tracing a path from my collarbone to the swell of my breast. His hand slips beneath the cup of my bra; the feeling electric.

His palm is warm, and his touch confident as he kneads my flesh, his thumb brushing back and forth over my now-hardened nipple.

A soft moan escapes me, completely beyond my control, as he rolls the sensitive bud beneath his fingers.

When my touch brushes against the nape of his neck, he shifts his weight enough to pull his own shirt over his head.

I reach out as he tosses it to the floor, my fingers tracing the lines of his abs and relishing in the way they tense under my touch.

He groans and lowers his head, capturing my other breast in his mouth.

The wet heat of his tongue against my skin is exquisite.

I arch my back, pressing myself closer, my body completely taking over.

His free hand begins to wander again, a slow, teasing trail down my side, over my hip.

I’m lost to the sensation of his mouth, the rhythmic pull of his lips, and the scrape of his teeth.

It’s only when his fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings that I’m torn back to my senses.

The fire in my belly turns to ice. My entire body goes rigid.

The humming current in my veins cuts out, replaced by a blaring, high-pitched alarm in my head.

No. Not that. Not yet.

“Gabe,” I grumble, placing my hand over his. “Not yet.”

He stops and pulls back to look at me, and in the dim glow of the fairy lights, I can see the confusion in his eyes. It’s not anger. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice is still soft, but now it has a thin layer of frustration to it.

“Nothing. I just… I’m not ready for… that.” My answer is barely audible. I hate how small and weak I sound.

His gaze drops to where my hand covers his. “We don’t have to do… everything. I just want to touch you.” His words are meant to be reassuring, but they aren’t.

I gently pull his hand away from the waist of my leggings, moving it back to my breast. A clear, physical boundary. “Okay?” I ask, my eyes pleading with him to understand. To be the patient guy I fell for.

He nods, a short, sharp jerk of his head. “Okay.”

After placing a soft kiss against my lips, he buries his face between my breasts.

He lavishes them both with attention. I sink into it, comfortable with the familiar and safe territory.

But my reprieve is short-lived, and I am unable to ignore the lingering unease coiled in my stomach when his fingers dip beneath my elastic waistband again.

My hand flies down and clamps over his wrist, my grip surprisingly tight. “Stop,” I huff, sharply.

His hand freezes as he lifts his head. When I open my eyes, his lips are slightly swollen, and his eyes are clouded with desire. “Kenzi?” he breathes. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head, unable to form words. My throat is tight, and my chest is aching with a sudden, frantic panic.

After shoving his hand away, I scramble across the tiny bed, putting as much space between us as possible.

My back hits the cold wall with a soft thud.

I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, trying to cover myself, to hide from his gaze.

He stays where he is for a moment, his chest bare as he kneels on the bed.

The confusion on his face slowly melts away, replaced by the cold hardness of frustration.

“Jesus, Kenzi,” he mutters, his voice low and laced with the ugliness of contempt.

“We’ve been dating for six months. Six months.

” He says it like waiting for me to be ready equates to a prison sentence.

“I agreed to take it slow because you’re a virgin, but fuck… ”

The word doesn’t hang between us. It lands sharp and violent, like a slap across my face. My virginity is more than just a social construct; it’s a burden I’ve placed on him. A flaw. A defect. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words are lodged in my throat, thick and useless.

What can I say? I’m sorry my inexperience is an inconvenience for you? I’m sorry the promise of patience you made has an expiration date?

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating, broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing. Tears prick at the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Crying would be a concession, an admission of guilt, and I have absolutely nothing to be guilty about.

Gabe stands abruptly, the movement so sudden, I flinch.

He paces the small strip of floor between my bed and my desk, his shadow dancing across the posters on my wall.

“It’s not just… this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the bed.

At me. He looks too big for this space, too full of restless, angry energy.

He rakes his hands through his hair, a gesture of pure frustration.

“It’s everything. I feel like I’m dating a child.

I have to walk on eggshells all the time.

” He stops pacing and turns to face me, his silhouette framed by the weak light coming from the window.

“Do you have any idea how that feels? To be with someone who’s scared of you? ”

“I’m not scared of you,” I whisper, but the lie is as flimsy as my voice. A part of me is terrified. Not of him, but of doing something I’m not ready for with him.

“Really?” he scoffs, a bitter, ugly sound.

“Could’ve fooled me.” He bends down to grab his shirt from the floor.

As he shoves his arms into the sleeves, his eyes sweep over my desk, the stack of books, and my open laptop.

His gaze lingers for a second, and I have a sudden, horrifying thought: Does he see me as a joke?

A little girl playing at college, playing at love, with her books and her fairy lights and her ridiculous boundaries?

Just as the silence is about to crush me entirely, a key scraping in the lock cuts through it.

My heart lurches into my throat. The door swings open, and my roommate, Chloe, stumbles in.

She’s laughing at something someone said in the hallway, her phone still pressed to her ear.

“—and then he was like, ‘I think you have the wrong room,’ can you even—” She stops mid-sentence, her eyes taking in the scene.

Me—huddled against the wall like a victim, half-naked and shaking.

Gabe—standing by the bed, his face a thundercloud of anger, his shirt half on.

The air in the room is thick enough to choke on.

Chloe’s smile vanishes, replaced by a look of dawning, uncomfortable understanding.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry. I can, uh, I can go. Or…”

Gabe sees his escape route. He glances at me for a second and mutters, “I was just leaving.” Without saying goodbye, he turns and heads for the door. Moving with a stiff, unnatural gait, he brushes past Chloe, pulling the door shut behind him.

Chloe slowly lowers her phone, her eyes fixed on me, full of a concern I’m not ready to receive. “Kenzi…” she starts, her voice gentle. “You okay?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. My gaze is fixed on the door, on the place where he just stood.

I slowly unfold myself, my limbs stiff and aching, and pull his hoodie over my head to cover myself.

The fabric that just an hour ago smelled like safety and comfort now smells like a lie.

As much a lie as Gabe promising he’d take things at my pace or that he loved me.