Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Damien
That got away from me.
I trailed my lips along her jaw. "Are you okay?"
Her shoulders shook with laughter. "Fuck yeah I am."
My own laughter joined hers, my body lighter than it had been in days. I wrapped my arms around her and flung myself onto my back, pulling a squeal from her as I dragged her with me.
She gave me a playful slap, grinning, before nuzzling into me. Her cheek rose and fell with the pounding of my heart.
My hand around her throat. The feeling of her wrapped around my cock.
And her mouth.
That fucking mouth of hers.
"You should have led with that." The words tumbled from my mind without warning.
She trailed a fingernail along my stomach, raising the hair on my arms. "Led with what?"
"What do you mean, what?" I asked incredulously.
"Oh, that—" She waved it away. "That's nothing."
"The fuck do you mean, nothing?" The memory of my cock down her throat would be ingrained in my soul until the day I died and she was shrugging it off like a goddamn party trick.
She gave a delicate shrug. "I might be a complete basket case, Damien. But I know how to suck dick."
I huffed a laugh, stretching my arms above me. "You got that right."
She lifted her head in mock offense.
Her laugh skittered across my skin. Sparks of light in the gloom that had been this past week.
"Thank you," I managed, kissing the top of her head. "I guess I didn't realize how much I needed that."
The words landed wrong the moment they left my mouth.
I backpedaled immediately.
"Fuck, love. I'm sorry." I rubbed a hand over my face. "We were supposed to be celebrating you tonight and I went and did—" I flung my arm wide. "That."
She held a finger up. "For the record, I also like that."
"Really?" I couldn't hide my surprise.
She gave a happy wiggle against me. "Absolutely."
My mouth fell open. "Who knew—Emma Sinclair was a certified freak."
"Says the guy who literally blurted, 'I want to own you' to me like three months into our relationship."
I twirled a curl around my finger. "I remember it being closer to four."
"Nope," she said, mouth popping on the 'p'.
"For the record," I mocked her, "I'm going to tell our kids it was four."
She bolted upright. "What?"
"Jesus—" I raised my hands. "I'm joking."
She cut me a glare and settled back.
"I would never tell the kids about this part of us."
"Damien!" She slapped my stomach.
I laughed, watching her curls bounce as she settled back against me. "Sorry, I couldn't help it."
"Bullshit," she grumbled.
"Oh, so you wanna talk about bullshit?" I tilted my head to look at her. "Bullshit is you picking that weird documentary tonight."
A giggle vibrated against my chest.
"The concept was shit from the start. And that intro?"
My stomach growled—hilariously timed, but true. I had been looking forward to that pasta... before the chicken mush incident.
She propped herself on an elbow. "You've got to be kidding me."
"What? It isn't like I can control it."
She rolled her eyes. "That's my Owner. Turned on by chicken mush."
"Excuse me!" I jerked upright. "I was turned on by you. NOT the chicken mush."
She waved me off. "Sure..."
I tugged her close. Her breathing slowed. Mine followed.
And for the first time in days, I didn't dread what the next hour would bring.
We lay like that forever.
Or at least until my stomach growled again. Emma jerked upright.
I gave her a sheepish grin. "Sorry..."
She bolted from the bed.
"That's it," she announced, yanking open a drawer. "We're getting up."
"Look at you, using your big girl—" A pair of my pajama pants hit me square in the face.
Point taken.
With an overly dramatic groan, I dragged myself from the bed. "What's the plan, Drill Sergeant?"
"You're going to eat," she snapped, covering her body in a nightdress.
I let my disapproval of the fabric show, but obeyed—sliding into the pants and following her from the room. Her feet slapped against the floor ahead of me, quick and light. Like a duckling on a mission.
But she didn't head toward the kitchen—instead, the couch, landing on a cushion with my phone already in hand.
"I thought we were eating?"
"We are," she answered, the screen illuminating her face. "I'm ordering Lucio's."
My stomach growled—a trained dog.
"Nice. I want the—"
"I know," she cut me off. "A medium Sicilian."
I nodded in approval, taking my seat beside her and slinging an arm around her shoulders.
She had Lucio's number pulled up before I'd even sat down. The moment she tapped call, I snatched the phone back.
She gave me an affronted look.
"Damien! I'm glad to know you're still kicking. We missed you this week." Lucio's parmesan-crusted voice came through the line.
"Yeah, sorry," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "This week's been a bit rough."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?"
"A couple of pizzas would be fantastic," I responded.
"A couple? Is that young lady with you again?"
I turned to smile at her, her brows knitting in confusion. "Right beside me."
"She's a lucky gal."
I shook my head. "Making it weird, Lucio."
A warm chuckle filled the speaker, and I couldn't help grinning.
"She'll have a cheese pizza, please." I paused, enjoying the confusion on her face. "Make that extra cheese."
I shot her a wink. "We're celebrating tonight."