Chapter 38 Damon
THIRTY-EIGHT
DAMON
He paddled after her, his own board cutting through the water. “You’re a menace,” he said as he reached her, the water lapping at their waists. “You’ll be stealing my waves next.”
She grinned up at him, her hands coming to rest on his chest. “Admit it. You’re impressed.”
He was. With everything. With the way she’d taken to the water. With the way she’d stood by his side these past seven days, helping to mend the fractures in his clan with a quiet strength that humbled him. With the simple, terrifying joy of watching her exist in his space, claiming it as her own.
“Impressed doesn’t begin to cover it,” he murmured.
Hand in hand, they waded ashore, collected their boards, and climbed the wooden steps back to the deck.
Their deck. Their home.
The words echoed in his head with pure, undiluted rightness.
Isla set her board down carefully, a smile playing on her lips as she looked around the open-plan living space. “I still can’t believe it. My toothbrush is in your bathroom. My books are on your shelf.”
“Our bathroom,” he corrected, his gaze tracking a drop of seawater as it traced a path from her collarbone down between her breasts. His control, always so ironclad, frayed at the edges. “Our shelf.”
Her smile softened. “Our home.”
That did it. The last thread of restraint snapped.
He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hands framing her face. “Mine,” he growled, the word ripped from some primal place deep inside.
Her breath hitched, her eyes darkening with answering hunger. “Yours.”
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He simply looked at her, memorizing the flecks of gold in her eyes, the faint freckles across her nose, and the way her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.
This woman had dismantled a century of solitude brick by brick.
She’d seen his grief, his failure, his rage, and instead of running, she’d built a new foundation with him.
The gratitude was a living thing in his chest, too big for words.
Actions would have to suffice.
He took her hand and led her to the bathroom.
Wordlessly, he reached into the large glass shower and turned the faucet.
Steam began to curl into the air. Her hands went to the ties of her bikini top.
His went to the knot of his board shorts.
There was no fumbling, no awkwardness. It was a silent, coordinated undressing, each piece of clothing a barrier removed.
And soon, the sight of her gloriously naked and flushed, punched the air from his lungs.
All mine.
He guided her under the warm spray, following close behind. The water sluiced over them, washing away the salt and sand. He reached for the soap, working up a lather in his hands.
“Let me,” he said, his voice a low command.
He started with her shoulders, his large hands moving in slow, deliberate circles. He took his time, savoring the slide of slick skin under his palms and the way she leaned into his touch. He washed every curve and every plane with a reverence that bordered on worship.
The hollow of her throat. The swell of her breasts, where he lingered, his thumbs brushing over her peaked nipples until she gasped. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hips.
“You’re stalling,” she whispered, her head tilted back and her eyes half-closed.
“I’m appreciating.”
He knelt before her, his hands sliding down her thighs and her calves.
He lifted one foot, then the other, washing them with the same focused attention.
This intimacy, this simple act of care, was a drug.
He’d lived so long without touch, without this quiet connection, that every moment of it felt like a revelation.
Her hands came to rest on his wet shoulders. “My turn.”
She took the soap from him, her smaller hands moving over his chest, tracing the scars he’d collected over centuries.
She paid special attention to the wound on his ribs, now a pink, healing line, her touch feather-light.
She washed his arms, his back, her fingers kneading the tension from his shoulders.
Each stroke was a brand, a claim just as permanent as the one on her skin.
The tender care was a beautiful torture. It stoked the fire in his blood from a simmer to a roaring blaze. His dragon stirred, impatient and demanding. He could feel her through the bond, a mirror of his own need—a sweet, sharp ache that was building with every passing second.
He couldn’t wait another moment.
He captured her mouth under the spray, his kiss not gentle this time but hungry and devouring.
She responded instantly, her arms looping around his neck and her body arching into his.
His hand slid between her thighs, finding her already wet and ready for him.
A groan tore from his throat, swallowed by their kiss.
“Damon,” she gasped against his lips as his fingers found her slick heat, circling and stroking.
He could feel it—the precise moment her pleasure began to coil tight. It shimmered through the bond, a brilliant, shared sensation that made his own body thrum in response. Her gasps became moans, her hips rocking against his hand, seeking more.
“I need you,” she panted, breaking the kiss to look at him. Her eyes were glazed with desire. “I need to feel you inside me.”
He didn’t hesitate. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her back against the cool, wet tiles. He positioned himself at her entrance, his control a fraying thread.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her hazel eyes, dark with need, locked onto his.
He plunged into her in one deep, sure stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Her back arched off the wall, a sharp cry of pleasure tearing from her throat at the sudden, perfect fullness.
“God, yes,” she gasped, her fingernails digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
He began to move, a driving rhythm that had her crying out with each thrust. The water cascaded over them, mingling with the heat of their skin.
He could feel everything—the clench of her inner muscles around him, the flutter of her pulse where his lips pressed against her throat, and the wild, singing joy of the bond between them.
“Don’t hold back,” she begged, her voice ragged. “Let me feel it. All of it.”
He obeyed. The primal, possessive part of him he’d spent a century caging broke free. His thrusts grew deeper, faster, and harder. The tiles shuddered with the force of it. He gripped her hips, holding her steady as he drove into her, claiming her with a ferocity that bordered on madness.
He could feel her pleasure cresting, a tidal wave building through their connection. His own release gathered low in his spine, a pressure that was both exquisite and unbearable.
“Let go,” he growled against her ear, his voice raw. “Come for me, Isla.”
Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, shaking wave of sensation that echoed through the bond and straight into his soul.
Her cry was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her.
His own release followed, a cataclysm that tore through him with earth-shattering force, pouring into her as he held her pinned against the wall, his body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the shower and their ragged breathing.
Slowly, he lowered her until her feet touched the floor, his arms staying wrapped around her as she trembled against him. He looked down at her, water clinging to her lashes, and her lips swollen from his kisses. A profound, quiet awe settled over him, cooling the fever in his blood.
This magnificent woman.
She’d walked into his fortress of solitude and opened every window. She was his peace. His purpose. His miraculous second chance.