Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Damion cups my face and lifts my gaze to his intense probing stare. “Alana,” he says, his voice low, rough, an urgent quality in its depths as if he can’t bear the idea that I might say no.
But I don’t say no. “I’m coming with you. Yes.”
A flicker of what almost reads as relief washes over Damion’s handsome face, but before I reason away such a thing, he kisses me hard and fast—a deep slide of his tongue I feel in every part of my body. And then his arm is around me and he’s guiding me toward the car he’s called to pick us up. A car that will take us to his apartment where we will not only be alone, the no touching and kissing rule, the just friends rule, left behind.
Maybe we left it behind years ago. Maybe it never existed. All I know is there is no turning back now. We’ve left the kids who lived next door behind, for something darker, more intense, and far more addictive. But as my father once told me—and it seems to be proving as truth right now—addiction translates to obsession and obsession is a gentle beast until it’s gentle no more.
I’ve never understood what that meant, but I have a feeling I’m about to find out.
Chapter Ten
Alana
Once we’re in the backseat of the car, and Damion’s directed the driver, he pulls me close, his hand intimately resting on my leg. Little darts of sensation catch flight up my leg and my sex clenches with the impact. We look at each other and yes, there is a punch of awareness between us, but more so, there is something familiar and right, and we both respond. He smiles and I smile, and my lashes lower and then lift.
He sinks back against the cushion and I do the same, but we are no less aware of each other. His thumb strokes along my inner thigh, just inside my dress, and the wicked, wild way my body responds is too much. I catch his hand, but I don’t look at him. He laughs, all rumbly and masculine, amused at my reaction. Aware of what he was doing to me. Not was. Is. He has always been the blue whale of men to me. Maybe that’s because I never let what could have happened happen between us. I created such a build-up for us both that we just need this to happen to have it behind us.
Maybe then we can be friends again.
Oh God, maybe then I won’t be capable of that anymore and neither will he, and just as I thought minutes ago, this is it. This is the end of us.
The car halts in front of a high-rise, and Damion opens his door, offering me his hand to exit. I have this moment when I reject his touch, I reject all of this. But then he kneels and fixes me in his blue-eyed stare, and says, “Come on, sugar plum.”
It’s what my dad calls me and I laugh, “Seriously?”
“How about sugar? Or sweetie? Or just Alana? Come on.” Those last two words are silk followed by the offer of his hand.
I lower my lashes, laughing and submitting to the moment. This is happening. I don’t know why I’m fighting it.
“Alana,” I approve, and press my hand to his. His long fingers close around my hand and it’s all over. I’m his. But then I was always his. I have always been his. The only thing actually uncertain about me with Damion is the future.
I slide closer to him and he stands and lifts me with him. I’m swimming in my reaction to Damion, and it’s a deep, blue sea, a mix of emotions and physical need that translate to fire. My hand plants on his chest while my breath lodges in my chest. Both of his hands frame my waist. It’s wickedly intimate and my body is liquid heat, melting away, and we haven’t even reached his apartment. His lips curve and I don’t know if it’s from my reaction, or because we’re here together or what, and it doesn’t even matter. It’s contagious and while my cheeks are as hot as the rest of me, I’m smiling, too.
He slides his arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the double glass doors. It’s not until we’re inside the lobby with a security desk to our left that I feel a bite of reality. The idea of being one of many women to be trotted through a showroom pricks like the sharp edge of a blade. But Damion doesn’t so much as wave at the man behind the desk, or the one in a suit in front of it, watching over the building. Somehow, it helps me downplay being watched, not that Damion has to acknowledge them for me to be another notch on the bedpost. Even if Damion doesn’t intend such a thing, these men could keep numbers on the famous West family bedmates.