*Isabella's POV*
Two Days Later
Fresh out of the shower, skin still damp, I padded toward my bedroom in my damn bathrobe. And of course, because fate loves making me its bitch, I bumped straight into Damien. Shirtless.
Fuck me. The man looked like he was carved out of stone. Broad chest, solid arms, clean skin, not a single tattoo in sight, completely the opposite of Jacob. And worse, his eyes didn't just meet mine; they lingered. Slowly. Like he was taking inventory of me head to toe. That's when I remembered what the hell I was wearing. A fucking bathrobe.
Kill me now.
"I'm sorry, sir, for the attire," I blurted. And then instantly hated myself. What the fuck, Isabella. Why not just staple 'dumbass' to your forehead while you're at it?
"Don't say sorry, you live here," he said smoothly, like it was nothing. That should've calmed me down, but no, my brain was already running marathons.
Then he added, "Besides, have you noticed that I'm shirtless?" His chuckle was low, warm, and holy hell, it hit me harder than any wine ever could I couldn't contain my blush.
"I like your laugh, sir. You should do it more often," I said before my brain could stop my mouth. There I go again, forgetting who the hell I'm talking to. And there it was—strike two. Three strikes and you're out. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, and my body betrayed me by stepping back. One step. Then another. Until, fuck. My back hit the wall.
Trapped. Between a wall and six feet of hard muscle and dominance. He lifted his hand, finger tilting my chin up until my gaze locked with his. His eyes were molten, and I swore my knees were about to give out. Heat rolled over me in waves.
"Stop calling me sir," he commanded, his voice deep, powerful, dangerous. It wasn't a request. It was an order. "Yes, sir, I mean Damien," I stammered, nerves twisting my stomach.
And just like that, something shifted. His expression flickered, and for the briefest second I saw something raw, almost hurt, before he pulled away. Just… walked off. Leaving me breathless, burning, and pressed against the wall like a complete fucking idiot.
That evening I headed downstairs to grab my laptop from the living room. The TV was on — weird — and as I rounded the couch, fate apparently decided to make it three-for-three: Damien was sprawled on the couch under a blanket, and I was dead-center in front of the screen, blocking his view like a total dumbass.
"Sorry, I'm in your way — I thought—" I started, immediately regretting how breathless I sounded.
He cut me off, low and casual: "You going out?"
"No, I was just grabbing my laptop. I wanted to watch some Netflix and then pass out," I lied, clutching the edge of the couch like an idiot.
"You can watch Netflix here if you want," he offered, like it was no big deal.
"No, I don't think so… I mean, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but I don't wanna bother you," I stammered, and the sincerity in my voice was probably pathetic.
He laughed. Full, surprised, kind-of-holy-shit laughter — warm and real — and I nearly melted on the spot. "Isabella, you're not bothering me," he said, then, with that quiet, domineering tone that made my knees wobble: "Get your ass in here."
Yes sir, I thought, blushing like a fool as I slid onto the couch and tucked my legs under the blanket beside him. He shifted, the blanket pulling over both of us, and suddenly his shoulder was against mine, his arm warm and heavy over my hips. Netflix played on in the background, but we didn't really watch.
"Where's Jacob?" Damien asked, his voice low, casual, but I swear I felt the question vibrate through me.
"Last I saw he was on a phone call in your study. Something about his club," I replied, trying to sound neutral.
"Yeah, he's been doing a lot lately," he said, and I swear there was this flicker of something in his eyes. Or maybe it was just me. Or maybe Jacob really was the fucking fate putting me and Damien into these awkward, dangerous situations.
I turned my gaze to the TV, desperate for distraction. "Stand-up comedy, huh?"
"I like it," Damien said, his voice softening just a touch. "It helps distract me. I need to turn off my brain after a day of work. I don't even watch the news anymore — it's too depressing."
"I know, right? Children kidnapped, fatal car accidents… I'm not in the mood to get sad. I'd prefer a rerun of Friends or Kevin Hart's stand-up any damn day," I replied quickly.
"Me too," he said. And then, holy shit, we both laughed. Like actually laughed, and it wasn't awkward.
"Tell that to Jacob and his fucking World War II documentaries. I didn't even know you had stand-up comedy here," I teased.
Damien smirked, leaning back. "I'm home now, Isabella. I won't let him touch the remote control, ever."
"Thank god," I said dramatically, and we both cracked up again before turning our attention back to the TV.
For a moment it was just laughter, the flicker of the screen, and Damien Lancaster — not the terrifying, dominant CEO, but a man sitting under a blanket, sharing stupid jokes with me. And it scared the shit out of me how much I wanted more moments like this.
____________________________________________________________________
*Damien's POV*
"Oh, you weren't kidding about passing out," I muttered when I realized her head had tilted, her breathing even, her body warm against mine under the blanket.
"What? No, I was just resting my eyes," she mumbled, half-asleep, her words slurred, drifting right back into sleep.
Fuck.
I couldn't help but chuckle at that pathetic excuse. My gaze lingered on her face, softer now without all the defenses she throws up during the day. She looked so fucking beautiful. So innocent and yet dangerous as hell to me.
Before I could stop myself, I leaned in closer. My breath ghosted over her skin. One inch away. Too close. Way too fucking close. But I didn't pull back. I let my lips brush her cheek, feather-light. A kiss I had no business giving her.
For a second, I just stayed there, my lips pressed to her warm skin, and it scared the shit out of me how right it felt.