I'd never imagined I could feel so alive and so unsteady at the same time.
Damien didn't speak right away. He only watched me as I smoothed my dress back into place, my hands still trembling.
I couldn't read his expression. It wasn't quite satisfaction—though there was that, too—but something darker. Something that made my pulse refuse to settle.
"You don't have to look so guilty," he said eventually, his voice softer than I expected.
"I'm not guilty," I lied, though the heat still burned in my cheeks.
He tilted his head. "Then what are you?"
I hesitated. My mind scrambled for a word that didn't make me sound like a fool. Overwhelmed felt too small. Addicted was too honest.
"I'm…not sure yet," I admitted.
His mouth curved in a slow, devastating smile. "That's all right. You'll figure it out."
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the late hour, of how easily he had unraveled me in less than an hour. I took a step back, needing space to breathe, to think.
Damien didn't stop me. He only moved to pick up his glass of whiskey, turning to look out over the city as if he hadn't just reduced me to nothing but nerve endings and raw desire.
When he finally spoke again, it was so quiet I almost didn't hear him.
"You don't owe me anything."
My gaze snapped up to his.
He didn't look at me. "You're free to walk out that door and pretend this never happened."
I gripped the edge of a sleek marble table to steady myself. "Is that what you want?"
His jaw flexed. "No."
He set the glass down again and finally faced me. In that moment, the intensity in his eyes made it impossible to look away.
"But I won't keep you here," he said. "That's not the kind of man I am."
I almost laughed, except there was nothing funny about the way he watched me, waiting for my choice.
I could leave. I could step back into the elevator and try to convince myself that this was just one reckless lapse.
Or I could stay and see what came next.
The silence stretched, filled with the thud of my heartbeat.
"I'm not ready to leave," I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression—something unguarded and vulnerable, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Good," he murmured.
He crossed the space between us in three long strides. His hand came up to cup the side of my face, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. I felt the tremor in his fingers as clearly as I felt the one in my own chest.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said, voice low and rough.
"It already is," I confessed, breathless.
"Then we'll take it slow."
He kissed me again, but this time there was no rush, no fierce claiming. Just heat, slow and patient, building all over again.
And God help me—I let him.