Sitting midway up the staircase, we looked out over a big family room. Deep sectional seating surrounded a television at one end and a fireplace at the other. A fire blazed in a stone hearth and I wondered who’d started it, since Damien hadn’t been around the house all day.
“You know, I remember reading your family’s story in a magazine or somewhere.” All three of Thomas Fraser’s sons were reputed to be handsome, well-connected bachelors, even though their father’s strong-arm tactics had driven two of them out of town. A third remained in the film business, but they’d had a strained relationship until recently. “Your oldest brother is making a movie with your dad soon, I think.”
“So I’ve heard. I don’t get back to Malibu very often.” Damien’s voice hit a gravelly note that probably revealed a little more emotion than he’d intended.
On instinct, I laid a hand on his shoulder, a normal, natural touch I’d shared with countless patrons at Joelle’s tearoom. It offered comfort. Understanding.
But with Damien, my fingers buzzed as if I’d been shocked. Well, except that it felt good. Nerve endings awakened. My blood warmed. It felt like a magnet held my hand there, commanding my touch with an irresistible pull, making it impossible to draw back. I gazed down at my fingers, half expecting to see some kind of magical glow. It felt that freaking amazing. Inevitable.
Uncertain, I splayed my fingers wider to cover more terrain, since his sculpted muscle proved too broad to span with my hand. Warm and hard beneath the surface of his T-shirt, his body was uncompromisingly male.
He turned to face me, that strong sinew shifting under my touch. My heartbeat quickened at the look in his hazel eyes. I felt the connection between us as surely as if I’d penned the scene myself.
Only I would have written it for Shaelynn.
With me in the mix, I wasn’t sure what would happen next. I usually retreated ten times before I let a guy kiss me, and by then the male in question normally lost interest. But right now, I didn’t feel any need to run. I felt as if I’d lived through this moment in my book.
Except I had no idea how to move this scene forward. I wasn’t scared or tense, the way men usually made me, but I had no idea what to say to make the kiss happen. A kiss I really, really wanted.
As if moved by my thoughts, Damien put one hand on the tread beside me and levered himself up a step. His big, strong body blocked out the glow of the fireplace, casting me in shadow until all I saw was him. My heart rate quickened. I swallowed hard.
“I want to kiss you.” He announced it, which made me melt inside a little, since I was more nervous than I’d realized.
I think I nodded. I tried to, anyway, but I was kind of hypnotized by the look in his eyes and the heat coming off him like a furnace. Vaguely, I wondered if I’d combust on contact. Or if a racing heart could send me into seizures.
“Do I make you nervous?” He brushed a gentle hand under my chin and along my jaw, his touch light and delicious.
Not wanting to address that particular question or even think about it, I blurted what I wanted.
“Please kiss me.”
Then his lips were on mine and all that weird, anxious energy in me quieted. The gentle brush of his kiss was the sole focus of my attention. It was like his mouth spoke the language of my crazy, spun-up hormones and they all sighed with dreamy appreciation at his attention. And me? I couldn’t believe my luck to have those warm hands on my waist, his fingers straying to the bare skin beneath the hem of my shirt. He steadied me as he kissed me, holding me still while his lips moved in a tantalizing dance over mine. Soft at first. And then, with a brief flick of his tongue along the seam of my lips, things turned sexy.
Hot.
Damien knew how to kiss. The hero of my book would, too, but I would have never known how to write about it without this thorough and unhurried demonstration. Damien savored me like fresh fruit at harvest time, tasting, nipping, licking. He made me feel delicious. My fingers sank deeper into his shoulders, clutching at the warm, soft cotton of his T-shirt and the strength beneath it. I liked feeling that strength, knowing all that power rippled in his body, yet he restrained it for my benefit. Somehow it made his gentleness even more of a gift.
Kissing his stubbled jaw, I breathed in the scent of his aftershave and hoped it lingered on my skin. He smelled fantastic.
I arched against him, seeking out more of his body, and that was another gift. He didn’t rush me. He let me feel my way through the kiss, absorbing every detail at my own speed until I was comfortable. No, not comfortable. Hungry. It was discomfort that drove me to rock my hips into his.
I needed him. Needed this.