Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
A knock at my door sends my heart into my throat.
When I open it, Damien stands there in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he smells so good.
God, he has no business being this hot.
"Hi." My voice sounds different to my ears, a little too breathy, but he doesn't seem to notice.
His eyes travel down my body, slowly, appreciatively. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," I say, fighting the urge to fidget. "You clean up nice yourself."
He smiles, and I notice Doug sitting quietly at his feet, not barking at me for the first time ever. Progress.
"He likes you now," Damien says, noticing my surprise.
"Just like that?"
Damien's eyes darken. "He knows you're important to me."
The simple statement sends warmth blooming through my chest, the memory of his fingers inside me making my cheeks flush.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we head downstairs.
"Tony's. It's an Italian place a few blocks away. We can walk if that's okay with you."
"I'd like that."
The night air is cool against my heated skin as we walk side by side, close enough that our arms occasionally brush. Conversation flows more easily than I expected, probably because we've already been intimately acquainted in ways that make small talk seem irrelevant.
Tony's is small and cozy, with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. The host—Tony himself, I'm guessing—greets Damien by name and shows us to a corner table.
"You come here often?" I ask after we're seated.
"At least once a week. Best pasta in town." He picks up the menu but doesn't open it. "I always get the same thing."
"Which is?"
"Spaghetti carbonara. Simple, but they do it right."
I smile. "A creature of habit."
"In some ways." His eyes meet mine over the table. "I'm making exceptions lately."
The air between us crackles with tension. I've never been good at flirting, but something about Damien makes me braver than usual.
"I'm glad I'm an exception," I say.
Over dinner, I learn that Damien worked construction for ten years before he could afford to buy our building. It was a foreclosure, practically falling apart, and he's spent the last three years renovating it himself, floor by floor, apartment by apartment.
"You did all that work alone?"
He shrugs, but I can see the pride in his eyes. "I had help with the electrical and plumbing, but the rest? Yeah. Nights and weekends while I kept my day job."
"That's incredible." I mean it. I admire people who build things with their hands. "Is that how you found Doug?"
His expression softens. "Yeah. Someone had abandoned him in the parking lot. Skinny little thing, terrified of everything. I couldn't bring myself to take him to a shelter."
The image of gruff, intimidating Damien rescuing a trembling chihuahua does something to my heart.
"And now he's your loyal sidekick."
"More like my furry dictator," Damien says with a laugh. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
By the time we finish our meal, I've learned more about Damien than I ever thought I would. He's self-taught in carpentry, loves old things that can be restored rather than replaced, and hasn't been in a serious relationship for three years because he's been focused on his building.
And I've told him about my journey from knitting as therapy during college to building my online business, about Diana pushing me to start filming tutorials, about my dream of eventually opening a small yarn shop with a teaching space.
It's the best date I've ever had.
When we walk back to the building, the night has grown cooler, and Damien shrugs off his jacket to place it around my shoulders. The warmth of it, infused with his scent, makes me want to bury my face in the collar.
"Thank you for tonight," I say as we approach the building entrance. "I had a really good time."
Damien stops walking, turning to face me. "Night's not over yet. Unless you want it to be?"
My pulse quickens. "Definitely not."
Instead of heading for the main entrance, he leads me into the parking garage. The concrete space is dimly lit and quiet, our footsteps echoing as we walk toward his Ford Bronco parked in the corner.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he says, his voice low. "About yesterday."
"Me too." I step closer to him, emboldened by the darkness and the memory of his mouth on me.
His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him. "I can't stop thinking about the sounds you made when you came."
"I can't stop thinking about how good you felt. How good you made me feel."
He groans softly before capturing my mouth with his. The kiss is different from last night—almost like him staking his claim. His tongue strokes against mine, and I press myself closer, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach.
"Get in the car," he growls against my lips.