Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
A chill runs through me, but I force myself to hold his stare.
“I don’t want to be a part of this world, Chux,” I admit. “I don’t want to be standing here, trying to untangle the fact that my grandfather—the man who raised me—has been lying to me for years.” My throat tightens. “I don’t want to know that you can pull a gun on someone and laugh about it like it’s nothing.”
Damian doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “You think I laughed because I don’t care?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, sharp as a blade. “I laughed because I know men like him. I know the way they think, the way they move, the way they manipulate. And the only thing men like that respect is force.”
My stomach clenches. “And what about you?”
He exhales through his nose. “What about me?”
I hesitate, but the question is already there, heavy on my tongue. “Are you one of those men?”
Damian watches me, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch is surprisingly gentle.
“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “What do you think?”
I don’t have an answer.
Not yet.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Before I can think further, his lips are on mine. The kiss is relentless. The passion and tension between us finally igniting and I can’t stop even if I want to.
Which I don’t.
His lips on mine, his body this close, I feel alive.
Really alive for the first time ever.
His hands are on me—strong, rough, and demanding. They grip my hips, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us, only heat, only want. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I moan into him, my fingers fisting his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment.
And maybe it is.
The night air wraps around us, warm and thick, but it’s nothing compared to the fire raging inside me. My heart pounds so hard it echoes in my ears. Every inch of me feels hypersensitive, like my skin is humming, waiting—begging—for more.
His hands slide up, his thumbs teasing under the hem of my shirt, grazing my stomach. My breath hitches. It’s not fear. It’s something deeper, something scarier—need. A need so overwhelming I can barely think past it.
He pulls back, just enough to search my eyes. His are dark, filled with hunger, but there’s something else there, something that makes my stomach flip. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough, but there’s a challenge in it. He knows I won’t.
I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His groan is deep, vibrating through me as he grabs the hem of my shirt and tugs it upward. I let him, let the night air lick across my bare skin as the shirt disappears. He takes a step back, his gaze dragging over me, dark and reverent.
“Jesus, Alaina,” His voice is pure gravel, and the way he looks at me makes my knees weak. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
I reach for his shirt, my fingers slipping under the fabric, feeling the heat of his skin. I push it up, and he lets me, lifting his arms so I can pull it over his head. My breath catches. He’s all muscle, all strength, a body carved from years of hard living. Tattoos crisscross his skin, each one telling a story I don’t know, but I want to.
He moves fast, one hand fisting in my hair as his mouth crashes against mine again. The other grips my ass, lifting me so I’m flush against him. I can feel him, thick and hard, pressing against my stomach, and it sends a rush of heat straight through me.
My hands roam, over the hard ridges of his chest, down his stomach, until I find the button of his jeans. He tenses, breath stalling as I pop it open, dragging the zipper down. His eyes burn into mine, his own hands moving just as fast, unbuttoning my jeans and pushing them down over my hips.
We’re moving fast, desperate, but there’s a moment when we both pause. The moment where everything is about to change. The moment where we both know there’s no going back.
And then he’s pushing me against the rough bark of a tree, his mouth everywhere—my neck, my shoulder, down, down—until all I can do is cling to him, lost in the feel of his hands, his lips, the way he’s making me feel like I’ve never felt before.
The rough bark scrapes against my back, but I barely register it, too consumed by the way his mouth moves over my skin. Each kiss, each flick of his tongue, sends shivers racing down my spine. My fingers dive into his hair, fisting the strands, pulling him closer, needing more.