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This causal look of his, the t-shirt and grey sweatpants panty dropperlook, is dangerous. Especially as I see his impressive dick easily outlined by the flimsy material, the hardness there making the cheerleaders inside do cartwheels and handstands in praise. I do that to him. Me.

“Skirt off. It will be better. More comfortable for my arm.”

Shit. Two problems with that.

One, my underwear would probably be sporting a wet patch. Earth swallow me now.

Second, and so much worse, Damon would see the state of my inner thighs. A new and frankly destructive coping mechanism for my anxiety attributable to The Reaper has developed. He would see all the nail marks. Little crescent moons, some just bruises, and others scabbed over, where I had been self-harming to gain clarity in moments when I felt like I was spinning out of control. There were a lot of those moments.

My face must give away my inner dilemma as Damon stops what he is doing and puts the tattoo gun on the tray beside him.

He looks at me like he is looking into my soul.

“Stop biting your lip. I know. It is the same reason I have been fighting. I think this,” he says, picking up the tattoo gun again, “will be a good substitute as an outlet.”

“But we can’t come here every time you feel anxious, and I cannot go fighting every time I need to clear my head. So, instead, we will fight each other. In the ring in my apartment. It will boost your confidence to know you can defend yourself. And I will blow off some steam. Win-win. Now, jeans off.”

He picks up two black latex gloves, snapping them onto his hands before securing an attachment on the gun, giving me a minute to process his words.

He knows. And he isn’t angry with me. He understands. I didn’tthink anyone would get it. But Damon does. Of course, this man would. He knows me better than anyone.

I give him one last lingering glance before shimmying off my skirt, pressing my legs together to hide the reasons for my hesitation.

“Lie back. Try to relax.” I laugh. I can’t help it. Relax. Is he mad?

He smirks.

“I’m going to start. Let me know if it’s too much.”

You’re too much. “Okay.”

The first prick of the needle as it touches my skin is painful, but after a while, the pain fades. It is definitely still there, but it is bearable. Like nails digging into skin.

Damon wasn’t wrong. This was a good replacement.

While the spot where the needle meets my skin does focus my attention for a long time, it eventually fades, and I become all too aware of Damon.

The placement of his arm across my side. His forearm brushing gently against my nipple with his micro-movements. My nipple now achingly hard from the tiny bit of friction.

I look away, biting my lip as the nipple sensitivity increases, heat pooling in my core. There must be an exposed nerve, as this surely shouldn’t feel this intense.

“Do you need a break?” His voice is strained as if he is sharing a similar battle.

I shake my head no, not looking at him.

He hesitates and then continues, leaving me in my silent agony.

I lay my head fully back, closing my eyes as I try and concentrate on anything else.

It’s impossible.

I’m panting. Realizing this, I bring my hand up, biting on my fist in the hopes of stifling a moan that wants to escape. Trying not to move,I squeeze my thighs together, the thin material of my panties moving against my swollen clit.

Damon groans, but I don’t dare look at him. Scared I will give my current state away.

He moves, and I sigh, thanking the gods as the constant rub of my nipple ceases. Okay. Perhaps now I could do this.

I finally open my eyes to see that Damon has repositioned himself closer to my hip. His left arm is heavy as he rests it on my upper thigh.