Page 15 of Damon

That's the problem. Around him, my brain seems to shut off and insanity takes over. Something reckless and hungry and completely unlike the good girl I've always been.

I catch sight of myself in the dresser mirror and stop short. My cheeks are flushed, my hair is messy from sleep, and my eyes look bright and wild. I look like a girl who's been kissed, even though nothing actually happened.

Nothing happened, but something changed.

I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my cheek, still hear the rough way he said my name.

This is dangerous.

Not the fake danger I used to seek out at clubs, but real, honest-to-God danger that could destroy everything.

If my family found out I was attracted to Damon Lombardi, they'd probably disown me.

If his family found out, they'd probably kill me.

But knowing that doesn't make me want him any less.

If anything, it makes me want him more.

Chapter 6: Damon

Fucking hell.

I stand under the cold shower, trying to wash away the memory of Viviana Bonacci in her little pajamas, looking at me like she wants to be fucked every way I know how.

This is exactly the kind of complication I don't need.

I turn the water colder, but it doesn't help. I can still see her standing on those stairs, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, staring at me like I'm some kind of fantasy instead of the man holding her captive. Can still feel the way she leaned into my touch when I was stupid enough to put my hands on her.

Jesus Christ!

What the hell was I thinking bringing her here?

I wasn't thinking.

That's the problem. The minute I saw her watching me at the club, my brain short-circuited. Years of discipline, of keeping business and pleasure in separate fucking compartments, and Roberto Bonacci's eighteen-year-old daughter turns me into a goddamn teenager with no self-control.

The water finally starts to cool my blood, and I can think clearly again. This is a job. A responsibility. I'm keeping her alive until we figure out who wants her family dead, and then I'm handing her back to her daddy, Roberto with a neat little bow.

I am not going to complicate things by fucking the enemy's daughter.

No matter how much she seems to want me to.

And she does want me to.

That much was obvious from the way she openly teased me, the way she refused to back down even when I was practically growling at her to get the hell away from me. Princess has more balls than I gave her credit for.

Which makes her even more dangerous.

I get out of the shower and grab a towel, catching sight of myself in the mirror. The scar on my ribs catches the light, a reminder of what happens when you let your guard down, when you think with your dick instead of your brain.

I get dressed and head downstairs to make breakfast, trying to focus on the routine. Coffee first, then eggs and toast. Simple shit that doesn't require much thought, because I need to keep my mind on business.

But when she comes downstairs twenty minutes later, business is the last fucking thing on my mind.

She's changed out of her pajamas into clothes that should be perfectly innocent - white tank top, denim shorts. But on her, they look like a declaration of war. The tank top shows enough skin to make my cock twitch, and those shorts... Christ, those legs go on for fucking miles.

"Morning," she says, sliding onto one of the stools at the kitchen island like she owns the place.