Page 10 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Ten

Lyla

M om’s standing in the kitchen when I walk in, staring into the open fridge like it’s going to hand her the answer to a question she hasn’t asked yet.

“Did you eat breakfast?” I ask, stepping around her to close the door before all the cold leaks out.

She frowns. “I’m waiting for Aaron. He always makes pancakes.”

The air sticks in my throat for a beat before I manage to nod. “Right. Well… I’ll make some now.”

She wanders to the table, flipping through the mail like it’s a catalog of choices she needs to make. I set the pan on the stove and keep my voice light, even though my chest feels heavy.

After she eats, I slip into my closet “studio” to record a segment I’ve been putting off. I hit record, speak the first line, and stop.

My voice sounds thin. Strained. Not the warm, steady tone my listeners expect.

I try again. And again. Each take collapses somewhere between my brain and my mouth, like the words know they’re not going to land right. My thoughts keep circling back to Mom at the fridge, to how much longer I can keep doing this on my own.

By the time I shut down my laptop, my jaw aches from clenching it. I tell myself work at Damien’s will be a good distraction — something physical, something that doesn’t require my voice to sound okay.

But when I step out into the cold air, all I feel is the sting of wind on my cheeks and the simmering frustration I can’t seem to shake.

The Lawson house smells faintly of sawdust and cold paint when I step inside. Damien’s already in the front room with two weathered interior doors propped up on sawhorses.

“Morning,” he says, nodding toward the extra dust mask and sander waiting for me.

“Morning,” I echo, pulling the mask on. The weight of it feels heavier than usual.

The first few passes of the sander are fine, the low hum vibrating up my arms, but I keep missing edges. My grip slips. I take too much off one spot and leave the next patch untouched.

Damien’s voice cuts through the buzz. “You’re holding it too high. Keep it flat or you’ll gouge the wood.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, even though I know I’m not.

A few more minutes pass, and I do it again — uneven pressure, catching the grain wrong so it leaves a swirl mark.

“Lyla.” His tone is patient, but there’s a thread of firmness underneath. “You’re distracted. What’s going on?”

I kill the sander and set it down harder than I need to. “Nothing. I’m just… off today.”

He studies me, arms folded across his chest. “Off enough to ruin a door we don’t have a replacement for.”

The comment lands sharper than I expect, and before I can think better of it, I snap back, “Sorry I’m not perfect today. I’ll try harder to meet your standards.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t bite. He just takes a slow breath, eyes still on me like he’s seeing more than I want him to.

Damien doesn’t move for a beat, just keeps watching me like he’s waiting for the rest of what I’m not saying to spill out.

Then he pulls his dust mask down, tosses it on the sawhorse, and says, “We’re taking a break.”

I blink at him. “We just started.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, “and you’re not here. Whatever’s in your head is eating you alive, and sanding doors isn’t going to fix it.”

I cross my arms. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“Good thing I’m not.” He’s already pulling the sander plug from the wall. “Come on.”

I stand there, stubbornness warring with the part of me that knows he’s right. “Come on where?”

“You’ll see.” He heads for the front door without looking back. “Grab your coat.”

I follow him out into the sharp coastal air, and that’s when I see it — parked in the driveway like something out of a movie: a sleek, black motorcycle, all smooth lines and gleam, the kind of machine that makes you think about freedom and speed.

Damien’s pulling a second helmet from the saddlebag. He holds it out to me. “Put this on.”

I hesitate, the cold wind whipping against my cheeks. “Where are we going?”

His mouth curves, just enough to make something warm coil in my stomach. “Trust me.”

And against my better judgment, I do.

The helmet muffles the sound of the world, leaving me with the low rumble of the engine and the steady thud of my heartbeat.

Damien swings his leg over the bike, settles in, and glances back. “You’re gonna need to hold on tight.”

My arms circle his waist, but there’s space — a cautious, polite gap — until he reaches back, catches my wrist, and tugs me snug against him. “Tighter,” he says, voice low enough that it vibrates through my chest.

The warmth of his body seeps into me instantly. The broad plane of his back, the solid muscle under his jacket — all of it so unyieldingly male it’s impossible not to notice.

We take off, the world narrowing to the pull of the wind and the flex of his body when he shifts gears. The cold air slices against my cheeks, sharp enough to make me gasp, and that’s when I feel him loosen one of my hands from his waist.

“What are you—”

He takes my hand, slips it under the bottom of his jacket, and presses it flat against his stomach. Heat radiates from him, and my fingers brush hard muscle, ridges and lines that clench when the bike leans into a curve.

“Warmer?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

“Yes,” I breathe, though the word comes out more like a shiver.

The ride becomes something else entirely after that — not just motion and wind, but the awareness of my palm against bare skin, the subtle shifts of his abs when he moves, the deep vibration of the engine thrumming through both of us.

My thighs tighten against his, instinct more than choice, and I swear I feel his breath hitch when I adjust my grip.

The salt in the air grows stronger as the road curves toward the water. My hand stays where he put it, hidden and warm beneath his jacket, and I wonder if he knows that the heat in my veins has nothing to do with the cold.

The turnout is nothing more than a sandy patch carved out beside the road, but the view steals my breath. The beach stretches wide and wild, framed by dark cliffs, waves pounding the shore in a steady, relentless rhythm.

Damien kills the engine, and the silence rushes in — broken only by the wind and the ocean. He swings off the bike, pulls his helmet free, and runs a hand through his hair.

“This is where I come when I need to think,” he says, voice carrying over the crash of water. “Cold air… it shakes the noise out.”

I pull off my own helmet, setting it on the seat. The wind whips my hair across my face, and before I can brush it away, Damien steps closer, catching the strands gently in his fingers. He tucks them behind my ear, his touch lingering just a little too long against my cheek.

There’s nothing polite or staged in the way he’s looking at me now. No one to play to, no sponsorship to protect. Just that quiet, unguarded hunger I’ve caught in him before — the one that always made me wonder what it would feel like if he stopped holding it back.

I don’t know who moves first. One second there’s space between us, the next his mouth is on mine.

It’s not like the kiss at the diner. That one had an audience, a purpose. This one is just… us.

His hands frame my face, rough palms warm against my skin, and I’m melting into him before I can think about what it means.

The taste of him is salt and cold air, the scrape of his stubble making my lips tingle.

He kisses like he’s been starving for years, like he’s finally letting himself take what he’s wanted.

I grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer until our bodies line up and the warmth between us blots out the wind entirely. His tongue brushes mine, slow and sure, sending heat spiraling down my spine.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads resting together.

“That,” he says, voice low and certain, “wasn’t for the cameras.”

“I know,” I whisper. And I do. God, I do.

The wind whips around us, but I barely feel it — not when Damien’s mouth is moving over mine like he’s determined to make up for every second we didn’t have.

His hands slide from my face to my waist, drawing me in until my hips press to his. A soft, involuntary sound escapes me, and something in him changes — his restraint frays.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to shrug out of his jacket, tossing it onto the sand between us. His eyes catch mine, dark and burning. “Lie down.”

It’s not a question, and my knees go weak at the sound of it.

I sink onto the jacket, the fabric still warm from his body. The ocean roars behind him as he kneels over me, bracing his hands on either side of my head. For a beat, he just looks at me — like he’s memorizing this, committing every detail to memory.

Then he’s kissing me again, harder this time, his weight shifting as he lowers himself just enough that I can feel the solid length of him pressing into me through our clothes.

My fingers slide up under his shirt, finding the heat of his skin and the ridged muscle I’d felt on the bike.

He groans into my mouth, the sound low and rough, and dips his head to my neck.

The scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin there makes me gasp, tilting my head back to give him more. His lips find the spot just below my ear, and heat floods through me so fast I have to curl my fingers into his sides to keep from pulling him fully on top of me.

“Damien…” My voice is barely a whisper, carried away by the wind.

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “Tell me to stop.”

But I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I hook my leg around his, bringing him closer, and his mouth crashes back to mine. The world narrows to the taste of him, the weight of him, the way every touch feels like it’s been years in the making — because it has.

The kiss turns almost desperate, teeth and tongues tangling, the sound of the waves crashing behind us like they’re egging us on. Damien’s hand cups my face, tilting my head just right so his mouth can trail down the side of my throat.

I shiver — not from the cold — when his lips graze the sensitive spot at the base of my neck. He lingers there, breathing me in like he’s been starving for this.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against my skin, voice ragged. “All the times I wanted you… and had to pretend I didn’t.”

My chest tightens, the confession sinking deep even as his mouth moves lower, slow and deliberate over my collarbone. “Damien—”

“I stayed away because you were with him,” he says, his hand slipping under my sweater, warm against my bare stomach. “And because I knew… once I had you, I’d never give you back.”

The heat in his touch makes my back arch. His palm slides up, fingers splayed wide, like he’s trying to claim every inch of me. He kisses down my stomach, his stubble a rough contrast to the softness of his lips, and I can’t stop my fingers from tangling in his hair.

Then his hands are at my waistband, pausing — giving me that moment to stop him. I don’t.

He slips one hand into my jeans, under the thin cotton of my panties, and the first brush of his fingers over my clit makes my breath catch hard in my throat.

“Damien—”

“God, I’ve thought about this,” he growls softly, his thumb circling with just the right pressure. “Thought about you… about making you fall apart for me.”

The cold is gone, burned away by the heat spiraling low in my belly. I gasp his name again, my hips moving against his hand, chasing the friction I’ve needed for too long.

“That’s it,” he says, his voice low and certain, like he’s guiding me somewhere only he knows. “Come for me, Lyla. I need to hear it.”

The waves crash louder, my pulse racing with them, and then I’m breaking apart, my cry lost in the wind as every muscle tightens and releases all at once.

He doesn’t stop until I’m trembling under him, my name still on his lips like a prayer and a promise all at once.

The wind whips around us again, sharp and cool against my overheated skin. My chest still rises and falls too fast, every muscle loose but tingling, my body buzzing with the aftershocks of what he just did to me.

Damien leans over me, one big hand braced in the sand beside my head, the other still resting low on my stomach — not possessive, exactly, but like he’s staking a claim. His gaze is locked on mine, dark and unflinching.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen here,” he says quietly, though there’s no regret in his voice.

I swallow hard, still catching my breath. “Then why did you—”

“Because I’ve wanted to for too damn long,” he cuts in, his thumb brushing the edge of my waistband before he finally pulls his hand free. He shrugs his jacket over my shoulders like he’s not the least bit cold without it. “And I couldn’t stand one more second of pretending I didn’t.”

Something in my chest twists, because this isn’t just physical for him. I can feel it in the way he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, in the way his body shelters mine from the wind.

“You make it sound like this… us… was inevitable,” I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to be.

His mouth curves, but it’s not amusement — it’s something heavier, more certain. “It was.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. The waves crash, the gulls call overhead, and the cold seeps into the edges of Damien’s jacket — but inside it, I’m warm.

And I know, as surely as I know my own name, that whatever line we crossed here on this beach… there’s no going back.