Page 14 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Fourteen

Damien

I stand in the entryway, dripping onto the worn rug, while Lyla guides her mom down the hall toward the bedroom.

“Let’s get you into something warm,” she says gently. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

Her mom nods, her movements slow, the edges of her smile soft but unsteady.

I’ve seen Lyla in a hundred different moods — stubborn, sharp-tongued, laughing so hard she can barely breathe. But this? This quiet patience, the way she holds her mother’s hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world… it twists something in my chest.

She’s always been like this. Even when she was fourteen and I was sixteen — the day I wrecked my bike trying to pop a wheelie in the Lawson driveway, skinning my knee so bad it bled through my jeans — she came charging out with a first aid kit before I could even get my bearings.

I told her I was fine, but she ignored me, cleaning the scrape with the kind of care that made me feel seen in a way I didn’t know I wanted.

I drift toward the hallway, my boots leaving faint damp marks on the floor.

The first door I pass is closed. The second is cracked open, the air inside heavy and still. I push it wider and flick the light switch, but the bulb doesn’t come on. Enough light from the hall spills in to see the room anyway.

Aaron’s room.

It’s exactly the way I remember it — the crooked poster of the Seahawks, the shelf with a few sports trophies gathering dust, the bed unmade like he’d just gotten up. Time stopped here.

My throat tightens as I step inside. The air smells faintly of old laundry and something I can’t quite name — maybe just memory.

“Damien?”

I turn. Lyla’s in the doorway, her sweater sleeves pushed up, a tired softness in her face.

She steps into the room slowly, like she’s crossing into sacred ground.

“You found your way in here,” she says quietly, her voice carrying a thread of something fragile.

I glance at the rumpled bed, the dust on the dresser. “Looks like no one’s touched it since…”

“They haven’t,” she finishes for me, her gaze fixed on the football sitting on the desk. “Mom won’t let me change a thing. Says it’s the only way she can still picture him.”

I nod, because I get it. I’ve left pieces of Aaron untouched, too — just in my head.

“I used to crash in here sometimes,” I say. “When my parents were fighting. He’d give me the bed and sleep on the floor just to make me stay.”

Her lips curve faintly. “That sounds like him.”

Silence fills the room for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. We both know what we’ve lost. And for the first time tonight, I’m not thinking about what we’ve been pretending to be — I’m thinking about what we actually are. Two people tied together by someone neither of us could save.

I meet her eyes. “You were always good to him, Lyla. Better than he deserved sometimes.”

She shakes her head, her throat working. “He was my brother. I’d give anything to have one more fight with him, you know? Even the stupid ones.”

I swallow hard, the ache in my chest deepening. “Yeah. I know.”

She takes a step toward me, her hand brushing mine — not intentional, maybe, but it lingers.

She clears her throat and steps back toward the door. “You’re still soaked. Come on — I’ll get you something dry.”

I follow her down the hall, the air between us thick with things neither of us said in that room. She pushes open the door to her bedroom, and I step inside.

It’s warm here — not just from the heat, but from the way the space feels lived in. Soft lamplight spills over the bed, the nightstand stacked with books, a mug half-full of tea gone cold. There’s a blanket draped over the chair in the corner, a sweater on the back of the door.

She crosses to her dresser and pulls out a black T-shirt. “This should fit,” she says, holding it out.

I take it, my fingers brushing hers. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t look at me either — like she knows what’s about to happen and she’s pretending not to.

I peel off my damp shirt, feeling her gaze on me now whether she wants to admit it or not. She swallows, then turns slightly toward the bed, pretending to smooth the blanket.

“You’re staring,” I say, my voice low.

She glances over her shoulder. “You’re imagining it.”

“Am I?”

The corner of her mouth lifts, but it’s small, tight, like she’s fighting herself.

I step closer, holding her gaze, and set the dry shirt down on the dresser. “We’ve been dancing around this for a long time, Lyla.”

Her breath catches. “This is dangerous.”

“Everything about you is dangerous to me,” I say, and I mean it. “Doesn’t stop me from wanting you.”

She doesn’t move when I reach up and brush my fingers along her jaw, tilting her face toward mine.

Her eyes search mine for a beat, like she’s weighing every reason to push me away. Then she’s rising onto her toes, closing the space between us.

The first press of her mouth is slow — testing — but it doesn’t stay that way. I cup the back of her head and deepen the kiss, swallowing the soft sound she makes when her fingers fist in my shirt.

Her sweater is gone in seconds, my hands skimming the warm skin of her back. She trembles, and I don’t know if it’s from the cold still in the air or the way I’m touching her.

“Damien…” It’s half a warning, half a plea.

“I know,” I murmur against her throat, kissing down the column of her neck. “But I’m not stopping unless you tell me to.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she tugs at the hem of my T-shirt, pulling it over my head. My jeans are still damp, clinging, but her hands slide under the waistband anyway, fingers grazing my hip before drifting lower.

I groan, catching her mouth with mine again as I walk her backward toward the bed. She goes willingly, sitting on the edge before I lower her back against the mattress.

The grief in the room — in this whole house — is still here, but now it’s something that binds us instead of holding us apart. Every touch is a reminder of what we’ve lost and what we’ve almost lost in each other.

I slip my hand beneath the waistband of her leggings, finding her already wet. Her hips arch, a quiet gasp escaping her lips. “God, Lyla…”

She grabs at my shoulders, pulling me down until we’re chest to chest, my hand still moving against her until she’s crying out my name.

When I finally push inside her, it’s not rough, not rushed — but it’s deep. Like I’ve been waiting for this exact moment for years.

Her nails dig into my back, her breath catching on every thrust. “Damien…” she whispers again, but this time it’s not a warning. It’s an anchor.

I kiss her like she’s the only thing keeping me tethered here, because maybe she is.

Her lips are warm and insistent under mine, the kiss deepening until it’s a tangle of teeth and tongues and breathless need. I can’t get enough of her — not her taste, not the way she arches into my touch like she’s been waiting just as long as I have.

I drag my mouth from hers, down the delicate line of her jaw, to the soft skin of her throat. She tilts her head back, a soft sound slipping free when my tongue traces the spot just below her ear. My hands are everywhere — memorizing the slope of her waist, the curve of her hips.

When I tug her sweater over her head, her hair spills loose around her face, and I swear I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful. I take my time unhooking her bra, watching her breathing hitch when I cup her bare breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples until they’re hard peaks.

“Damien…” she whispers, but it’s not a protest.

“Been wanting to taste you for years,” I tell her, my voice low and rough.

She shivers as I kiss down her stomach, slowly peeling her leggings and panties down her thighs. I settle between her legs, hands sliding up to grip her hips as I press an open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh. She’s already wet, and the scent of her hits me like a punch to the gut.

The first stroke of my tongue makes her gasp, her fingers tangling in my hair. I take my time, licking her in slow, deliberate passes before flicking my tongue over her clit, feeling her thighs tense around me.

“Oh, God—”

I groan against her, the sound vibrating through her, and circle her clit until her hips are lifting off the mattress, chasing more.

Her breaths come faster, broken by little whimpers she can’t seem to hold back.

I slip two fingers inside her, curling them just right while my mouth stays on her clit, and she comes apart hard, moaning my name like it’s the only word she knows.

I kiss my way up her body as she’s still catching her breath, her skin flushed and damp. “Not done with you,” I murmur, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

Grabbing her hand, I pull her up from the bed and guide her to the desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of books with one arm. “Turn around,” I tell her, and she does, bracing her hands on the wood.

I press against her from behind, pulling her hips back to me as I push inside in one slow, deep thrust. She moans, dropping her head forward, and I grip her waist, setting a steady, driving rhythm.

The desk creaks under us, but neither of us cares — not when it’s this, finally this, after years of wanting and never touching.

Her knuckles are white on the edge of the desk, her breath coming in sharp gasps. I lean over her back, my lips brushing her ear. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” I growl, thrusting harder.

She turns her head just enough for our mouths to meet, messy and desperate, until I feel her tightening around me, her body clenching as she cries out. I follow her over the edge, every muscle straining as I bury myself deep one last time.

For a long moment, the only sounds are our ragged breathing and the rain against the window.

Her breathing is still uneven when I ease out of her, my hands steadying her hips as if I’m afraid she’ll crumble without the support. She stays bent over the desk for a moment, catching her breath, before straightening slowly.

“Come here,” I say softly, hooking an arm around her waist.

I guide her back to the bed, the lamplight painting her skin in warm gold. She sits, hair tangled, cheeks flushed, and for a second, I just look at her. This woman who’s always been fire and care wrapped into one.

I grab the T-shirt she’d given me earlier and use it to gently clean her, my touch unhurried. She doesn’t speak, just watches me with an expression I can’t read — something between wonder and disbelief.

When I’m done, I tug her panties back into place, then pull one of her soft, oversized sleep shirts over her head. It hangs down past her thighs, swallowing her in fabric.

I strip the last of my damp clothes, pulling on the T-shirt she’d meant for me earlier, and crawl into bed beside her. She shifts without hesitation, curling into me like she belongs there, her head on my chest.

Outside, the storm is still going, rain ticking against the glass in uneven rhythms.

I wrap an arm around her, my fingers brushing through her hair. “Sleep,” I murmur.

She hums something soft — maybe agreement, maybe just exhaustion — and her breathing starts to slow.

I stare at the ceiling, my hand still stroking her hair. I’ve wanted her for so long, in so many ways, but lying here now, it’s not just about that. It never was.

When her breathing evens out completely, I let my eyes close, holding her like I’m afraid she’ll slip away if I don’t.