Page 15 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)
Chapter Fifteen
Lyla
T he first thing I’m aware of is warmth. Not just from the blanket pulled up to my shoulders, but from the solid wall of heat pressed against my back.
The second is the steady rise and fall of Damien’s chest behind me, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of my neck.
I should move. I should slip out of bed before he wakes and pretend last night was nothing more than a lapse in judgment — a heat-of-the-moment mistake brought on by the storm, by old wounds and even older longing.
But I don’t.
His arm is heavy around my waist, his palm splayed over my stomach like he’s keeping me there even in sleep. Every time I try to shift, his grip tightens just a fraction, and I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or just instinct.
The storm must have passed sometime in the night. The house is quiet now, the only sound the faint creak of the old floorboards as they settle. The air smells faintly of sawdust from his jacket draped over my chair, of my own shampoo in my hair.
And him. I can smell him on my skin.
Memories from last night flicker through my head — his mouth on mine, the rough scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, the way he’d looked at me like I was something he’d been starving for.
I press my eyes shut, because the thought of facing him this morning feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Morning.”
His voice is low, still gravelly from sleep, and so close to my ear it sends a shiver down my spine.
I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still heavy-lidded, and he’s wearing that faint, knowing smirk like he can read exactly where my mind went.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice scratchier than I want it to be.
He studies my face for a moment, like he’s checking for regret, then his gaze dips to my mouth. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, though the truth is I barely slept at all. My body’s still humming from last night, from the way he touched me like he’d memorized every inch of me long before he actually had.
His thumb brushes just under the hem of my shirt, over the bare skin of my hip. “Good.”
I sit up quickly, pushing the blanket back before my body can betray me any more than it already has. “We should—”
“What?” he prompts, leaning on one elbow to watch me.
“Talk. About… last night.”
His smirk deepens, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “Okay. Which part? The part where I’ve been wanting you for years, or the part where you came apart on my desk?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Damien—”
“What? I’m just making sure we’re talking about the same night.”
I huff out a breath, half exasperated, half something else entirely. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still in my bed,” he says, voice dipping lower. “So maybe we’re both a little guilty.”
I throw the blanket off completely and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “We should probably get over to the Lawson place before lunch if we want to get anything done today.”
Damien doesn’t move. He just lounges there, bare-chested, propped on one elbow like he has all the time in the world.
“You’re running,” he says.
“I’m getting dressed,” I counter.
“Uh-huh.” That faint smirk is back, but his eyes are sharp, tracking every move I make. “So, last night…”
“Was—” I start, but he cuts in.
“—not part of the deal.”
I glance over my shoulder, and he’s dead serious now, all traces of teasing gone.
I cross my arms, trying for nonchalance. “We were both… emotional. And there was a storm, and—”
“And you wanted me,” he says, like it’s a fact, not a question.
I open my mouth to deny it, but the words stick. My pulse thuds in my ears.
“I’m not saying you didn’t,” he adds, “I’m saying… I need to know this wasn’t just you playing a part.”
I meet his gaze, and for once, I don’t try to dodge. “It wasn’t. I wanted it.”
Something shifts in his face — satisfaction, sure, but also something deeper. His smirk fades into a slow, genuine smile that does things to my stomach I’d rather not analyze.
“Good,” he says, like that’s all he needed to hear.
He pushes the blanket off and swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “We smell like we’ve been up to no good,” he says, glancing at the clock. “Your mom’s gonna notice.”
I roll my eyes, though my cheeks warm. “So what are you suggesting?”
He tilts his head toward the hall. “Shower. Two birds, one stone.”
“That’s… not efficient,” I say, even as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom.
“It’s very efficient,” he counters, grinning now. “Trust me.”
The moment the hot spray hits my skin, I feel his presence behind me, heat rolling off his body. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against the hard line of him.
“This isn’t efficient,” I murmur, though my voice catches when his lips find the curve of my neck.
“Feels efficient to me,” he says against my skin, his tone low and dark.
He lathers soap in his palms, smoothing it over my shoulders and down my arms, the glide of his touch slow and deliberate. When he reaches my breasts, he cups them, his thumbs circling until my head tips back against his chest, a soft gasp slipping out.
“Keep it down,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at my earlobe. “Wouldn’t want your mom wondering what’s going on in here.”
That warning only makes my pulse throb harder. I feel the ache low in my belly, the slick heat building between my thighs.
He turns me to face him, water streaming down the ridges of his chest. His eyes are locked on mine as he sinks to his knees, pressing a kiss to my stomach before trailing lower. When his mouth finds me, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
One hand grips my hip, the other braced against the shower wall as his tongue works over me with slow, devastating precision. My knees threaten to give, but he holds me steady, his gaze flicking up, watching my face as I shudder under him.
When I come, it’s sharp and silent, my fingers tangled in his wet hair.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s standing, kissing me hard, and I can taste myself on his tongue. He spins me gently, my palms hitting the slick glass, and then he’s pushing inside me in one deep thrust.
I press my forehead to the glass, the fog from the steam blurring everything, and bite down on a whimper. He’s moving hard and fast, his hands gripping my hips, the sound of water mingling with the wet slap of skin on skin.
“You feel too damn good,” he growls into my ear, thrusts growing rougher, deeper, until I’m shaking again.
The tension snaps, and I come with a muffled cry, his name breaking from my lips. He follows seconds later, holding me flush against him as the water beats down on both of us.
We stand there for a moment, breathing hard, the steam wrapping around us like a cocoon.
Finally, he presses a kiss to my shoulder and murmurs, “Now we’re clean.”
By the time we’re both dressed, the air between us is still humming, every glance a reminder of what just happened in the shower.
Damien slings his tool belt over his shoulder, the motion casual, but his eyes catch mine and linger. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, grabbing my jacket.
We step out into the cool morning air, the pavement still damp from last night’s storm. The street smells of wet asphalt and salt from the ocean.
Across the road, the Lawson place stands waiting, its peeling paint and weathered siding a far cry from the heat and closeness we just left behind.
Inside, the scent of sawdust greets us, and the echo of our footsteps in the mostly empty rooms feels louder than usual. Damien heads straight for the kitchen, where stacks of tools and wood trim are piled against the wall.
“You take the cabinet fronts,” he says, opening his toolbox. “I’ll work on the crown molding.”
I nod, slipping into work mode, though it’s hard to focus when I can still feel him — his hands, his mouth, the press of him against the glass. Every so often, I catch him glancing my way, and every time, my stomach flips.
We work like that for an hour, the sound of the saw and hammer filling the space, the tension between us as thick as the scent of fresh-cut wood.
It’s almost a relief when Ronnie’s name flashes on Damien’s phone, breaking the rhythm. He answers, but his eyes are still on me.