Page 19 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Nineteen

Lyla

T he Lawson house feels colder inside than it does outside, the kind of chill that comes from rooms stripped bare. Tools and paint cans are stacked against the wall, the air thick with the scent of sawdust and primer.

Damien closes the door behind me, the click echoing in the quiet.

I turn to face him. “She didn’t mean it.”

His eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “She did. And she’s allowed to.”

“No, Damien—”

“Yes, Lyla,” he says, his voice harder now. “She’s his mom. She’s allowed to be angry. To blame me. I was there, and he’s not. That’s enough for her.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t let it stop me. “Then tell me why. Tell me what happened.”

The muscles in his jaw tense. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do,” I press. “Colton told me to ask. My mom—” I stop, my voice catching, but I push through it. “Damien, I’ve been wondering for years. You were his best friend. You were with him that night. And then you left. You didn’t come to the funeral. You didn’t say goodbye.”

His gaze is locked on mine, his shoulders rigid. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to tell me. That the wall between us is finally going to crack.

But then he shakes his head. “If I tell you, Lyla, you’ll never look at me the same way again.”

The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crush me.

His words hang in the air — you’ll never look at me the same way again — and my chest aches with the weight of everything we’re not saying.

But then his voice drops, rough and low. “I love you, Lyla.”

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp breath.

“I’ve loved you longer than I should’ve,” he goes on, and his eyes are dark, but there’s no holding back in them now.

“And I know this thing between us is supposed to be pretend. But I want to live in that lie a little longer. Just… let me have this. Let me pretend you’re mine. That you’ve always been mine.”

The crack in his voice undoes me. He looks… broken. Like this confession costs him something he can’t get back.

I step closer, my fingers curling at my sides to keep from touching him.

“You think I haven’t wanted to know you?

Really know you?” My voice wavers, but I keep going.

“Aaron was always there, in the middle. And you made sure to push me away every time I got close. I thought maybe I imagined it — that maybe I was just some annoying little sister in your eyes. But I saw you, Damien. I’ve always seen you. ”

His jaw works, like he’s trying to keep himself steady.

“We’re not those kids anymore,” I whisper. “Aaron isn’t here. Colton isn’t in the way. It’s just us.”

For a long moment, he just looks at me, like he’s memorizing the words, maybe trying to believe them.

And then his hand lifts, slow and deliberate, until his fingers are brushing my cheek.

His palm is warm against my cheek, his thumb sweeping lightly over my skin like he’s testing whether I’ll pull away. I don’t. I can’t.

The first brush of his lips is slow, tentative — like he’s tasting the moment more than the kiss itself. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you’re afraid the other person might vanish if you move too fast.

But I don’t vanish. I lean in.

That’s all it takes. The pressure shifts, deepens. His other hand comes up to frame my face, holding me there as his mouth claims mine with a hunger that’s been simmering under the surface for years.

I can feel it in the way his body crowds mine, in the low sound he makes against my lips — a sound that’s half relief, half possession. My hands find his chest, sliding up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

It stops being careful. It stops being measured. It’s teeth and breath and heat, and the taste of him making my head spin.

His hands move — down my back, gripping my hips, pressing me flush against him. I feel the hard line of his desire, and my own need answers, sharp and insistent.

“Lyla…” he murmurs against my mouth, and it’s almost a plea.

I kiss him harder, because this — this — is what I’ve imagined more times than I could ever admit. No Colton. No Aaron. No distance. Just us.

When his lips leave mine to trail along my jaw and down the column of my throat, I tilt my head, my breath catching as heat floods low in my belly.

There’s nothing in the way anymore.

His mouth finds mine again, hot and urgent, as his hands skim down my sides. “Come with me,” he murmurs against my lips.

I don’t hesitate.

He backs us toward the hallway, our steps uneven because neither of us wants to break the kiss for more than a second. My fingers hook into his sweatshirt, dragging him closer every time he tries to put space between us.

We reach his room — bare walls, a half-assembled dresser in the corner, and the bed that looks like the only thing he’s finished here. He pulls me in, shutting the door with a soft thud, and then he’s crowding me back against it, his body heat sinking into mine.

The kiss deepens again, but this time it’s slower, like he’s savoring. His hands are everywhere — sliding under my shirt, mapping the skin of my waist, my ribs, my back. My own fingers find the hem of his sweatshirt, tugging it upward until he peels it over his head.

God. The way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing that matters in this room, in this town, maybe in his whole life — it makes my knees weak.

We undress each other in uneven bursts, stopping only to kiss or run our hands over newly exposed skin. When my jeans hit the floor, he steps back just enough to look at me, his chest rising and falling.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he says, low and rough, before he’s kissing me again, walking me backward until the backs of my legs hit the bed.

I sink down onto it, and he follows, bracing himself above me. His hands slide up my thighs, his touch reverent but hungry, and when I reach for him, pulling him down to me, it’s not just about the physical need — it’s the years we’ve both been waiting for this.

There’s no rush. No pretending. Just us, finally giving in.

Every kiss, every stroke of his hands feels like a confession. And every sound he pulls from me is an answer — yes, I want this. Yes, I want you .

By the time he’s inside me, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked.

“This,” he murmurs, thrusting slow, deliberate, “isn’t fake.”

And I believe him.

His pace deepens, steady and consuming, and I cling to his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin. His mouth is hot at my ear, breath ragged.

“I hated it,” he growls, every word a rough thrust inside me. “Seeing you with him. Knowing you were in his bed instead of mine.”

A shiver ripples through me, sharp and sweet.

“I heard about the first time you fucked him,” Damien says, voice dark, possessive. “And I was fuming. Couldn’t stand thinking about his hands on you. About him making you feel good. About him… pulling that wild side out of you when it should’ve been me.”

My breath catches, the confession hitting me like another kind of touch. “Damien…”

His mouth drags down my neck, teeth grazing my skin. “You’ve been his good girl long enough.” His hips grind into me, the rhythm deliberate, almost punishing. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to be bad?”

“Yes,” I gasp, the word torn from me without thought.

His hand slides down my side, gripping my thigh, opening me wider for him. “Then be bad with me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me ruin you for anyone else. Let me be the only one who knows exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you, how to make you scream.”

The words work their way under my skin, winding tighter with every movement of his body inside mine. I arch up into him, every nerve alight, because I do want that. I’ve always wanted that.

And tonight, I’m done pretending otherwise.