Page 20 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Twenty

Damien

S he comes apart beneath me, my name spilling from her lips in a shuddering cry, and I swear I feel it in my bones. The way her body clenches around me, pulling me deeper, like she was built to fit me and only me.

I watch her face as she breaks — eyes shut, mouth open, a flush high on her cheeks — and the sight pushes me right to the edge. I can’t hold back, not with her fingers gripping the back of my neck, not with the way she’s wrapping around me like she’s never letting go.

When I finally spill into her, it’s with the bone-deep certainty that this isn’t pretend. It never was.

We stay tangled together for a moment after, her legs still locked at my hips, our chests pressed tight. I can feel her heart racing against mine, the heat of her skin under my hands.

Eventually, I ease out of her, but I don’t go far. I grab the shirt she left draped over the chair and use it to clean her up, brushing my knuckles softly against her inner thigh. She lets out a quiet sigh, and it makes something deep in my chest ache.

When I crawl back into bed beside her, she tucks herself against me without hesitation, her head on my shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest.

It should be the easiest thing in the world to just stay here, to keep her close, to pretend like I don’t have a truth in my chest sharp enough to tear us both apart.

But lying here with her — in the warm afterglow, her scent on my skin — it’s harder than ever to stay silent. Because if she knew the whole story about Aaron…

She might never look at me like this again.

Her breathing evens out against my chest, but I’m too wired to sleep. My hand moves in slow circles over her bare back, the silky strands of her hair brushing my arm.

I can feel the words building, pressing against my ribs.

Lyla, I need to tell you what happened that night.

They’ve been locked up for so long it feels unnatural to let them out, like rusted hinges trying to move after years of silence. But tonight… after what we just shared… I almost believe she could hear it and still stay.

My fingers curl against her spine. “Lyla,” I murmur, my voice barely more than a breath.

She stirs, making a soft sound that’s half a question.

“I—” My throat locks around it. I force it open. “That night, with Aaron…”

Her lashes flutter against my skin, but she’s already drifting again. Her breathing slows, her body melting heavier into mine.

The moment’s gone.

I stare at the ceiling, my jaw tight. Maybe it’s for the best. Once it’s out, I can’t take it back.

So I hold her instead, memorizing the way she feels against me, letting the rhythm of her breaths pull me under — knowing the storm I’ve been keeping at bay is only getting closer.

The week blurs in a haze of sawdust, paint, and Lyla.

One afternoon, we’re in the guest room, music playing low from her phone, and she’s laughing as I paint a clean white stripe down the wall. Somewhere between me rolling the brush and her cutting in the edges, I flick a splatter of paint across her arm.

“Damien—” she warns, eyes narrowing in mock outrage.

“Hold still,” I tell her, already stepping closer with the brush. I paint a quick line across her collarbone, then a dot at the swell of her breast just to watch her gasp.

Her shirt’s off before I know it, paint streaked across her skin like I’m marking her mine. She’s giggling until my mouth replaces the brush, licking a clean path over the paint, and then she’s gasping, her hands in my hair.

We end up on the tarp, the smell of paint and her wrapping around me until nothing else exists.

The next day, she’s balanced on the second rung, painting the trim near the ceiling, when I step behind her, my hands sliding up her bare thighs under her cutoff shorts.

“Careful,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk.

“You’re at the perfect height,” I murmur, my fingers tracing higher. “Would be a shame to waste it on trim.”

Her breath catches, and that’s all the invitation I need. I tug her shorts down just enough, nudge her legs apart, and bury my face between her thighs.

The brush clatters to the tarp somewhere above me as she braces against the wall, hips rocking forward into my mouth. Every sound she makes goes straight to my cock — soft gasps turning to moans that could undo me right here, fully clothed.

By the time she comes, gripping the ladder like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, I’m sweating and so hard I can barely think.

It’s Friday when she takes the picture. We’re sitting on the porch steps of the Lawson house, both of us sweaty, a little sunburned, and covered in flecks of paint. I’ve got a beer in hand; she’s leaning into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t even notice her phone until she’s grinning at the screen. “Smile,” she says, and before I can roll my eyes, the shutter clicks.

A few minutes later, I hear her phone ping.

“What?” I ask.

“Just posted it,” she says, tapping away. “It’s for the sponsorship, remember?”

I nod, but when I glance over her shoulder at the photo, it hits me — we look… happy. Like a couple who built something together and lived in it, not two people playing pretend in a house full of ghosts.

For a second, I let myself believe it.