Page 29 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

Christ, what a night. The memories of Willow beneath me, around me, crying out my name in a way that's burned into my brain forever—it all comes rushing back.

I've had my share of great sex, but nothing like this.

Nothing that left me feeling like I'd been turned inside out and reassembled.

Nothing that made me want to wake up and do it all over again.

Willow stretches beside me, and I can't help but smile at how her wild red hair has achieved new levels of chaos overnight. It's sticking up in directions that defy physics. Even disheveled, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Morning," she mumbles, burrowing into my chest.

"Good morning," I reply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Just then, I hear the distinctive sound of claws clicking on hardwood, followed by an expectant whine.

"That would be Tiny letting us know he needs to go out," Willow explains, not moving. "And probably the others demanding breakfast."

I glance at the clock. Seven-thirty. No meetings until ten. When was the last time I had this kind of leisurely morning?

When was the last time I wanted a leisurely morning? The thought hits me like a freight train. I've spent the better part of a decade filling every minute of every day, and suddenly all I want is more time in this bed with this woman.

"How about I handle breakfast while you take the dogs out?" I suggest, surprising myself with how natural the offer feels.

She props herself up on her elbow, eyeing me skeptically. "You know how to cook?"

Jesus. The movement makes the sheet slip, exposing the curve of her shoulder and the swell of one breast. My mouth goes dry as I remember exactly how she tastes, how she feels under my hands and lips.

"I can manage eggs and toast without burning the place down," I say with mock indignation, though my voice comes out rougher than intended. "Our chef taught me a few things when I was younger. Something about impressing girls."

"Oh, is that what this is?" she teases, sliding out of bed. "Impressive breakfast skills?"

I watch her pull on a tank top and yoga pants, mesmerized by the way the fabric clings to her curves. Even now, after spending most of the night exploring every inch of her body, I want her again. It's almost embarrassing how badly I want her.

"Among other things," I reply, watching her pull on yoga pants. Even in the most casual clothes, she's stunning. More than stunning. She's addictive.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes," she promises, leashing up Tiny and Spike. "Fair warning—the coffee maker is temperamental. You have to sweet-talk it a bit."

After they leave, I lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. What the hell is happening to me? I've never felt this way about anyone. Protective. Possessive. Completely besotted.

I explore her kitchen. It's small but well-organized, with a collection of mismatched mugs hanging from hooks and a refrigerator covered in photos and shelter adoption announcements.

I find what I need for breakfast, though I have to coax the coffee maker through several attempts before it finally cooperates.

As I'm whisking eggs, Rufus appears on the counter, watching my every move with keen interest.

"Not for you," I tell him, gently setting him back on the floor. He immediately jumps back up. "I see we're going to have to negotiate."

By the time Willow returns, I've managed to prepare two decent omelets, though Rufus has taste-tested more of the bacon than I'd planned.

"It smells amazing," she says, releasing the dogs. Tiny immediately investigates my legs while Spike heads straight for his water bowl. "I can't believe you actually cooked."

The way she looks at me—like I've just performed a minor miracle—does something to my chest. No woman has ever appreciated something so simple before.

"Don't sound so shocked," I laugh, handing her a plate. "Though I should warn you, Rufus may have some conflicting information about how the bacon turned out. "

With her plate of food in one hand, she grabs some silverware for both of us from one of the crooked drawers. "You let him sample it?"

The brush of her fingers against mine as she hands me a fork sends electricity up my arm. God, I'm like a teenager. One night with her and I'm reacting to every casual touch.

"It was more of a unilateral decision on his part," I reply dryly. "I've learned it's easier to negotiate with him than fight."

She grins, stealing a piece of bacon. "See? You're already adapting to life with pets. You'll be ready for one or a dozen of your own in no time."

I chortle at the very idea. "I think I'd prefer to visit yours and leave it at that."

Though the idea of visiting regularly—of having a reason to be here every morning—doesn't sound like the nightmare it should.

I'm not sure how or when the idea of making this a regular thing—making us a regular thing—took root in my mind, but there it is. And it's worse than that, actually. Because the idea is not only in my mind, but in my heart as well.

When did I become the kind of man who thinks about relationships? But looking at Willow, watching her laugh as she feeds a piece of bacon to her pit bull, I know the answer. It started the moment she demanded I help her with that damn kitten.

I finish up at the stove and then we settle on her couch—which, despite its obvious age and a few tears in the fabric, is surprisingly comfortable.

As I dig into my omelet, I realize we're eating like college students, plates balanced on our laps, no proper table setting.

My fork has a suspiciously bent tine, and the mismatched knife looks like it's been used from time to time as a screwdriver.

The old me would have found this entire situation ridiculous.

The new me does too, but I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. "This is… nice."

"Yeah," she says, smiling at me as she brings her own abused fork to her lips.

Christ, even the way she eats is sexy. I shift on the couch, trying to ignore the way my body responds to something as simple as watching her mouth move.

"Slumming's not so bad after all, right?"

I look around her apartment—at the eclectic mix of furniture, the pet toys scattered about, the morning sunlight streaming through windows that could use cleaning. It's nothing like my pristine townhouse, yet somehow, it feels more like home than my place ever has.

"I don't think of your home as slumming, Willow. Having breakfast here with you is just different from what I'm used to."

"Different how?"

"Well, for starters, I usually eat breakfast while reviewing the morning's emails. And I definitely don't have a pit bull mix trying to steal bacon off my plate."

She laughs, scratching Tiny behind the ears. "Sounds lonely," she observes, her voice gentle.

"It is," I admit, surprised at how easily the words come. "I just never really noticed it before."

Before you. Before I knew what it felt like to wake up next to someone who makes me laugh, who makes me want to forget about work and schedules and everything except how good it feels to be with her.

Willow sets down her plate and shifts to face me better, tucking one leg under herself. The movement makes her tank top shift, and I catch a glimpse of the skin I spent so much time kissing last night. My hands twitch with the urge to reach for her.

"You know, it's actually nice to see you smile for once."

"What do you mean?" I ask, feigning indignation. "I smile plenty."

"When? The first time we met, you looked like you were on your way to fire half of Manhattan. Even when you helped with Pixie, you had this permanent scowl going on." She demonstrates, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips in an exaggerated grimace.

I can't help but laugh. "I did not look like that."

"You absolutely did. I thought maybe it was just your face."

"My face?"

"Your resting grump face." She grins. "You know how some people have resting bitch face? You have resting CEO face."

Now I'm really laughing. "Resting CEO face?"

"It's very intimidating. All stern and judgmental. Like you're constantly evaluating everyone's quarterly performance."

I shake my head, still chuckling. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But am I wrong?" She steals another piece of bacon. "When was the last time you really let loose and laughed, Damien? I mean, before I came along and disrupted your precious schedule."

The question sobers me a bit. "I used to laugh more. Before all this." I gesture vaguely, encompassing my life. "Before my father died."

Her teasing expression softens. "That must've been really hard for you, and the rest of your family. What was he like?"

"Brilliant. Demanding. Never satisfied unless something was perfect." I pause, thinking. "But fair, too. He didn't exactly give me a choice about joining the family business, but he made sure I was prepared for it. Sent me to the best schools, introduced me to the right people."

"So you always knew you'd be CEO of Langley Enterprises?"

"It was more like... understood. The expectation was there from the day I was born, I think." I lean back against the couch. "Langleys run Langley Enterprises. That's just how it works."

"That's a lot of pressure, especially for a kid."

"I was groomed for it. Prep school, Ivy League, internships every summer at the company." I shrug. "It's not like I'm complaining. I was privileged beyond belief. I just... sometimes wonder what would have happened if I'd wanted to be, I don't know, a marine biologist or something."

"A marine biologist?" She laughs. "Really?"

"I liked the ocean documentaries," I admit sheepishly.

"I bet you would have been the world's most organized marine biologist. Color-coded coral samples, a strict minute-by-minute schedule for every dive..."

"Hey, organization is key in any field," I protest, but I'm grinning.