Page 14 of One Night Collision

Damien has his arms crossed now. He’s pissed. I can see it. “That’s about him, Maggie. That’s about his insecure bullshit. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“One divorce and a shit ton of therapy later, I absolutely agree with you… But that was nine years ago when that started. The truth, Damien, was that I was too young to be married to anybody, but especially to someone like him. I didn’t know who the hell I was at twenty years old. And looking back I can see that was part of the appeal for him. He got to tell me who I was, who I could become… and it wasn’t until I was sitting in our bedroom, alone again, staring at a bottle full of sleeping pills and actually thinking about swallowing the whole thing, that I realized that… I was so fucking miserable that death looked like a better option.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. And when I look at his face, I know it isn’t because he doesn’t have anything to say. He’s giving me the space I need to finish—to tell him all of it.

“So I left. I packed a bag and left. I went to my mom’s house in Fort Mitchell for a bit, but I didn’t stay there. One, everyone I knew was gone—nobody fucking stays there if they can help it. And two, she’s got some old-fashioned ideas about marriage and financial security… She kept telling me to go back, that if I begged, Cal would take me back. It was a complete mystery to her how I could actually feel good about walking out on him. But it did feel good. It felt like, for the first time since I met the son of a bitch, that I was me again—whoever the fuck that was.And I liked Bellehaven, or what he’d let me experience of it. So I decided to build a life for myself here… maybe out of spite.”

I finish and then the house goes quiet around us. I have to fight the urge to fill the silence, to defend both my decision to marry the ass and to leave him. Because therapy or no, I still haven’t forgiven myself for what I allowed him to do to me.

But Damien does something that surprises me. He doesn’t speak. He just takes my hand, pulls me close, and wraps his arms around me. And there’s no judgement there. There’s no disapproval or false sympathy. And he’s not holding me like he thinks I’m some fragile, broken thing. He’s just doing it because he can… and nothing has ever felt more right.

Chapter

Eleven

Damien

I take this kiss, savoring it for long moments. Her lips taste like cherries and the alcohol she drank, sweet with a bite that sends a charge straight through me. My hands find her waist as I back her against the wall just inside my back door, our bodies pressed close enough that I can feel her heartbeat racing alongside mine. Maggie's fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to drive me crazy, and I can't help the low groan that escapes me.

"We should probably move to the couch," she whispers against my mouth, her breath warm and intoxicating.

I nod, reluctantly pulling back just enough to let her catch her breath. The night has been perfect—the easy laughter, Maggie in that swimsuit that nearly stopped my heart, the way she'd looked at me under the string lights as everyone else started heading home. But this, right now, is what I've been thinking about since the moment I saw her tonight.

We stumble farther inside, never breaking contact for more than a second. We're in the dim light of my living room, illuminated only by the small lamp I'd left on earlier.

"Damien," she breathes, and the way she says my name makes me want to hear it again and again.

I trail kisses down her neck, savoring the soft gasp she makes when I hit that spot just below her ear. Her hands slide under the T-shirt I put on earlier in the evening, her nails raking against my skin.

"You've been driving me crazy all night," I murmur against her skin. "That bikini should be illegal."

She laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips. "That was kind of the point."

My hands find the zipper of her cover-up, but I pause, waiting for permission. She nods, her eyes locked with mine, and I slowly lower it, revealing the bikini she's been wearing all evening. I trace my fingers down her spine, feeling her shiver under my touch.

The cover-up loosens but stays in place, held up only by how close we're standing. We move toward my couch. I stop to steal a kiss every few shuffled steps. When we sink down onto the cushions, she straddles my lap, her bikini bottom barely covering what needs to be covered.

"You're beautiful," I tell her, because it's true and because I need her to know how much I mean it.

Her smile is shy but pleased, and she leans down to kiss me again, slower this time, deeper. My hands slide up her thighs, feeling the warmth of her skin, but staying respectful of boundaries we haven't discussed. When she arches against me, I nearly lose my mind.

We stay like this, exploring, testing, learning each other's limits without words. Her fingers work at the edges of my shirt until she lifts it up over my head. Then her palms are flat against my chest. I watch her face as she traces the lines of my tattoos, curious and appreciative, while I run my hands along the bare skin of her waist, just above the edge of her bikini bottom.

"I've thought about this," she admits, her voice husky. "More than I should have."

"Me too," I confess, capturing her hand and bringing it to my lips. "Every damn day since I met you."

The heat between us builds until the house feels too warm, too small to contain whatever this is becoming. My hands find their way back to her waist, fingers slipping beneath the strings of her bikini, and she gasps, pressing closer.

But then she stiffens, just slightly, and I freeze immediately.

"Wait," she whispers, her forehead resting against mine. "Damien, I?—"

I pull back, searching her face. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, frustration clear in her eyes. "Nothing's wrong. That's the problem. This feels too right, too fast."

Understanding dawns on me. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my touch gentle. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for, Maggie. Not tonight, not ever."

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