Page 99 of Give In

This isn’t real.

Just a means to an end.

Closure.

I still didn’t lift my head until his fingers stretched along my jaw, the tips digging in as he tilted my face to kiss me until we were both breathless.

Tearing his mouth away, he pressed his forehead to mine. “I like coming home to you.”

“I can tell.”

Straightening, he tilted his head toward the book that’d fallen to the floor again. “One of mine?”

“Not unless you have a romance book with lots of alpha male goodness.”

He looked thoughtful, stroking his stubbled jaw. “No, I don’t think I’ve branched out into romance, alpha male or otherwise.”

“You should. I bet they’re better than some of the pretentious books on your shelves.”

“You’d be right.” He walked into the kitchen, and I stood, putting my stuff back in my bag.

“We need to talk,” I called.

“After dinner.”

As if on cue, my stomach growled loudly but I spoke over it. “No, now.”

“Dinner.” He moved into the entryway. “What’re you in the mood for?”

“Talking.” When he didn’t respond with more than an exasperated sigh and narrowed eyes, I shrugged. “I’m not picky.”

“What do you usually get?”

Instant ramen packets, scrambled eggs, and cafeteria sludge.

I kept my voice even and light when I said, “I don’t do takeout or delivery.”

Despite my attempt to be nonchalant, Damien’s eyes warmed and softened with understanding, though his jaw clenched. “Sit.”

He turned and walked back into the kitchen as I sat in the comfy chair.

But only for about seven-point-seven seconds.

Then I was up and pacing, as though my veins had been filled with Diet Coke.

Just talking.

No kissing.

Don’t give in.

Repeating the mantra to myself, I put my hands on my hips and waited for Damien to come back.

And waited.

And waited.

After several minutes, I decided to take the fight to him. Shoulders back, I marched into the kitchen to demand we talk but found Damien still on the phone.

---