Page 11 of The Landlord
"Yes," I say, surprising myself with how quickly I answer. "Tomorrow night sounds perfect."
"Good. I'll pick you up at seven."
As I walk back to my apartment, my legs still wobbly, I can't help the stupid grin spreading across my face. I just made out with Damien Finch. No—I just had his head between my thighs. And tomorrow, we're going on a date.
What universe did I slip into, and how do I make sure I never leave?
My phone pings as I close my door, and I pull it out to see an Instagram notification. One of my followers has commented on my latest post—a video tutorial for a cable-knit scarf.
Marcus_Lover87:You're so beautiful when you concentrate, love of my life. I can't wait to start our life together. Soon.
I grimace, quickly swiping away the notification. Another creepy comment from that account. I get them occasionally—occupational hazard of being a female content creator—but this user has been particularly persistent lately.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, I have more important things to think about, like what the hell I'm going to wear on my date with Damien.
By seven the following evening,I've tried on every item of clothing I own. My bed is a wasteland of discarded outfits, and I'm standing in front of the mirror in a dark blue wrap dress that hugs my curves without making me feel self-conscious about my height.
I'm a jittery mess of nerves. This morning, the reality of what happened hit me—I let my landlord go down on me on his coffee table. The same table where he probably eats breakfast. The same man I've awkwardly avoided eye contact with in the hallway for months.
What was I thinking?
But then I remember his hands, strong and massive and veiny, on my thighs. His mouth, hot and demanding, between my legs. The way he looked at me afterward.
A knock at my door sends my heart into my throat.
When I open it, Damien stands there in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he smells so good.
God, he has no business being this hot.
"Hi." My voice sounds different to my ears, a little too breathy, but he doesn't seem to notice.
His eyes travel down my body, slowly, appreciatively. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," I say, fighting the urge to fidget. "You clean up nice yourself."
He smiles, and I notice Doug sitting quietly at his feet, not barking at me for the first time ever. Progress.
"He likes you now," Damien says, noticing my surprise.
"Just like that?"
Damien's eyes darken. "He knows you're important to me."
The simple statement sends warmth blooming through my chest, the memory of his fingers inside me making my cheeks flush.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we head downstairs.
"Tony's. It's an Italian place a few blocks away. We can walk if that's okay with you."
"I'd like that."
The night air is cool against my heated skin as we walk side by side, close enough that our arms occasionally brush. Conversation flows more easily than I expected, probably because we've already been intimately acquainted in ways that make small talk seem irrelevant.
Tony's is small and cozy, with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. The host—Tony himself, I'm guessing—greets Damien by name and shows us to a corner table.
"You come here often?" I ask after we're seated.
"At least once a week. Best pasta in town." He picks up the menu but doesn't open it. "I always get the same thing."
