Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
That man is now staring at me, holding a dildo he thinks is mine. Technically, it is, but I don't want it. Not today, not in a million years.
"I didn't..." My voice comes out as a squeak. I clear my throat because I've suddenly lost the ability to speak. "That's not mine."
Damien lifts one eyebrow, his gray eyes flickering between me and the package. Is he ... smirking? My grumpy, serious landlord is actually smirking at me. Huh.
"Package has your name on it," he says, his deep voice rumbling through me.
"I know, but I didn't order ... that." I gesture vaguely at the box, still unable to look directly at it. "My friend Diana—she said she was sending me a surprise, but I thought..." I trail off, realizing I'm just digging myself deeper.
Damien's smirk grows more pronounced. "Some surprise."
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, mortification threatening to swallow me whole. "I'll talk to her. This won't happen again."
"Don't apologize. Everyone has ... needs." He shifts his weight, and I notice his knuckles are white around the package. "Though I have to tell you, the real thing is so much better."
My breath catches. Did he just…? Is he saying…?
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. I feel it all the way to my toes as the world around us slides to a stop. The hallway suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, and I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, how the collar of his t-shirt is slightly stretched out, revealing the hollow of his throat. How his eyes have darkened slightly. He flashes me a hot glance, and in response, my core pulses and throbs.
My lips part involuntarily, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Oh my God. It would be so easy to—
A sharp bark breaks the moment. Doug. That tiny demon is standing in Damien's doorway, looking ready for battle.
Damien glances over his shoulder and sighs. "Down, Doug." He turns back to me, extends the package. "Here. Sorry about the damage."
My fingers brush his as I take the box, and I shiver. Sensations fizz through me, and I just know I'm on the verge of going mad from wanting. It's like these past two months have been building up to this moment.
All because of a dildo, thank you very much.
"Thanks," I tell him, clutching the package to my chest and already thinking of wrapping it in extra layers of paper before throwing it.
Damien nods once, then turns and heads back to his apartment. I should close my door now. Should retreat to lick my wounds and plot Diana's slow, painful demise. But I can't seem to make my feet move or my hand close the door.
Instead, I'm watching the way Damien's jeans hug his ass as he walks away, remembering the way his voice dropped when he said "the real thing is so much better." The implication that he could be that real thing for me sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't immediately notice what's happening. One second Doug is sitting by Damien's door, the next he's a white blur streaking past Damien's legs—
—and straight into my apartment.
"Doug! No!" Damien calls, but it's too late.
The chihuahua darts between my legs and disappears into my living room, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors.
I freeze, my eyes darting between my apartment where Doug has vanished and Damien who's now hurrying back toward me. I cannot think, too overwhelmed by competing priorities: chase after the dog that hates me, throw the sex toy in the trash, or continue staring at Damien like an idiot?
"I'm sorry," Damien says, reaching my doorway. "He's never done that before."
"It's okay," I say automatically, though it's not. Doug has made it very clear since day one that I am his nemesis. He growls every time I walk past their door. What's he going to do loose in my yarn studio?
I take a step back, intending to go after him, but Damien moves at the same moment, and suddenly we're both in my doorway, chest to chest. He's so tall that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, even though I'm not exactly short myself. This close, I can smell his soap and something woodsy that might be sawdust.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"I'll get him," he says, his voice low. "He might be a little ... territorial with you."
That's putting it mildly. Last month, Doug snarled at me for a solid five minutes because I had the audacity to use the elevator at the same time as him.
Damien steps fully into my apartment, and I follow, suddenly hyperaware of how my space looks through his eyes. The yarn everywhere, organized by color in the cubbies he installed for me. My filming chair positioned by the window. The half-finished blanket draped over my couch and Diana's sweater under it. Does it look messy? Childish? Too much?