made a soft protesting sound, not ready for the kiss to end. But he ignored it, holding her firmly. He wasn’t smiling, the lines of his beautiful face taut with hunger, his eyes electric.
There was nothing easygoing or charming about him now. He looked unbearably intense, almost fierce. The way he had down in the library, when she’d pushed his control to the edge.
Was this the real man underneath all that easygoing charm? If so, he was thrilling. She loved his intensity, and she loved that she’d been the one to draw it out of him.
He said nothing, letting her go only to gather her into his arms as he stood up, looking down at her. “Where’s your bedroom?”
“Down at the end of the hall.” She relaxed against him. “I can walk, you know.”
“I know.”
But he didn’t put her down, striding with purpose down the hallway to her little bedroom with its queen-size bed, the handmade patchwork quilt she’d bought from Clare at the B&B, who did quilting as a hobby, thrown over the top. He kicked the door shut, then moved over to the bed, putting her down so she was sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Then he dropped to his knees in front of her.
Her pulse accelerated, her mouth going dry. They were at eye level like this, and the look in his eyes made her feel like she could hardly breathe, excitement crowding in her throat, her heartbeat loud in her head.
Damon didn’t speak. He pulled her T-shirt up and over her head, then paused a moment, studying her. So she took a moment to study him too, the perfect planes and angles of his face, the sensual curve of his mouth, the darkness of his eyelashes shot with gold.
Beautiful man. Yet there was more to him than looks and charm as she’d already discovered. There was a deep well of caring inside him, and she had the sense that he was desperate to show it, to care for someone, though perhaps he didn’t want to admit that to anyone. But she knew. She could see it in the way he’d involved himself with Connor. In the way he’d put his hands over hers in the kitchen.
In the way that he’d involved himself in the town, talking to people, helping out even though he had his own quite serious commitments back in LA.
Yes, he cared. He cared deeply.
She lifted a hand, touched the sharp, carved angle of one cheekbone. His skin was warm and smooth beneath her fingertips.
He stared at her from beneath those ridiculously long lashes, the burning intensity of his gaze taking her breath away.
She wasn’t sure why she’d touched him or what she wanted to say—maybe that it was okay. That he could care for her son for as long as he was here. But perhaps that was too much, too soon, so she said nothing.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her, and every remaining thought she had vanished from her head.
His mouth was hot, the kiss demanding, and she gave back as good as she got. Letting him know that she was just as hungry for him as he was for her.
A sweet kiss, searing in its heat, making her open her mouth wider so he could kiss her deeper, harder. And he took complete advantage of the invitation, his tongue exploring her, tasting her, even as his hands fell to the buttons of her jeans and pulled them open.
Astrid took a breath, her hands on his shoulders before stealing around his neck, wanting to pull him closer. But he broke away all of a sudden, and before she had a chance to protest, he gripped the waistband of her jeans and pulled them down and off her, taking her panties with them. He undid her bra and pushed it off her shoulders, and when she was entirely naked, he pushed her back onto the bed.
Then he rose to his feet in a fluid, graceful movement and, keeping his attention entirely on her, began to take his own clothes off.
She made no move to cover herself, content to let him look at her. Because it was powerful to see the depth of his desire as he did so, as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful than she was in his entire life. And that made her feel beautiful too.
She rolled over onto her side, leaning on her elbow, head propped in her hand, watching him as he pulled his T-shirt off,