Page 15 of Remembering Passion

As soon as Ella disappeared behind the closed door, I pulled my phone from the inside pocket of my suit coat. Opening my contacts, I found the number I’d sworn never to delete.

The ringing in my ear coincided with the ringing on the other side of the door. With each ring, my pulse increased. I was ready to pound on the door when she finally answered.

“Hello?”

“You answered.”

I turned to the opening of the door and Ella’s sensational smile. She took a step back. “I don’t know if this is right.”

My smile beamed. “I’m feeling much more confident with my luck than a moment ago.”

Ella took a step back, holding the door ajar.

(The end of “Lucky Day” or “Falling Again” novella)

Gabriella

Could I blame my heart?

No.

My heart knew this was a bad decision. It was my body that wanted Damien.

As he stepped inside my suite and fastened the lock on the door, my breathing quickened, and I shook my head. “Damien...”

“No, Gabriella.” His deep voice reverberated through me like the rumble of thunder warning of an impending storm. He reached for my chin, holding my gaze to his. “Don’t overthink this.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

Overthinking was an understatement. My thoughts were multiplying by the second, each one frantic and scattered.

The storm brewing within me built, twisting my insides as my thoughts spun with tornado-strength winds capable of obliterating my new world, the world I’d built without the man before me.

The turbulent sea churning in his orbs meant he didn’t believe me or just maybe he was having the same cascade of thoughts.

“If I don’t kiss you again,” he said, his voice low, “I’m not sure I’ll survive.”

Before I responded, Damien collided with me.

All of him.

Six feet, four inches of solid muscle.

Our lips reunited as they had in the elevator, the same as they had during the years we were together. Body memory was a theory I learned about while working with Damien. It played a role in the research for the PTSD drug that brought Sinclair Pharmaceuticals fame and fortune. Body memory was the hypothesis that the body itself was capable of storing memories, as opposed to only the brain having that function.

That was what was happening.

It was the most likely explanation.

My body was on autopilot, flying me into the center of the Damien storm.

We sought one another in a frenzied dance.

Strong and possessive, his lips took mine. His body pressed against me, sandwiching mine between him and the wall—two immobile objects—as my fingers grasped for the lapels of his jacket, and the air around us filled with the primitive erotic sounds of two people starving for what the other had to offer.

I relinquished my mind to the passion my body sought, sensing the building desire in the twisting of my core and the sudden emptiness of my pussy. His kisses left my lips, skirting over my jaw, to the sensitive skin near my ear, and lower to my collarbone. I gasped as Damien lowered the zipper on the back of my dress.

As I met his clouded stare, he grinned. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you at the elevator with the drunk assholes.”

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