Page 12 of Mine to Tease

“I don’t hate you, Anastasia. And right now, I’m just trying to be a gentleman.” At that, she lets out a chuckle and a snort. I can’t help but laugh at the little sound.

“Gentleman? Not the first or tenth word I’d use to describe you.”

“Well, how about you tell me all the words you would use to describe me on the way home?”

She gives me a little nod and then redirects her gaze toward the crowd of people ahead of us, as do I. I tighten my grip on her hand, and we make our way out of the venue.

13

My stomach burns with all the alcohol I consumed. My face is hot and my brain feels a little foggy. At least, that’s my reasoning for accepting Damon’s help getting home and why I can’t seem to let go of him. He leads us through the hordes of drunken, loud jazz lovers with ease. And once on the street, he moves me around, putting himself between me and anyone who appears sketchy. He’s so tall and muscular, no one is stupid enough to try us. In fact, the men who normally can’t peel their eyes off me barely look in my direction. Hmm, that’s nice. I suppose I’m not the only one who finds his tattoos intimidating. Although, as I glance up at him, I find his smokey eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a flat line. His expression sharpens his already razor-like jawline. It’s more than the tattoos. It’s everything about him that gives scary boyfriend privileges. Even my bodyguards back home couldn’t accomplish that. They were too clean, too manicured. Then again, so was Beacon Hill compared to the New Orleans French Quarter at night.

There are people all around us, despite his touch making me feel like it’s just the two of us. With Royal being one block off Bourbon, you have a mixture of those out for a date night at one of the nice restaurants or hotels and those stumbling drunk, drinking and vomiting in the street. I do my best to avoid eye contact and focus on keeping pace with Damon, though he does walk fast. At times, it feels like he’s dragging me. But I’m weirdly grateful for him tonight. I’ve been out a few times by myself since moving here, but never this far from home or this late at night. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. At least, the thought gives me anxiety. Anxiety that’s only amplified by the shapes of people loitering in the darkened alleyways all around us.

As if sensing my worry, Damon squeezes my hand. I look up to find him offering me a reassuring smile. Somehow that’s exactly what I need to relax and be present with him. And yet, being present with him is just as confusing as the people around us are worrisome.

“Why is this nice?” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, um…I said, my, that’s nice.” At that, I gesture toward the violinist playing the most hauntingly beautiful melody just outside the restaurant I’ve been meaning to try—the Court of Two Sisters. Seeing it makes me realize we’re nearly to my place, and I never once mentioned where I live. “Wait. How do you know where I live?” I ask, peering up at him. He smiles to himself then. It’s as if he’d been wondering when I’d finally put two and two together. My chest tightens during the seconds it takes for him to respond. Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted his help getting home. I barely know him and what I do know…

“Your lease document. It has your address on it,” he says, without taking his eyes off the sidewalk in front of us. I redirect mine there as well, not wanting to fall victim to a pothole, trash can, or rat. Though the way his fingers are laced with mine lets me know he wouldn’t let me get hurt—a far cry from the Damon I’m used to at work. That Damon would probably push me himself.

“Creepy,” I mumble under my breath. He lets out a soft laugh, but other than that, remains quiet. Maybe that’s why tonight feels so different with him. For once, he isn’t hounding me. He’s actually being kind, chivalrous even. I didn’t think he was capable.

The farther we move down Royal and the closer we get to Dumaine, the crowds of people begin to thin and the warmth in my cheeks is chased away by a chilly breeze still lingering as we transition to spring. As it tickles my exposed skin, I find myself nuzzling closer to Damon without even realizing. “Cold?” he asks. I give a little nod and he shifts his arm. I’m, finally, forced to let go of him, but only so he can wrap his arm around me, pulling me into his side. His warmth is just what I need given my slightly revealing outfit.

As I inhale his sweet and spicy scent of rum and cinnamon, I close my eyes. The slowly fading sounds of the violinist serve as a perfect lullaby as I rest my head against him. Considering it’s past my bedtime and the alcohol is dulling my senses, I feel like I could fall asleep next to him, just like this. Though the way he slowly moves his fingers up and down my arm has me thinking of other things I’d like to do. Or, at least, my body tells me so. My brain is still trying to make sense of all this as my core tightens and something in my chest flutters.

It’s nice to be touched. Maybe it doesn’t matter by who. Maybe it doesn’t matter that Damon Dupont is a pain in my ass twenty-three hours a day when for this one hour, he’s been everything I’ve needed. Well, almost everything. As we round the corner, turning off Royal onto Dumaine, I spot my cottage just up ahead. My mind races as I question what to do. Do I say good night or do I ask him to come inside? Would he even say yes? Of course he would. He’s a man. But am I ready for this? What would this even be? A one-night stand? A friends-with-benefits kind of thing? No, we’d have to be friends first and we certainly are not.

Damon stops just in front of the iron gate closest to the first set of gray-blue shutters, the ones that remind me of him and his smokey gray-blue eyes each time I leave my house. Reluctantly, I break myself away from his side, moving closer to the gate I’m not yet sure I’m ready to open.

“Tonight was…nice,” I say. “Thank you for walking me home and, um, not ruining my Damon-free weekend. This version of you is quite different from the one I’ve come to know.”

“You mean the one you’ve come to loathe,” he says. His lips draw up into a playful smirk. I shrug my shoulders, offering him a smile. He’s not exactly wrong. “Well, you were in luck. I’ve already reached my weekly quota for being an asshole.”

“Mm-hmm. Maybe we can adjust your quota and let this Damon come out to play a bit more?” I give him my best puppy dog eyes. After all, I have the best teacher in Brinkley.

“But fucking with you has been so fun.” He nudges my arm, disrupting the fabric of my shirt. I smile and bite my lip as he takes a step toward me. He’s so close I’m blessed with his intoxicating scent once again. Slowly, he brings his hands to my shoulders. Our eyes lock as he lingers there. Resting his fingers just to the side of my neck, he squeezes, helping to dislodge the nerves, butterflies still dancing inside me. Then, when I do not pull away from him, he redirects his attention to my chest, and sliding his hands down, he grazes my bare skin. I feel naked beneath his gaze. My lips part at his touch. I watch him as he watches me, his focus on my body as he gently straightens the collar of my cleavage-baring top, fixing the fabric he previously disrupted. As he does, his fingers lightly rub the tops of my breasts. His movements harden my nipples in a way the cold night air never could. I wonder if he can see them. The thought accompanied by his touch creates a sense of warmth between my legs just as thoughts of him did the night before.

“But I guess I can be persuaded to be a bit nicer,” he says then, lowering his hands to his sides. Finally, he drags his eyes from my body back to mine. I find them darker than before. It’s as if he wants to touch me just as much as I want to be touched by him. Though perhaps it’s simply the lighting, the alcohol, or every nerve in my body on fire just waiting to be explored that has me convinced of his attraction to me and mine to him.

“And maybe I can be persuaded to be a bit calmer,” I say, my voice so quiet even I barely hear the words that escape me.

“Oh, I don’t mind your fire, Anastasia. I think it’s cute.”

“Well, it’s not meant to be cute,” I say. This time it’s my turn to touch him. I reach for his biceps and run my hand down the length of his arm, taking note of every muscle I feel until I reach his hand. I grab on to his finger with the lightest touch, not willing to go as far as he did, but also unwilling to give him up. When he doesn’t pull away, I move my eyes from our hands back up to his. He looks at me with the same dark, almost lustful gaze as before. Only this time something else contorts his features. Curiosity? Confusion?

“Well, what’s it meant to be, then?” he asks.

I shrug my shoulders, still grasping on to his finger. “I don’t know—expressive, communicating my displeasure, intimidating.”

He smiles and uses his free hand to tuck one of my curls behind my ear. As he retracts his hand, he traces the side of my face down the length of my throat with his thumb. His caress is the perfect blend of sweet and spicy and it only has me wanting more. “Nothing about you is intimidating, Anastasia Cross.”

“Everything about you is intimidating, Damon Dupont.”

He nods. “You wouldn’t know it by the way you lay into me. But you don’t have to be afraid of me, Ana. Or intimidated, if you prefer that word. I’d never hurt you. At least, I’d do everything in my power not to.”

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