Page 39 of Bound to the Guard

When the lockwhirsopen, I grip Damien’s sweater as I fumble to open the door.

Damien catches it with his foot and half turns, using his shoulder to push it farther open and step inside. He carries me into the suite and straight to the bedroom, where he sets me on the edge of the mattress. Kneeling in front of me, he unties my shoes and slips them off my feet.

As I pull my legs up onto the bed, I yawn.

“Sleepyhead.” He brushes a stray lock of hair back from my forehead. “Do you need some time alone to decompress?”

The thought of being alone right now, even for a short while, sends a pang of longing through my chest. I’ve grown so accustomed to Damien’s presence, to the comfort and safety he provides, that I don’t want to let go yet. As he straightens, I tug on his sleeve.

Damien rumbles with contentment, the sound vibrating into my fingertips. It’s a noise of understanding, of acceptance, and it warms me from the inside out.

With a playful glint in his eye, he grasps one side of the blanket wrapped around me and tugs, sending me rolling across the bed as it unravels.

A surprised laugh bubbles out as the warmth of my cocoon vanishes. I land face down, the quilt soft beneath me.

Rising onto my hands and knees, I shake my tousled hair back to find Damien gripping the hem of his sweater. In one smooth motion, he pulls it off over his head, and my mouth drops open as I take in the expanse of Damien’s bare torso.

I’ve snuck furtive looks at him while he changed before, but he always wears a T-shirt and boxers to bed. Now, with nothing to obstruct my view, I’m transfixed by the way his muscles ripple beneath his skin, each line and curve honed to a map of valleys and ridges my fingers itch to trace.

An inky black tattoo curves around his waist on the right side in an intricate pattern of gears and cogs. Before I can stop myself, I crawl forward, closing the distance between us to kneel in front of him. My hand hovers above his skin, trembling as I trace the lines of the tattoo with my fingertips, not quite connecting skin to skin.

“You can touch it, if you want,” Damien murmurs, his voice rough. “I don’t mind.”

Emboldened by his permission, my fingers connect with his skin, and I marvel at the way his muscles jump and twitch beneath my touch. The ink glides smoothly beneath my fingertips, the skin warm and alive. I follow the path of the tattoo, mapping out each gear and cog, committing it to memory.

Damien’s breath hitches, and when my head lifts, I find him watching me with hooded eyes, his lips parted.

The heat in his expression sends a shiver through me. “It’s beautiful. The tattoo, I mean. It suits you.”

“I’m glad you like it. Everyone in my family has one.” He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and his touch lingers, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone.

I lean into it, lashes lowering.

Damien’s hand slides down to cup my jaw, tilting my face up, and my eyes open once more.

“I think”—he lifts my wrist and kisses the faded barcode on my inner wrist—“that you would look good with a little cog tattoo right here.”

At his words, my breath catches, and a sudden rush of longing washes over me. The idea of being marked as Damien’s, as part of his family, opens an aching pool of want inside me. “You want that?”

“I do.” Damien’s eyes never leave mine. “But only if it’s something you want, too.”

“I want.” The thought of carrying a piece of Damien with me always, a visible reminder of our connection, thrills me.

I rise higher on my knees, swaying closer until I exist within the heat radiating off his skin. “Did Dr. Foster really give us the green light to continue our relationship?”

Damien’s hand slides down to trace my collarbone. “He did. We discussed it in our last session. He was going to talk about it with you in the morning. As long as we take things slow with open communication, he sees no reason we can’t explore this further.”

Relief washes over me, followed by a surge of nervous anticipation. Tentatively, I reach out to run my hand over Damien’s abdomen, the muscles contracting beneath my palm.

“I’ve been asking for permission.” I lick my bottom lip. “To touch you like this. To be close to you again.”

Damien’s pupils dilate. “Tell me what you want to do.”

My heart hammers, but I’m braver now. I can ask for what I want, and Damien will give it to me. “The same thing as last time, but maybe… More?”

The words come out breathy with uncertainty, and Damien lifts my hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my wrist again.

“How much more?” he prompts, his lips brushing my skin as he speaks.

---