Page 36 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

I smirk, breathless. "And you're a coward."

His grip tightens, and I barely get the chance to inhale before his lips crash against mine, fierce and unrelenting. It’s not gentle. There’s no hesitation, no softness. Just hunger, desperation, and the weight of everything we’ve been holding back. His hands move, one sliding up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss.

I moan into his mouth, my fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer until there's nothing between us but heat and breath and the sound of our ragged exhalations. His body presses against mine, trapping me against the sink, and I arch into him, needing more, needing everything.

"Fuck," he groans, breaking away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breathing uneven. "This isn't supposed to happen."

I smile, running my hands up his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds beneath my touch. "Then why does it feel so good?"

He curses under his breath, then kisses me again, harder this time, like he's trying to imprint himself onto me, like he's trying to make sure I’ll remember this even if we never do it again. His hands roam, his grip firm, possessive.

And I let him. Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m slipping away. I feel grounded. I feel wanted. I feel alive.

His lips are on mine again, and this time, it’s slower, deeper, like he’s savoring me. The roughness from moments ago melts into tenderness. His hands, still firm, still possessive, glide down my sides, careful, so careful, even as his body presses me harder against the edge of the sink. I can feel the cold ceramic digging into my back, but I don’t care. All I care about is him. The warmth of his body, the way his breath hitches when I slide my hands under his hoodie, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen.

“Damien,” I whisper against his mouth, my voice trembling. His name has never felt so heavy on my tongue, so desperate. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine, and I see it—the conflict, the fear, the raw, unrelentingneed.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he murmurs, his voice low, strained. His kiss deepens, tongues tangling, hips pressing closer, and I can feel him—hard, insistent—against my thigh. My breath hitches, and I pull back just enough to whisper, “I’m not fragile.”

His eyes flash. “You just had heart surgery, Willow. You’re supposedto be resting.”

“And yet,” I say, my voice trembling with need, “here we are.”

He growls softly, a sound that sends shivers down my spine, and before I can react, he’s lifting me onto the sink. The coolness of the porcelain seeps through the thin material of my gown, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is him, the way his hands cradle my hips, the way his eyes never leave mine.

“This is a bad idea,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice. Only hunger.

“Then tell me to stop,” I challenge, my fingers sliding into his hair, tugging gently.

He doesn’t. Instead, his hands move to the ties of my gown, and slowly untie them. The fabric falls open, and I feel a surge of vulnerability, of exposure, but it quickly disappears when I see the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

His hands glide up my thighs, warm and steady, and I shiver, my breath catching. “Damien,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

His hands move higher, skimming over my hips, my waist, before finally, finally cupping my breasts. I gasp, arching into his touch, and he breaks the kiss to murmur against my skin, “You’re so beautiful, Willow. So fucking beautiful.”

His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I moan, my head falling back. The sensation is electric, lighting up every nerve in my body, and I can’t help but reach for him, my hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. He helps me, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, and then his chest is against mine, skin on skin, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

His hands are everywhere, touching me, exploring me, and I can’t get enough. I want to feel all of him, every inch, everyscar, every curve. My fingers trace the contours of his muscles, his back, his arms, and when I reach the waistband of his sweats, he lets out a low groan, his hips pressing forward.

“Willow,” he says, his voice ragged. “If we keep going…”

“I don’t want to stop,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his ear. “I want you, Damien. All of you.”

He curses under his breath, but his hands are already moving, sliding my gown off my shoulders, letting it pool around my waist. His eyes roam over me, taking in every detail, and I feel a rush of heat, of desire.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to my thighs, spreading them gently. “I’ll be careful.”

“I trust you,” I say, and it’s the truth. I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust him. Not with my body, not with my heart.

He kisses me again, slow, deliberate, his hands moving to the waistband of his sweats. I watch, my breath hitching, as he pushes them down, and then he’s there, hard, ready, and all I can think isyes.

My hands reach for him, pulling him closer. “Please.” I groan.

He hesitates, his eyes searching mine, and then he nods, his hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me slightly. I feel the tip of him, pressing against me, and I moan, my hips tilting to meet him.

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Then take it,” I breathe, my body trembling with anticipation. “Take me, Damien.”

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