Page 61 of Hellbent
I laugh, the sound escaping a little too fast—part amusement, part relief, grateful for the sudden break in silence. “No. I don’t know this song. Is that a crime?”
He shoves the wrench into his back pocket and wipes his hands on a rag. His expression is pure disbelief. “You don’t knowWave of Mutilation?”
I shrug. “Never heard of it.”
He’s already shaking his head, crossing the garage like a man on a mission. “Unacceptable.”
He reaches over my head for the stereo and cranks the volume. Before I can react, his hands close around mine, and suddenly he’s twirling me under his arm. A startled laugh bursts from my lips as the motion spins me off balance, my shoes scuffing against the concrete floor.
“Damian!”
He spins me again, pulling me in closer this time. His body is all hard lines and coiled strength, the plane of his chest against mine as solid as the feel of his hands.
“This might be the best thing I ever teach you,” he quips, just a little cocky.
I have to force my voice to stay light. “That so? Guess I’ll have to rank it against all the other things you’ve taught me.”
His grip tightens, his gaze flicking to my mouth as he gives me a sly smile.
“Finch,” he drawls, teasing. “What are you implying?”
I laugh as he spins me past the Chevy with his tools scattered around it, past the Mustang Fastback that Wyatt still doesn’t know we took out that time.
It’s just a game, just Damian being Damian—loud, reckless, and impossible to ignore—until it’s not.
The change creeps in slow, pulsing underneath the easy rhythm of our movements. He moves one hand to my waist, pulling me in closer. All the while, the music sways around us, dreamy and strange, the hollow twang of the guitar curling through the air. It makes everything feel hazy, softened around the edges.
My laughter fades, and his does too. His grin lingers for half a second before slipping away.
I feel it coming like a storm about to break—an electric charge humming in the air, skin prickling, bracing for the strike…
His hands slip down my back, dragging heat over my spine as he pulls me flush against him. My breath shudders out between us. He bends his head, his nose tracing the curve of my jaw in a slow, teasing drag.
“Fuck,” he mutters, just under his breath, almost to himself. Then his lips brush the hollow beneath my ear—soft and barely there.
A slow shiver rolls down my spine. “Damian—”
One hand tightens at my waist, the other tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
My pulse beats against his fingers as his lips ghost over mine, lightly teasing…and I answer him. My lips press firmly back against his, my hunger for him snapping free.
Damian groans, deepening the kiss by increments and making fire skate down my spine.
Then he’s pushing me with him as he moves forward. One step, two, until my butt hits something solid. The workbench.
He lifts me onto it in one smooth motion, stepping between my legs and pressing his forehead against mine. Before I can even catch up, my fingers are already curling over his shoulders, anchoring me to him.
I hesitate, laughing nervously. “What if someone walks in?”
He shakes his head, certainty threaded through the rough edge of his voice. “No one’s coming in today.”
He’s right. It’s been dead slow all week.
“You know how much I’ve been thinking about that day at the house?” His nose skims mine, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can still fucking feel it.”
A slow roll of his hips, pressing against me, shows me exactly what he means.
God.
