Page 4 of The Landlord
Not ... this. This humiliation made physical.
I will throw away our decades-long friendship and forget Diana ever existed. I will totally unspool the sweater I've been knitting for her.
And what makes it infinitely worse is that it's Damien holding it. My ridiculously attractive landlord who I've been crushing on since he helped me carry my yarn shelves upstairs when I moved in. The man whose forearms I've memorized while watching him fix the hallway light fixture. The one whose rare smiles make my knees wobble embarrassingly.
The man I sometimes hear moving around his apartment through our shared wall late at night, making me wonder what he looks like when he's not in jeans and those white t-shirts that stretch perfectly across his broad shoulders. The man whose face I think of whenever I read those historical romance books.
That man is now staring at me, holding a dildo he thinks is mine. Technically, it is, but I don't want it. Not today, not in a million years.
"I didn't..." My voice comes out as a squeak. I clear my throat because I've suddenly lost the ability to speak. "That's not mine."
Damien lifts one eyebrow, his gray eyes flickering between me and the package. Is he ... smirking? My grumpy, serious landlord is actually smirking at me. Huh.
"Package has your name on it," he says, his deep voice rumbling through me.
"I know, but I didn't order ... that." I gesture vaguely at the box, still unable to look directly at it. "My friend Diana—she said she was sending me a surprise, but I thought..." I trail off, realizing I'm just digging myself deeper.
Damien's smirk grows more pronounced. "Some surprise."
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, mortification threatening to swallow me whole. "I'll talk to her. This won't happen again."
"Don't apologize. Everyone has ... needs." He shifts his weight, and I notice his knuckles are white around the package. "Though I have to tell you, the real thing is so much better."
My breath catches. Did he just…? Is he saying…?
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. I feel it all the way to my toes as the world around us slides to a stop. The hallway suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, and I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, how the collar of his t-shirt is slightly stretched out, revealing the hollow of his throat. How his eyes have darkened slightly. He flashes me a hot glance, and in response, my core pulses and throbs.
My lips part involuntarily, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Oh my God. It would be so easy to?—
A sharp bark breaks the moment. Doug. That tiny demon is standing in Damien's doorway, looking ready for battle.
Damien glances over his shoulder and sighs. "Down, Doug." He turns back to me, extends the package. "Here. Sorry about the damage."
My fingers brush his as I take the box, and I shiver. Sensations fizz through me, and I just know I'm on the verge of going mad from wanting. It's like these past two months have been building up to this moment.
All because of a dildo, thank you very much.
"Thanks," I tell him, clutching the package to my chest and already thinking of wrapping it in extra layers of paper before throwing it.
Damien nods once, then turns and heads back to his apartment. I should close my door now. Should retreat to lick my wounds and plot Diana's slow, painful demise. But I can't seem to make my feet move or my hand close the door.
Instead, I'm watching the way Damien's jeans hug his ass as he walks away, remembering the way his voice dropped when he said "the real thing is so much better." The implication that he could be that real thing for me sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't immediately notice what's happening. One second Doug is sitting by Damien's door, the next he's a white blur streaking past Damien's legs?—
—and straight into my apartment.
"Doug! No!" Damien calls, but it's too late.
The chihuahua darts between my legs and disappears into my living room, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors.
I freeze, my eyes darting between my apartment where Doug has vanished and Damien who's now hurrying back toward me. I cannot think, too overwhelmed by competing priorities: chase after the dog that hates me, throw the sex toy in the trash, or continue staring at Damien like an idiot?
"I'm sorry," Damien says, reaching my doorway. "He's never done that before."
"It's okay," I say automatically, though it's not. Doug has made it very clear since day one that I am his nemesis. He growls everytime I walk past their door. What's he going to do loose in my yarn studio?
I take a step back, intending to go after him, but Damien moves at the same moment, and suddenly we're both in my doorway, chest to chest. He's so tall that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, even though I'm not exactly short myself. This close, I can smell his soap and something woodsy that might be sawdust.
