Page 35 of Filthy and the Beast

“Pancakes,” I conclude flatly.

Damian sighs. “Okay. Slight awkwardness. As to be expected.” He sips his coffee. “That’s why we need to talk, though.”

I frown. “It is?”

“We can’t let things ferment too long. You’re probably stewing in jock-dude ideas that, left unattended, could develop into regret, self-doubt, shame. All you need is a little honest conversation to clear the air, so yes, pancakes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s not going to let this go.

Damian laughs. “Trust me. I’m not going to make you revisit every thrust or bare your deepest secrets.” Surprising me, he steps forward and takes my hand, warmth easing up my arm. “I just want to make sure you don’t freak out on me.”

I narrow my brow, but a smile ticks up the corner of my mouth. “Coffee and pancakes.”

Laughing, Damian pulls me toward the house. “More coffee.”

His hand slips out of mine as we cross the garden, and I suck in a breath, emptiness hitting behind my ribs.

“First things first.” He's talking way too quickly for this early in the morning. “You should know it’s fine to still be processing how you feel about last night. I’ve never had hang-ups about my desire for men, but I have tried plenty of things in bed that seemed scary or intimidating or unknown, and taking some time to sort through your reactions and decide what you want is healthy.” We enter the kitchen, and Damian starts pulling bowls and ingredients for pancakes out, moving through the space like it’s his home. “There was a whole year where I experimented with bondage. Tying people up, getting tied up, ropes and handcuffs and blindfolds, you name it. Wasn’t until I had two guys tied to my bed and I was standing over them with a thing of whipped cream that I realized, you know, bondage isn’t my thing.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

Him and two other guys. Makes me feel funny. Jealous, maybe insecure.

Whipped cream.

And here I am, totally undone by a blowjob.

Forty-six damn years, and what I have done with myself?

Damian grabs a mug and pours me some coffee from the pot he already has going. “You look like you need this. Black, right?”

With a grunt, I take it. “Thanks.”

“The other thing I wanted to make sure to say,” he continues, “is that I’m here anytime. You probably don’t have anyone in your life you can talk to about your sexuality, and men of your generation struggle with that in general. I don’t want you to think I’m going to be emotionally attached in a way that prevents me from offering guidance and advice.”

My tired brain tries to process everything he’s saying. “Are you trying to sex-therapy me?”

Beating a couple eggs, Damian laughs. “No. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“Don’t,” I say firmly, drinking my coffee at the counter.

He arches an eyebrow. “I suppose that answers the question from last night. Definitely opposed to sex therapy.”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, yeah. Not interested in it.”

I don’t want him to try to fix me.

Want… something else.

He dumps the eggs into the bigger bowl. “Noted.” Looking up to me with a soft smile, he starts mixing. “By the way, I had fun last night. I almost forgot to say that part. You’re cute when you’re horny.”

I snort. “Cute. Go to hell.”

He laughs. “What? It’s true. And you’re actually a very generous lover. Bold, too!”

My face heats. “Thanks,” I grumble. “I, uh, had fun, too.”

Damian’s eyes light up. “Oh really?” He flips on the stove. “Look at that. You’re sharing.” He's teasing, but his smile makes it encouraging, not mean. “What else do you feel? Was last night you acknowledging long-buried desires, or new, surprising feelings? Asking as a supportive friend slash live-in assistant, not an amateur sex therapist.”

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