Page 87 of Filthy and the Beast

He blinks.

Shit. I said more than I should have. Just lectured him.

Still didn’t say the thing I really want to say, though.

Didn’t tell him what’s in my heart.

Damian lets out a soft sigh. “Thank you for saying that.”

With a grunt, I go back to wrapping his hand. “It’s true.”

We're both quiet. I think about my conversation with Nat. Maybe I don’t know how to say what I want to, but I can still show him.

I release his hand, and he lifts it, rubs the bandage with his thumb. “Good?”

Damian nods.

I cup his cheek again. Is it okay to kiss him when he’s crying? I don’t understand so much.

Damian, though, beats me to it. He presses his lips to mine, softly, opening his mouth. I meet him, pull his warmth close. Try to hold him just right so he knows he’s not a failure just because a job didn’t work out.

Despite the voice in my head telling me I'm not good enough, that I've been alone all these years for a reason, I kiss him. I force the doubts away. He’s here right now, and as we keep kissing, the intensity builds, too. Damian moans into my mouth, and my dick swells, my nerves alive.

He strokes his hands down my chest. “I know one way I could feel better,” he whispers, lips against mine.

I grab his ass and lift him. Surprised, Damian laughs as I place him on the counter and bury my tongue in his mouth. His good hand finds my erection, palming me hard, and his moan meets my groaning sigh. Damian works his hand in my pants, and his body trembles against me.

When I lean him backward, kissing harder, he jerks and pulls his head back.

“Fuck,” he groans, holding his injured hand. “Sorry. Hit the faucet.”

I blink. I’m horny and sweating, the need to please him overtaking me.

Why the fuck are we in the bathroom? Need somewhere soft.

I pull him down from the counter. Press my forehead to his as my chest rises and falls with heavy breath.

“Bedroom,” I say before I can stop myself. “Come.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

DAMIAN

“Birds?”I practically yelp. “Your bedroom is filled with framed photos of birds?”

Gripping my hand, Enzo growls, “That’s what you want to talk about right now?”

I spin slowly, taking it all in. Like the rest of the house, Enzo's room is cavernous with high ceilings and wood paneling everywhere. His bed is centered at the back wall, matching the massive guest room bed, and a big red rug has some dog beds next to it. The furniture is minimal, like the squat, antique dresser and the twin square nightstands, but the wall is nearly covered with framed photographs of birds.

My head whirls from my night at the bar and Enzo’s surprising invitation. He’s brought me into his room, a major step, and if his throbbing erection is any indication, we’re about to relieve my stress with plenty of orgasms.

But the moment is so consequential I can barely focus. I’m seeing his bedroom. He’s brought me into his sanctuary.

And I honestly can’t see beyond the birds.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, laughing.

“I did.” Enzo rubs the back of his head, standing in the middle of the room and looking awkward. “Told you I like the bird game.”

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