Page 18 of Protégé King

He quakes beneath me, moaning low and deep, pressing me down against him, even as my body trembles on top of his.

I collapse on top of him, face buried in his neck, both of us panting. When we finally start to come down from what just happened, he laughs and I lean back to look down at him. “Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know if I’d call that laughing. More rejoicing. Now you can’t tell me we can’t cross this line. It’s crossed. We’re here now. There’s no turning back, Alana.”

He’s right. There’s not. I expected that to feel a whole lot scarier than it does right now, but it doesn’t feel scary at all. But it might if I let myself start thinking about tomorrow.

Chapter Twelve

Alana

Damion carries me to the bathroom, and I end up in one of his T-shirts. It’s actually not the first time I’ve worn one of his shirts, either. There were plenty of times we were at his pool in his backyard, and I’d steal his shirt to cover up. But this feels different. I’m naked under the shirt when I never was before. And I’m in his apartment. And he was just inside me.

That is about as surreal as it gets.

What’s even more surreal is feeling absolutely one hundred percent comfortable with him after we just had sex. It’s like…well, it’s just us, the grown-up version of us. Two best friends who used to live next door to each other. Only it’s not that simple. It’s really quite complicated. He’s Damion West, king of Wall Street, or future king of Wall Street. The expectations of who and what he will be in the future are a heavy weight he felt even as a teen.

I know this because we talked about it on more than one occasion.

We end up on the couch—him in his pants and me in his shirt—with a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of us.

“The intent was for this to come first,” he assures me, filling my glass. “It’s a blend. It’s smooth. I think you’ll like it.”

“When did you become a wine expert?”

“I’ve spent the past few years meeting my father’s expectations, which include being appropriately cultured.” He tops off his glass and sets the bottle down. “As much as I hate that bastard half the time, I have to admit he wasn’t wrong about the usefulness of knowledge. The kind you don’t learn in school. People like it when you know about things that are important to them.”

“That seems like something I should pay more attention to myself.”

“You’re going to law school. What wine to pair with red meat is probably low on your list of must-know information, at least right now.” He hands me my glass. “Try it. See if you like it. If not, I can open a different bottle.”

I accept the glass and our fingers brush as they have a million times in the past, but it’s different now. We’re different now. There’s a charge that zips through my entire body. I’m ultra-sensitive to his touch. And there’s no going back. We’re in another place together, though I’m not even sure what that means, if anything.

“How did you know I’m going to law school?”

“I heard about it at the social tonight. The right people are impressed with you. You’ve done well by yourself and your family.”

He heard tonight.

There is a zig zag of a sharp emotion in my belly. He didn’t know before tonight because we haven’t spoken in three years. I could start spiraling right now, oh, so easily, I could, but I nip my emotions. I smash the place where my thoughts are going. I went into this night knowing it was probably the end of us. I need to live in the moment, as if this is a one-night stand. And it probably is.

I sip the wine and allow the rich berry taste to swirl around on my tongue while Damion watches me with keen attention. “I like it,” I say. “It’s very good.”

Satisfaction fills his handsome face. “I’m glad you do.”

“Are you as adept at the ins and outs of whiskey, too? I’d think that would be so very Wall Street.”

“Hell, yes, I am. I’m a scotch guy myself, but I know a good bit about whatever you can throw at me in a bottle, as does most everyone in my father’s world.”

“Your father’s world?” I query, shifting around to face him. “Isn’t it your world as well?”

“Not yet,” he says. “But that’ll change. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’re still not getting along,” I state, and it’s not a question. There has always been tension between the two of them. His father pushed him to be just like him. Damion wanted—wants—to be his own person.

“We get along. We just don’t agree on everything, and thankfully plenty of the board members like the idea of young blood. It forces my father to actually listen when I speak.” He dismisses the topic and shifts the conversation back to me. “What about you? What kind of law do you want to practice?”

“Real estate. My parents don’t understand the value that can bring to the business, but they will.”

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