They stood there. Two storms, caged within a space far too narrow.
Nayla didn’t move. Her breath caught. Her fingers clenched the towel tighter the moment Damian rose from his seat, leaving behind the faintly glowing ember of a cigarette in the ashtray.
His steps were slow, but steady. Both hands tucked neatly into his trouser pockets. And yet, in the calm of his gesture and the darkness of his gaze, Damian already seemed to know how to wrap her body in possession with no permission needed.
His lips remained sealed. But no matter how tightly they stayed shut, he looked as though he’d already devoured every inch of Nayla’s skin.
His gaze dropped, tracing the beads of water still decorating her collarbone. Then it lingered, admiring the delicate curve of her waist. And finally, her long
