Despite the late hour on a Sunday, the Jahreszeiten Bar is bustling. A woman stands by the piano softly singing to the gathered crowd. I barely pay her any heed. I don’t expect to find Damien among the listeners.
Instead, I wander through the wood and red leather interior, shaking off the help of a waiter who wants to seat me. I pause for a moment, standing idly beside a blonde woman about my age who is sipping champagne and laughing with a man who might be her father, but I’m betting is not. I turn slowly, taking in the room around me. Damien is not with the group at the piano, nor is he sitting at the bar. And he does not occupy any of the red leather chairs that are evenly spaced around the tables.
I’m starting to worry that perhaps he was leaving as I was coming when I remember the fireplace. The last time we came down here, we drank Glenfiddich and talked about all the things we were going to do when we returned to Los Angeles. But tonight, I see no fireplace.
I move to the left and realize that what I thought was a solid wall was actually an optical illusion created by a pillar. Now I can see the rest of the room, including the flames leaping in the fireplace set into the opposite wall. There is a small loveseat and two chairs surrounding the hearth. And, yes, there is Damien.
I immediately exhale, my relief so intense I almost use the blonde’s shoulder to steady myself. He is seated in one of the chairs, his back to me and the rest of the room as he faces the flames. His shoulders are broad and straight, and more than capable of bearing the weight of the world upon them. I wish, however, that they didn’t have to.
I move toward him, the sound of my approach muffled by both the thick carpet and the din of conversation. I pause a few feet behind him, already feeling the familiar pull I experience whenever I am near Damien, as if he is a magnet and I am inexorably drawn to him. Across the room, the singer is now crooning Since I Fell For You, her voice cutting sharp and clear across the room, as if she is serenading Damien and me alone. Her voice is so mournful that I’m afraid it is going to unleash a flood of tears along with all of the stress of the last few days.
No. I’m here to comfort Damien, not the other way around, and I continue toward him with renewed resolve. I press my hand to his shoulder, and bend down, my lips brushing his ear. “Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?”
I hear rather than see his answering smile. “That depends on who’s asking.” He doesn’t turn to face me, but he lifts his arm so that his hand is held up in a silent invitation. I close my hand in his, and he guides me gently around the chair until I am standing in front of him. I know every line of this man’s face. Every angle, every curve. I know his lips, his expressions. I can close my own eyes and picture his, dark with desire, bright with laughter. I have only to look at his midnight-colored hair to imagine the soft, thick locks between my fingers. There is nothing about him that is not intimately familiar to me, and yet every glance at him hits me like a shock, reverberating through me with enough power to knock me to my knees.
Empirically, he is gorgeous. But it is not simply his looks that overwhelm. It is the whole package. The power, the confidence, the bone-deep sensuality that he couldn’t shake even if he tried.
He is exceptional. And he is mine.
“Damien,” I whisper, because I can’t wait any longer to feel his name against my lips.
That wide, spectacular mouth curves into a slow smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He tugs my hand, pulling me onto his lap. His thighs are firm and athletic, and I settle there eagerly, but I don’t lean against him. I want to sit back enough that I can see his face.