I’m breathing hard when we break apart, my lips bruised and tingling, my body burning. I want to turn around and go back to the hotel. I want to strip off my clothes and feel his hands on me, his cock inside me. I want it wild. Raw. Pain and pleasure so intense I get lost in them. Passion so violent it breaks me. And Damien—always Damien—right there to put me back together again.
I want, but I can’t have. Not yet. Because whatever else is going on, I’ve come to this neighborhood with a purpose, and if I back away now, I may not have the strength to return.
And so as Damien holds me close, I press my cheek against his shoulder and sigh, letting the moment linger. Then I tilt my head up to see his face. Damien doesn’t keep secrets from me—not anymore—and I expect him to tell me what the phone call was about. But he says nothing, and my stomach twists miserably. Because I understand Damien well enough to know that the only reason he’ll hold back is to protect me. And right now, he’s doing his damnedest to protect me from the emotional hell of this trip.
“Damien?”
He clasps his hand around mine, then kisses my fingertips. “I’m sorry. This is our time. Your time. I wouldn’t have called back, except—”
“I get it. Really.” And I do. I understand why he returned the call. And I understand that this apology is his way of telling me that he’s not saying a word about it. Not now. Not until we’ve seen my mother.
“We should get going,” I say.
For a moment, he holds my gaze, as if trying to measure whether I’m truly game-ready. Then he nods and glances down at the phone. “Are you sure you don’t want to call her first?”
“No. Let’s just go.” What I don’t say—but I’m sure Damien understands—is that there’s a certain amount of appeal in the element of surprise. For once, maybe I’ll have the upper hand. And the fact that Damien will be standing on her threshold with me is a bonus. I flash a small but very genuine grin. “I think you intimidate her,” I say.
“Me?” His smile is wide and boyish. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Mmm,” I say. “Okay, onward.” I gesture regally, indicating he should pull back onto the road. He’d stopped in front of one of the stately homes just a few blocks away from Highland Park Village, one of the ritzier shopping areas in the country, and a place with which I’m very familiar, as I’m pretty sure my mother bought everything from designer diapers to ball gowns for both Ashley and me in the center’s boutiques.
But despite the society page sheen of this Dallas enclave, a Phantom stands out. Especially this fully restored beauty.
“The neighbors are jealous,” I say, nodding toward two women openly gawking at the car as they jog. “They’re wondering who’s moving into the neighborhood with more money than they have.”
Damien brushes off the comment. “It’s not the price that intrigues them,” he says. “It’s the beauty. The craftsmanship. The restoration. This is a neighborhood that thrives on appearances,” he adds, nodding to his right and the line of elegant homes we are passing. Then he glances to his left, his eyes roaming slowly over me. “And this car—and the woman in it—are two things of pure beauty.”
My cheeks warm. “I’ll agree with you on the car,” I say modestly, though I can’t deny that the compliment pleases me. “But I think they’re mostly fascinated with the man behind the wheel—and the fact that he’s on the right side of the car.”
It’s odd being on the driver’s side and not doing the driving, but this 1967 Phantom V limo is as British as they come, having once been a formal British royal family touring limousine.
No wonder I feel like a fairy tale princess.
We’d come to Dallas for my work, but when Damien had learned about the trip, he’d made an appointment to see a retired aerospace engineer he’d once met at a classic car show whose hobby-turned-second-career is restoring Bentleys and Rolls Royces to mint condition. We’d gone straight to his home in North Dallas after arriving, and Damien had spent two hours in a state of bliss talking about this Phantom.
“How much?” Damien had asked, after he’d inspected the limo throughly, commenting on the brilliant design and mechanical prowess with the kind of rapture with which most people speak of movie stars. I couldn’t deny that he was right about the car’s beauty and uniqueness. It’s painted a typical black, but the sheen is such that every angle and curve is set off to perfect advantage. And the interior is as elegant as a palace, the wood carved and polished to perfection, the leather seats soft and supple. The car is rare, too, as apparently only five hundred and sixteen of this particular model were made.