Zara didn't realize she was shaking until her knuckles brushed the hotel suite doorframe. Dampness from the rain trickled down her spine, pooling at the small of her back beneath her blouse.
Damon stood in front of her like a shadow carved into something solid tall, still, too calm for the storm he carried in his chest.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The rain drummed quietly against the windows.
London hummed far below the penthouse level.
Her heart thrashed painfully against her ribs.
And Damon…
Damon looked at her like she was the first breath after drowning.
He stepped back.
Not to let her go.
But to let her in.
Zara entered the suite slowly, the scent of cedar and bergamot washing over her. Damon closed the door silently.
She was inside.
With him.
Alone.
By choice.
A choice that scared her more than anything in her adult life.
Zara turned toward him, breath unsteady.
"Damon," she whispered. "This is a mistake."
He took a step toward her.
"I know."
Another step.
"But it feels inevitable."
Her chest rose.
"Nothing is inevitable."
His voice dropped to a low, almost reverent murmur.
"You are."
Her fingers curled at her sides.
She hated how easily he shook her.
Her voice cracked. "We can't keep doing this."
He stopped in front of her.
Not touching.
Not yet.
His presence swallowed the space between them.
"We haven't done anything," he said gently. "Not yet."
Her pulse spiked.
He reached up slowly, pausing an inch from her cheek.
"May I?" he murmured.
Zara swallowed hard.
She nodded.
His thumb brushed a raindrop from her skin.
Zara's eyes fluttered closed despite herself.
She felt him exhale slow, shaky, uneven like the touch hurt him in ways he couldn't hide.
"Come here," he whispered.
The sound of it unwound something tight in her chest.
She leaned forward before she could think.
And Damon caught her gently by the waist, pulling her in as though he'd been waiting hours for the privilege.
Her palms rested on his chest warm, solid, too steady for the chaos between them.
They stood like that for a long moment, breathing the same air.
Damon whispered, "If I touch you any more than this, I won't stop."
Zara looked up at him.
Rain glittered along her jawline.
Her lips were parted.
Her eyes were dark and unguarded.
She whispered: "I don't want you to stop."
Something in him broke.
Damon kissed her.
This kiss wasn't desperate like the one in the bar.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't frantic.
It was slow.
Intentional.
A claiming without force.
A surrender without fear.
He cupped her jaw with both hands, tilting her mouth toward his, kissing her deeply, fully, with a control that trembled around the edges.
Zara made a soft sound in the back of her throat.
Damon inhaled sharply.
That sound undid him.
He kissed her harder, one hand sliding down to the curve of her waist, gripping gently but firmly, pulling her closer.
Her hands clutched his shirt, fingertips brushing the warmth beneath the fabric.
Her knees weakened.
He caught her.
She melted into him.
The world blurred.
London disappeared.
Everything narrowed to lips, breath, heat.
When they finally broke apart, Damon was breathing like he'd run a marathon.
Zara touched her lips, dazed.
He rested his forehead against hers.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She shook her head.
"Zara…" he breathed.
"If you stop," she whispered, "I'll hate you."
Damon's breath stuttered.
He touched her face again, voice breaking.
"You're dangerous."
"So are you."
Their chests pressed together.
Their breaths tangled.
And the kiss that followed was even softer.
Even slower.
Even more sinful.
He didn't drag her.
He didn't push.
He simply kissed her again slow, deep, reverent and she found herself following his backward steps as he guided her toward the bedroom.
Her mind screamed warnings.
Her body didn't care.
By the time her back brushed the bedroom doorway, she was trembling.
Damon stopped.
His breathing was ragged.
"Zara… look at me."
She did.
And what she saw destroyed her.
This wasn't arrogance.
This wasn't dominance.
This wasn't calculated need.
This was a man terrified.
Terrified of how much he wanted her.
Terrified of losing control.
Terrified of the way she made him feel.
He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"This is not something I do," he murmured. "I don't bring women here. I don't invite them into my space. I don't…"
His voice broke.
"I don't feel like this."
Zara's knees weakened.
She cupped his jaw before she could stop herself.
Her thumb brushed his cheek.
He leaned into her touch like a man starved.
"Damon," she whispered, "then let's not call this anything."
He closed his eyes.
"That's not possible."
Her breath hitched.
He opened his eyes again.
"If you walk into that room with me," he whispered, "it won't be meaningless."
Lightning cracked across her spine.
Her voice shook. "Damon…"
He touched her chin, lifting her gaze.
"I need to know," he whispered. "Before we cross that line. Do you want this?"
Zara swallowed.
The truth rose from deep inside her.
Raw.
Soft.
Uncontrollable.
"Yes," she whispered. "I want this."
She took his hand.
And stepped into the bedroom.
Inside, the room was dim only the city lights spilling through the curtains.
Damon didn't touch her immediately.
He stood behind her.
Close enough for her to feel his warmth.
Far enough to give her control.
He lifted his hand slowly fingertips grazing her shoulder blade.
Her breath trembled.
He moved closer chest to her back, his breath warm against her ear.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
"Zara."
Her name left him like a prayer.
He slid his hands up her arms.
Slow.
Reverent.
Barely touching.
Every inch of her body tingled.
He turned her gently to face him.
"Let me see you," he whispered.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
But she nodded.
He unbuttoned her blouse slowly, giving her every second to stop him.
He stopped between each button, searching her eyes.
"Is this okay?" he murmured.
She swallowed.
"Yes."
He continued.
The intimacy wasn't sexual.
It was worship.
It was trust.
Terrifying, tender trust.
When the blouse fell open, Damon's breath caught.
He didn't pull.
Didn't tear.
Didn't rush.
He brushed her collarbone with a feather-light touch, his thumb tracing the shape of her.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.
Her eyes stung.
No man had ever said it like that.
Not with desire.
Not with reverence.
Not with vulnerability.
He leaned down, kissing her collarbone slowly, softly, reverently.
Her hands slid into his hair.
He shuddered.
He kissed her neck next slow, warm, lingering.
Her knees trembled.
He caught her waist again, pulling her closer, whispering against her skin:
"Tell me if I'm going too far."
"You're not."
He kissed her throat.
"Now?"
No response from her.
Only trembling.
He lifted his head.
"Saying nothing means yes," he whispered.
And she whispered:
"Yes."
He lifted her gently not throwing her, not devouring her but lifting her as though she weighed nothing and laying her on the bed with a care so precise it made her ache.
He hovered over her, breath shallow.
Her fingers slid along his jaw.
He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.
"Zara," he whispered, "I don't know how to be gentle with anything except you."
Her chest tightened.
"Then don't be gentle," she breathed.
He opened his eyes dark, molten, starving.
But he still whispered:
"No."
She blinked.
He kissed her again slow, deep, consuming without hurting, hungry without losing control.
She tasted rain on his lips.
He tasted fear on hers.
He pulled back, voice breaking.
"I want you," he whispered.
"I know."
"But I want you like this first."
Her breath stilled.
"Like what?"
He rested his forehead against hers.
"Where you can feel everything I'm not saying."
Something inside her cracked open.
He kissed her shoulder.
Her throat.
Her jaw.
Her lips again, softer this time.
The night unfolded slowly with restraint, desire, tangled limbs, soft moans, whispered names, warm hands, trembling breaths.
Nothing explicit.
Everything intimate.
They didn't rush.
They savored.
Explored.
Sank into each other like warmth after years of cold.
For hours, they existed only in touch, breath, whispers, and the heat between them.
They didn't make love.
Not yet.
But what they did was deeper than that.
It was the kind of intimacy that ruins people.
The kind that changes them.
The kind that can never be undone.
Around 3 a.m., Damon lay behind her, one arm around her waist, his face buried in her shoulder as though trying to memorize her scent.
Zara lay awake.
Listening to his breathing.
Feeling his heartbeat against her spine.
Terrified of what this meant.
He whispered into her hair:
"Are you okay?"
She nodded.
He tightened his arm around her.
"Zara."
She turned her head slightly.
His lips brushed her ear.
"I've never had someone stay," he whispered.
Her chest hurt.
"I've never stayed before," she whispered back.
He exhaled a shaky breath against her skin.
"Don't leave yet."
She stiffened.
Because she wanted to.
Because she didn't want to.
She whispered: "I won't."
His breath eased.
He kissed her shoulder once softly and fell asleep with his arm wrapped around her like he was anchoring himself.
Zara stared into the darkness.
She whispered: "This is going to destroy me."
But she didn't move.
And she didn't leave.