Melt Into You (19 page)

Silence. Natasha looked up. “We’ve been through this before,” she joked. “When I ask that, you’re supposed to say—”

“I
do
want to change, you know.” Suddenly Damon was right there beside her. His body heat touched her; his arm brushed against hers as he moved his hand to stop her from serving the pizza. “I
do
feel humbled. But if everyone keeps expecting the worst of me,” Damon said in direct reference to her conversation with Amy, “why shouldn’t I just go ahead and live up to that?”

“I ...”
Sort of want you to be bad
, Natasha thought. When Damon stood this close to her, it was all she could think of. She could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. She could see the scar on his chin, minuscule but evident, from the cliff-diving adventure he’d had in Brontallo. She could feel the inescapable pull of his sex appeal, working to awaken every cell in her body. She wanted Damon to be bad, and she wanted to be bad right along with him. Right now. “I ... don’t know,” she managed to say.

Seeming dissatisfied by that, Damon briefly closed his eyes. Then he opened them again, fixing his gaze on her as though she was the loveliest sight he’d ever beheld. He lifted his hand to sweep a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek. Slowly, disappointingly, he made a fist.

“I still
feel
bad,” Damon told her. “I still want to do everything that’s wrong for me. I want to stay up late. I want to knock back Ketel One straight from the bottle.” He let his gaze roam over Natasha’s face again. “I want to kiss you.”

She couldn’t even breathe. With all her energy, she wanted that, too. She could almost feel his mouth on hers.

Helplessly, she looked at Damon’s lips. Without even meaning to, Natasha imagined how they’d feel sliding against hers. She imagined how warm his mouth would feel; how wet and gentle and then how hard and wet and how fast and how more, more,
more
... . With a start, she lifted her gaze to Damon’s eyes, hoping to glimpse some lucidity there, but that didn’t help.

She could tell
he
was imagining all the same things she was. Probably more. Probably in more explicit detail, too.

“You want to kiss me, too.” At the realization, he sounded awestruck. Again, Damon closed his eyes, but this time it was a gesture of frustration ... and need. “Damn, Natasha! How am I supposed to behave if you’re going to look at me like that?” He stepped away. “You’re one breath away from inviting me in.”

Shakily, she said, “I already invited you in.”

“I mean ...” He lowered his voice to a husky, seductive tone. “You know what I mean. I swear, if it wasn’t for Pacey—”

“Paul,” Natasha corrected automatically, and the sound of her ex-husband’s name was like a bucket of ice water on her libido. Okay, it was like one of those NyQuil medicine cups of ice water on her libido, but that was a start. It was quelling.

Damon was just like Paul, she told herself staunchly. He was self-centered and irresponsible. He was inevitably going to break her heart. He was going to take advantage of her. Again.

For Milo’s sake and her own, she had to resist him.

“But you know,” she heard herself say, “Paul’s not here—”

“Maybe not.” Damon grinned. With evident regret, he added, “But your husband has permanent residence ... right here.”

Lightly, he touched her breastbone.
In your heart
, came his unspoken words, and Natasha’s heartbeat hammered in response, seeming to prove his assertion. She wanted to grab Damon’s hand. She wanted to steer his palm lower to her breast. She wanted to push herself against him and give her hardened nipples all the stimulation they’d been asking for ever since she’d first encountered him on her porch. She wanted all that and more.

Damon couldn’t have been more wrong about her feelings for her ex. But Natasha couldn’t tell him that. She just ... couldn’t.

“And he has everything a man could want,” Damon said, still referring to Paul, “here with you. He knows you’re his. No woman could ever be more honest or more faithful than you, Tasha.”

Caught in her lie, Natasha squirmed. “Um, I try.”

“I know you do.” Damon smiled in obvious admiration. “That’s why I figure it’s safe, just this once, to get this thing out of my system. Don’t worry. It won’t take long.”

Before she could guess what he meant to do, Damon caught hold of her chin. He gently tipped up her face to his, cast another dizzyingly infatuated look at her—she
had
to be imagining that—then brought his mouth slowly to hers.

His kiss was the merest kiss, the barest contact, the most innocent and heartfelt kiss anyone had ever shared.

It was
sweet
, Natasha realized in astonishment when it was over with. Damon’s kiss was sweet. Which didn’t explain why she still felt some sort of electric current running through her body in response. It didn’t explain why she still felt like hurling him to the kitchen table and having her way with him.

“Well. That didn’t work,” Damon announced brightly. He seemed to be experiencing a similarly electric reaction. “It sounded so reasonable and mature, too. I thought if I kissed you, just that one time, I’d be over it.” He appeared perplexed. “I’m sorry, Natasha. I’ve never felt this way before.”

“What way?”

Damon frowned. “Insatiable,” he said. “Yet protective. It’s as if I want to rip off all your clothes ... then maybe iron them for you. I’m not even sure I could identify an iron. I’ve never used one. My housekeeper is devoted to them, though.” Damon shook his head as though to clear it. “I thought it was ordinary lustfulness making me obsess about kissing you.” He gave a helpless shrug, then grinned. “I guess it was ...
you
.”

Staring at him with her hand on her mouth, Natasha couldn’t say a thing. Damon seemed so abashed, so confused, so
nice
.

“Stop it, Damon,” she made herself say. “I can take a lot of things, but I can’t stand your being
nice
. It’s too weird.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m freaking myself out a little.”

“There you go again! Cut it out!”

Damon smiled. Given his recent bad luck, his smile should have lacked most or all of its usual appeal. It did not. At all.

“If only I could stop,” he said. “But I really like you.”

She liked him, too. She liked him in all kinds of ways.

Just looking at him, Natasha felt her belly do somersaults. Her thighs started tingling again. They’d never done that before today, and now they wouldn’t quit. Worst of all, her heart sort of ...
expanded
while she watched Damon looking at her. Was she actually buying into this Mr. Clean routine he was dishing out?

Yes, Natasha realized. Because while maybe she could resist Damon’s overt sexual advances, she could
never
resist his hidden sweetness. She hadn’t even known he’d possessed sweetness.

Now it seemed like a perfectly natural fit for him.

“You’re being wholesome,” she accused, trying to glower at him ... and probably failing. “What is wrong with you?”

“I could be bad instead,” Damon offered helpfully. “You know I think being bad is underrated. It’s actually a lot of fun.” He let his gaze travel suggestively lower, to the tinglier parts of her, south of her neckline. “Would you like that?”

Yes
. “I’m going to serve the pizza,” Natasha announced.

“You didn’t answer me,” Damon pushed. He gave her a long, inscrutable, uncomfortably perceptive look. “I know you feel the same thing I do. Is there something you’re not telling me about your marriage? About Pacey? Is there something I should know?”

Damn it. She hadn’t expected him to pick up on that so soon. “We like our pizza without cheese,” she blurted, putting a slice on a plate and then shoving it at him. “Here’s yours!”

Amazingly, her diversion worked. In spite of everything that had just happened between them, Damon reacted the same way everyone did when they ate pizza at the Jennings household.

Damon lowered his brows distractedly. He looked at his pizza, then did a double take. “This pizza is naked.”

“No, it’s not. It’s got tomato sauce and veggies and herbs—the works! Plus, this pizzeria’s house-made gluten-free crust is really delicious.”

“It looks so ...” Damon squinted. “
Vulnerable
. Why would you ...” He broke off, seeming perplexed. “This isn’t ... I’m not sure ...”

Mission accomplished
. Natasha couldn’t help smiling. For once she’d outwitted Damon Torrance.

With cheese-free pizza, of all things.

Later, she’d brief Damon on all the precautions necessary to manage Milo’s food sensitivities. If he was going to stay there awhile, he’d need to know those details. She didn’t want him inadvertently offering her son a Twinkie. But until that time came ...

“Just eat it.” Natasha chose a slice for Milo, then plated another slice for herself. “You’ll need your strength for when
I
take you on in
Donkey Kong Country
later. Because I
rock
as DK.”

Then, as Damon goggled at her, Natasha called Milo to the table. She bit into her perfectly tasty pizza. She grinned anew.

When it came to Damon, she might be at a disadvantage, Natasha told herself. But so far, she was holding her own.

And that was a very good sign.

It was curiously quiet when Natasha woke up the next morning. There were no cartoons screeching in the living room. There were no video game sound effects blaring. There weren’t even any ordinary, everyday sounds like water running for tooth brushing or cereal bowls being filled in the kitchen.

There
were
unusual smells in the air. From her bed, Natasha sniffed. She detected the intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sharp tang of recently cut grass, and—just barely noticeable—the masculine spiciness of Speed Stick deodorant.

Damon
. It all came rushing back to her. Seeing him the day before. Turning him away. Seeing him again. Inviting him to stay with her. Fibbing to him about her ex-husband, nearly making out with him in her kitchen, and playing
Donkey Kong
with him.

After that, it had been bedtime. After their usual routine, Natasha had tucked in Milo. Her son had begged Damon to read him
If I Ran the Circus
, his favorite Dr. Seuss book. Damon had complied, complete with goofy gestures and silly baritone voices.

Natasha had stupidly fallen a little bit in love with him.

She’d offered him her bed (
without
her in it). He’d refused. She’d made up the sofa with sheets and a blanket and a pillow, given Damon some pain reliever for his ankle, then taken herself to bed. Doing so hadn’t stopped her from contemplating what—if anything—Damon wore to bed. But getting up and sneaking out to find him sprawled unconscious in just a pair of short black boxer briefs had assuaged her curiosity pretty thoroughly.

Remembering that midnight adventure, Natasha pulled up her covers. She rolled over, then moaned.
What
was the matter with her?
Spying
on Damon? He was her houseguest. He was vulnerable and desperate and in trouble. He was alone and trusting and (unexpectedly) kind. He didn’t need to be gawked at right now.

But she simply hadn’t been able to help it—and the reality had been even better than her fantasies. Those black boxer briefs had fit Damon’s backside to perfection, cupping each ass cheek like an affectionate lover’s hands. If famous haberdashers in London made bespoke underwear, Natasha knew, it would look like Damon’s. If Calvin Klein models looked as good as Damon did in their skivvies, they’d skip the billboards (and their pants).

If all men looked like Damon did in their underwear, clothes would be illegal, and no one would get any work done.

Even as she wistfully contemplated her illicit view of him—even as she hoped, wickedly, that tonight Damon would fall asleep on his back so she could sneak a full-frontal view—Natasha became aware of something else. Something alarming.

It was bright outside.
Really
bright outside.

It was, roughly, 11 a.m.-bright outside.

She’d overslept
.

Milo
! Panicking at the thought that she’d accidentally left her eight-year-old son to fend for himself for an entire morning, Natasha leaped from her bed. She dragged on her jeans from the day before, halfway tucked in her sleep shirt to more convincingly pretend it was a real T-shirt, then bolted.

If she found Damon teaching Milo to play poker, shoot craps, or pick up women as his second “lesson,” all hell was going to break loose between them ... and that was a promise.

Chapter 15

When the screen door slammed at the back of Natasha’s apartment, Damon didn’t think much of it.

He’d been outside in her small, grassy yard for a while now. If there was one thing he’d learned about suburbia, it was that the place had its share of unexpected noises. Cars puttered past. Children whooped in their yards. Dog walkers, runners, and groups of stroller-pushing, power-walking mothers passed by.