Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Especially as Damon’s hands wrapped around his, the pads of his fingers brushing the sensitive centers of Rian’s palms, holding them away from his face while Damon studied him with an intense scrutiny that left everything around them whited out into a dull roar of blank empty noise.
“No blood,” Damon murmured. He was so close his voice was a tangible thing, a rumbling vibrating against the burning-hot skin of Rian’s cheeks. “Feel broken?”
Rian couldn’t find his voice.
It felt too big for his throat, and stuck there trying to get out in—in—words, a cry, something else, he didn’t know.
So he only shook his head numbly, never taking his eyes off Damon.
Who smiled.
Just a small thing, but his mouth was so full and rich that all it took was that slightest curve to soften it into something warm and enticing, easy and casual and full of reassurance.
“Then you’ll be fine,” Damon said. “Just a little banged up.”
“Oh,” Rian managed to squeak out faintly, his fingers twitching helplessly. “Okay.”
Damon said nothing. His smile faded like sunset slipping away to twilight, leaving only the darkness of his eyes fixed on Rian with a penetrating and yet utterly unreadable scrutiny. Rian couldn’t tell what he was thinking; couldn’t figure out why Damon was still holding on to his hands this way; why Damon was so close, or why Rian... Rian...
Rian couldn’t stop the way his pulse roared and his body tingled, as he caught that darkly heady thread of Damon’s scent filling the space between them.
He didn’t know how to break this.
Didn’t know how to stop it, how to stop himself from pulling in when he’d never realized just how starved he was for warmth until Damon was burning him up just from standing so close, just from—
So close.
How had Rian gotten so close, until they were eye to eye, almost nose to nose?
Sucking in a breath, the rush of oxygen a cool wash pouring over his brain and clearing away the heated fog, Rian jerked back, pulling his hands loose from Damon’s and just staring at him, struggling to get the tumble and pour and scream of his blood under control.
“Th-thanks,” he whispered.
Damon’s brows knit; he straightened, his hands falling, as he looked at Rian as if he’d never seen him before. That warmth vanished, leaving that cold stare Rian had seen the day before, when Damon had come barging into his studio like he belonged there.
Before Damon turned his back on him, giving him the wide breadth of his shoulders, the hard jut of his shoulder blades against his shirt, the taper of that broad back down to the flat-cut, straight lines of his waist disappearing into a pair of track pants.
“Football practice,” Damon threw curtly over his shoulder. “My room. Two hours.”
Rian’s confusion ignited in an instant, burning up into ash and leaving only a sparking, biting simmer of irritation in its wake; he planted his hands to his hips, glaring at the back of Damon’s head.
“Excuse you? I’m not going to—”
“For Chris.” Damon cut him off quietly, but no less firmly, cool withdrawal smothering the burn of Rian’s temper. “We’ll talk about him then.”
Chapter Four
...there is something seriously wrong with you right now, Louis.
Damon stepped out of the shower in his studio suite, wrapping one towel around his waist and dragging another through his wet hair; he still felt overheated after showering off the sweat of running obstacles with the boys in practice, and not even the chill of the autumn evening seeping in through the window over his bed could do much more than make the lingering water on his skin feel too tight, drawing him in until he was bursting and seething in his own skin.
He felt like he’d been about to explode since yesterday.
And facing down with fucking Rian Falwell.
Damon still hadn’t been able to stop thinking about flashing, tawny eyes. The pouty, petulant way Rian always glared at him; the soft, almost sensuous way he sulked, like it was just a way to draw attention to that pale little mouth. The way his temper flared and went out just as quickly, flash in the pan and then gone. The quiet self-loathing that lived behind the mask of his surface smiles.
And the sheer audacity of throwing a goddamned balled-up paper towel in Damon’s face.
He caught himself cracking a smile at that thought, and forced it down.
Nah. Nope.
Rian was a pain in his goddamned ass.
They’d talk things over about Chris, share any new information, figure out what to do next, and maybe just...just...
Decide to walk the fuck away from this.
Before they got in another petty little snarling snipe fight, when the constant picking and snipping between them was starting to ride up Damon’s ass in the worst way.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, then stepped into a pair of boxer-briefs and jeans, hefting the black denim up over his hips before shrugging on a loose, comfortable black button-down that wouldn’t show the water stains from his still-dripping hair, the fabric so worn it had the texture of thin felt.