His mouth was warm against yours, deliberate in the way it moved—like he had every intention of memorizing the shape of your lips, like each breath shared between you was another secret you weren’t ready to give voice to. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It never was with him. Damian wasn’t the kind of man to lose control without permission—he was calculated, composed, but tonight… tonight, his hands were everywhere.

They pressed firmly along your waist, fingers dragging upward beneath your shirt like he meant to map every inch by touch alone, like he could brand you into his memory by the sheer weight of his focus. And for a moment—just one glorious, breathless moment—you had all of him.

Until the phone rang.

A shrill vibration from the table just behind you, cutting through the dim light and the quiet gasp he’d just drawn from your throat. He stilled instantly, lips parting from yours with a silent tension that made your skin feel colder in the absence.

You watched the war behind his eyes. His jaw flexed.

“Don’t,” you murmured, fingers tightening slightly at his collar.

But he was already glancing over your shoulder.

“It could be patrol,” he muttered, though he didn’t move. Not yet. His hands were still on your hips, his breath still grazing your cheek, his voice just slightly uneven.

“It could be your trust fund,” you countered flatly. “Again.”

His brow twitched. His mouth opened like he might argue—but then his phone buzzed again, longer this time. The sound cut through the room like a knife, and with a soft curse under his breath in Arabic, he leaned back just enough to look. You swore you could feel the heat of his frustration.

“Damian—”

“I’ll be quick,” he said, brushing a kiss to your jaw in apology before pulling back.