3 Decisions - 1

Date = 5 September

A whole year since I last saw her face-to-face. I, Damion Grimm, am 20 years old. Almost 21.

Place = San Francisco (Uncle John’s house)

POV - Damion

Shit.

She’s even prettier than I remember — which shouldn’t be possible, yet here we are.

My eyes find her the way they always do. Instinct. Muscle memory.

She’s only a few meters away, wedged between her uncle and Kiara, and somehow still manages to own the entire room. Distressed jeggings hug those runner’s legs like they were tailored by a man who worships thighs.

Combined with a barely-not-see-through, dirty-pink, off-the-shoulder top, slipping just enough to hint at black lace and trouble. Not loud. Not desperate. Just … dangerous.

The bra flatters her C-cup cleavage, demanding that I stand up and pay fucking attention.

I shift my weight, jaw tight, reminding my body that this is a party — my best friend’s party. And she is his little sister.

Fuck.

The reminder does nothing. Blood is already misbehaving, flooding to a part south of my navel, and I seriously try to reprimand my cock to stand down before I run out of dignity.

This girl is making it fucking hard not to act on my impulses. Very fucking hard.

Her hair is loose tonight. Soft curls spilling down her back, reaching that tight, hot-as-fuck ass, catching the light — sun-washed blonde threaded with golden honey and ash, all married together.

Jackson looks up from across the room — one side of his lip curls up into an annoying smile like a man who smells blood. I know that smile. Fuck. He’s been keeping an eye on me since he caught me that day with his sister.

Got me back in line. Following the rules.

Enrique breezes past with a redhead draped over his arm, all legs and confidence. Of course. He’s always had a thing for gingers.

I’m a blonde man myself. Actually, since the haunted house incident, I’ve secretly been a one-blonde man.

“Looking good, people!” he calls.

Kiara eyes the girl. “Who’s the flavor of the day?”

Mel shrugs, unimpressed. “No idea. I stopped learning names years ago.” Her mouth pulls into a judgmental smirk.

I bite back a smile. God help me, I’ve missed her mouth.

“So where’s this Ren?” Uncle John joins in.

That name hits wrong. Sour. My face twists before I can stop it.

He’s something I need to rectify asap. One way or another. Because she’s mine.

“He’s going to be a little late cause he’s picking up some friends after work.” Casual. Dismissive. Like she hasn’t noticed my spine stiffen.

“And what work does he do?” her uncle continues.

She shrugs her shoulders. “He helps out with his father’s import and export business.”

Those parrot-blue eyes lift. Clear. Brutal. Straight to the gut.

And my little man wants to do the hula.

And not being with a girl for what seems like forever doesn’t help my case.

Those windows to her soul display a mother-load of paradoxes — it’s as if the girl is in a constant battle with herself whenever I’m around. Love and hate — both intense emotions directed at me. Ambivalence.

There it is — that hitch in her breath she thinks no one notices. Goosebumps rising like a confession. Her pulse flickering at her throat. The shitty expression in her eyes.

She schools her face into annoyance, but it’s too late.

I read her like a fucking comic book. Always have.

She’s angry. She’s guarded. But … she’s not immune.

Neither am I.

Liking me is not the problem. Forgiveness — that’s the real battlefield.

Trust too. I’ll need both, and I know it won’t come cheap.

And it’s all my fault. I’ve damaged her. Broke her trust. Maybe her heart.

I smile anyway. Slow. Intentional.

A deflection to draw attention away from my feral intentions.

I clench my hands in fists next to my body and bite my jaw — everything not to grab her and kiss those sinful pink lips. To move my hands underneath that shirt, into those pants, and explore that warm part of her I always dream about. Erotic steaming wet dreams that leave me breathless for hours. Every fucking time.

Oh, I want her so badly … to satisfy this desperate craving she created in me.

Maybe fucking her will break the spell she holds over me.

My dick stirs … so I take a deep breath and wink at her.

She mutters a curse under her breath, a little ungirly swear word — starting with a C, and naming the place heating up right now that I want to taste — before she clamps a hand over her mouth, cheeks flaring pink. Kiara and her uncle stare like they just witnessed a glitch in the matrix.

Worth it.

“Sorry, it slipped out,” she apologizes while glaring at me with heated eyes. I swear she’s strangling me in her mind.

Kinky. I can work with that.

I register a touch somewhere in the distance, but my brain is currently offline — busy running a very inappropriate slideshow starring only her. Multitasking, at this point, is a lost cause. Because all available brainpower has been rerouted south, where critical thinking goes to die.

She breaks the passionate lock between our eyes. I’m sure a moment of heartbreak illuminates in those baby-blues — crashing my one-track loop of filthy thoughts and faulty blood circulation. But it’s hard to be sure when all logic has evacuated the premises.

Still … somewhere in my poised mind, I figure I am to blame for her sadness again, as my brain slowly starts to function back to normality.

Then she turns away.

That … that always hurts. Her walking away from me is a rather familiar sight. She always runs first. It’s become our dance. And yeah, the view of her sexy ass doesn’t exactly make it easier to let her go.