Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

of an angel. Instead of robes, he wore a pair of track pants slung low on his hips and a wicked smirk.

I’m totally okay with just having a shirt if it means he never has one.

His gaze traveled lazily up my body before Alexander closed the distance between us and cupped my face in his hands. Taking my mouth in a kiss that was far from holy, I thought he was going to take me back to bed.

I hoped he would.

Unfortunately, he pulled away and took my hand. “Let’s get you fed.”

Since I was surprisingly hungry, I didn’t argue and walked with him, nosily checking out more of the house as we went. When we reached the kitchen, the smell of coffee and something else hit me.

Herbal tea.

My herbal tea.

The only kind I liked.

And since Alexander didn’t strike me as a tea guy, that meant he’d bought it and made it for me.

Kinda presumptuous to assume I’d spend the night.

But also not wrong, sooo…

After parking my ass on the counter, he fixed me tea and himself a coffee before asking, “Toast or something more?”

Since I’d overindulged in tacos the night before, I said, “Toast is fine.”

Except instead of the whole grain, whole wheat, whole lotta tasteless nothing bread I used, he pulled out a loaf of thick, crusty bread. He popped a few slices into a toaster before turning back to me. “What do you want to do today?”

I picked at nonexistent lint on my sleeve. “Since I’m guessing a bus doesn’t come out this way, I figured you’d drive me home.”

“Do you have work today?”

“No, but—”

“Then no.” Arms crossed, his body was rigid and his expression firm, waiting for me to argue with him.

Daring me to.

I was tempted.

Partially because this felt like too much, too soon.

Partially because I liked how much he wanted me there. It didn’t make me a good person that I allowed it to feed my ego, but whatever. I’d had a lifetime of being unwanted, used, and neglected. I deserved a teensy, tiny boost.

Mostly, though, I just liked messing with him. Our back and forth filled me with almost as much giddiness as his attention.

But since it was too early to banter, and I was too tired and too happy to think about it being too much, I ignored all the toos and shrugged. “What do you usually do on Sundays?”

“Work.” Before I could speak, he gripped my thighs and rushed on. “Don’t even think about it. I work because I have nothing better to do. Today I do.”

The you went unspoken, but the firmness in his hold and the arousal between my thighs was proof we were both thinking it.

Pop!

I jolted when the toast sprang up, interrupting our moment and killing the mood. “Don’t say a word.”

He held his hands up. “I didn’t.”

“Your smile did.”

He officially lost the fight against it, and his smirk grew into a grin. “My smile seems to talk to you a lot.”

“Yeah, it says you’re an ass.” I reached for my mug but my progress was thwarted when Alexander gripped my wrist.

All traces of amusement were gone from his expression. “Your hand is shaking.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“Why?”

“A variety of reasons,” I evaded, feeling silly.

“Why right now?”

“I told you before, I don’t like being startled.”

He brought my hand up and kissed my palm, but thankfully didn’t tell me I was an idiot.

Though I was.

Releasing my hand, he went to the fridge. “Grape jelly?”

“Ew.”

“Strawberry it is.” He pulled out jelly and butter before grabbing two plates and two knives.

“I eat mine dry.”

Slathering on so much butter, it might as well have been a tub of movie theater popcorn, he said, “Not today. You’ll need your energy.” Then he looked over his shoulder and winked.

Badly.

“That was so corny,” I said through my laughter.

Yet still hot.

He fixed his own with somehow even more butter before coming close. Rather than handing one to me, he set them both down and moved to stand between my legs with his arms on either side of me. Caging me in. It became obvious why when he spoke. “I’ve got an extra toothbrush, and I like you in my clothes. But do you need to run home for any meds?”

The appetite I’d grown thanks to the buttery, crusty bread disappeared as my stomach dropped.

It was stupid to be so self-conscious about my mental health. It wasn’t like he’d magically forgotten who I was, where we’d met, or that I was all sorts of messed up.

The thing was, I forgot when I was with him. He didn’t treat me like I was a freak. Or, even worse, like I was a ticking time bomb. He didn’t watch what he said or brace after every word or use my issues to gaslight me and discount my feelings.

My face burned as I shook my head.

“I don’t mind. We can pick up milkshakes on the way back.”

“I don’t take any meds.”

He didn’t look shocked, nor did he try to tell me I needed them. He didn’t mansplain my illness. And he didn’t earn himself a swift kick in the junk by telling me it was good I was unmedicated and that I could fix all my problems by being positive, getting fresh air, or—worst of all—relaxing.

Instead, he handed me my plate and asked, “What do you think about watching movies today?”

“Sounds perfect.” Picking up my toast, I bit into the buttery, salty, crusty sweetness.

Way better than the cardboard shit I buy.

Practically inhaling the whole piece, I ignored my mother’s voice lecturing me about how many carbs and calories I’d just ingested. Then, for some insane reason, I shared without being forced. “Before my parents died, they’d ship me off to these,” I lifted my hands to do air quotes, “wellness spas. Because, you know, spa sounds so much better to rich clientele than mental health facility or rehab. And since their rich clientele’s bank accounts were more important than their wellbeing, they’d prescribe medication like it was Pez and call it a