“You say the sexiest things,” he said, and gently sank his teeth into her earlobe.
She shivered and clutched at him. “You’re the first man to tell me that. Most would rather I not talk during sex.” She grimaced. “And by most, I don’t mean there’ve been lots or anything. There haven’t. Two. There’ve been two.”
He went still as she dropped her head to his shoulder. “I swear I’m trying to shut up,” she said. “But I have one more thing.”
He was still processing the fact that any man would ever ask her not to talk. He loved to hear her talk. And what did she mean there’d only been two . . . Two total? “What?” he asked, still trying to do the math—impossible since all his blood had drained to parts south.
She lifted her head and took his gaze prisoner with her own deep green one. “Do best men carry condoms?” she asked.
“Always.”
Her smile was the sweetest, hottest thing he’d ever seen, and his heart squeezed again. She’d been with only two men, and they’d asked her not to talk during sex. She knew that faking an orgasm burned more calories than a real orgasm . . .
Grif had promised himself to keep his hands off of her because she was vulnerable, but he was beginning to suspect he was the vulnerable one here. Vulnerable to her. Because he wanted to gather her in and make things right, show her that talking during sex could be erotic as hell. Teach her that there was no need to fake anything.
Ever.
Before he could say a word, she cupped his face with her hands and pulled him to her. Instead of kissing his lips, she leaned in and kissed the top edge of the scar on his temple. She followed the length of it with warm little devastating kisses. And she didn’t stop there. She kissed his jaw next, working her way slowly, so slowly it was torture, toward his mouth.
And then skipped it and went to the other side of his face. When she got to his ear, he found himself holding his breath.
Not her. She let a soft sigh escape her, and it sent chills skittering down his spine. Not the kind of chills he got right before he was going to get shot at, either, but the really good kind of chills. “Kate, kiss me.”
“Hmm?”
“Kiss me, dammit.”
She gave him a smile that stopped his heart. “Sorry. I heard you the first time.” She bit her lower lip and admitted, “I just like hearing you say it.”
And then, before he could grasp the fact that she’d just gotten not only the best of him but had also gotten exactly what she’d wanted, she laid one on him, and it was a kiss for the record books. Nothing of the slightly prim-and-proper second-grade teacher was present as she slid her hands back into his hair and pillaged. There was no other word. She nibbled, licked, sucked, and even bit, and by the time they pulled apart to suck in some desperately needed air, his head was spinning.
“How was that?” she asked, looking a little dazed herself, her eyes dilated.
“Good,” he said, “but it’s going to get even better. Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“No fake orgasms for three hundred and fifteen calories. Fuck the calories. We’re going real, all the way.”
She let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Real,” she repeated.
Her demi-bra wasn’t managing to contain her breasts fully. He could see some nipple, and they were pebbled tight, her breasts rising and falling with her quickened breath. Her legs were still wrapped around his hips. When they’d been kissing, she’d been rocking into him, and the teeny-tiny lace triangle had shifted a bit and molded to her every soft fold.
Her every soft damn fold.
She was a vision, a goddess to be worshipped, and he traced a line along the top of her bra with the pads of his fingers before unhooking it and letting it fall away. Lowering his head, he brushed a kiss across the full curve of a breast.
“Griffin,” she whispered, a plea. She steadied herself by gripping him tight, and then tighter still when his thumb skimmed across her nipple. He slid her panties down, and she whispered his name again.
“Tell me,” he said.
“More.”
“What?”
“More, Griffin. Please more.”
He smiled. “I heard you. I just like to hear it.” Then he dropped to his knees, because he wanted more, too. He wanted to make her cry out his name.
Instead she splayed a hand between her legs blocking his passage to the homeland. But her fingers, spread over herself, still gave him the most heart-stopping peekaboo hints of what was beneath.
“Twenty-nine percent of Americans have sex on the first date with perfect strangers,” she said. “Do you think this applies?”
“We’re not strangers.”
“No,” she said slowly. “You’re right.”
She was still nervous and anxious to boot. Finally, something he could fix. Leaning in, he kissed one inner thigh and then the other, sucking lightly on her skin until she moaned and spread her legs a little more. He did it again, and she gave him even better access with an appreciative sigh.
“So beautiful,” he whispered against her heated flesh, and trailed his tongue over her fingers, getting his first sweet taste of her. “Let me in. Let me have you.”
She did, gasping as he explored her every dip and curve and fold.
Moaning his name, she again fisted her fingers in his hair, holding him to her as if she were afraid he’d stop.
He didn’t. He took her all the way, loving the way she went wild for him, and when she came, it was with a joyous cry and his name on her lips.
Thirteen
When Kate’s world tilted, she opened her eyes. Griffin had risen to his feet, yanked her against him, and headed out of the kitchen, presumably toward her bedroom.
She was still quivering with little aftershocks, but she wasn’t so far gone as not to realize that she was completely naked and he was not. It felt a little bit naughty, and she bit his earlobe and then sucked it into her mouth, which made her feel even more naughty.
With a low oath, Griffin stopped right where he was—the living room—and dumped her on the couch, following her down. There’d been a few things on it: a stack of bills, a few magazines, her purse. “Ouch,” she said.
“Lift up,” he said, and then with one swipe of his arm, everything hit the floor.
They were laughing when they kissed this time, which took away exactly none of the urgency. “Griffin?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re overdressed.”
He rose and stripped, each movement easy, economical, efficient.
He absolutely stole her breath.
Then he tore open the condom and rolled it on.
Sexiest thing ever.
He came back over the top of her, and being careful with his weight, he slid one of her legs around his waist.
And then, eyes on hers, he slowly pushed inside her. Both of them went still at the exquisite sensation.
He fisted his hands in her hair. “This,” he said against her mouth, moving within her and rocking her world. “This is what I needed.” His voice was thick and gravelly with desire, and he let out the sexiest male groan of approval she’d ever heard. “You under me, Kate. Me buried deep inside you.”
The words were as arousing as his movements—and his movements, good Lord. Reaching up, she kissed and licked whatever she could reach on him, his shoulder, his chest, his throat. His skin was salty, damp, and the taste of him was better than the most decadent of desserts. She couldn’t stop whispering his name; she just couldn’t.
Rocking into her over and over, he stared into her eyes, his own as hot as liquid steel, and she thought maybe he liked the sound of his name on her tongue.
She did. She loved it, loved this, and she tightened her legs around him, her hands searching for handholds in a crazy, tilting, spinning world.
Then he changed
the angle of her hips and went even deeper, making her gasp, making him groan again, and from one breath to the next, she went a little wild, her hips lifting to meet him, her entire body moving with him as he took her to the very edge and held her there. Crying out, she arched against him, lost in him, completely lost in the sweet, hot pleasure.
He was hers.
Hers . . .
At least in that moment he was, and she wanted to remember this, every single second of it, his lips brushing her ear telling her what he was going to do to her next, the weight of him pressing her into the couch, the look in his eyes as he moved inside her . . . “Yes,” she said, to all of it, and his hands slid back up her body again, tangling in her hair as he proceeded to take her right out of herself with shocking familiarity. And then a few seconds later, he gripped her hips and pushed into her hard, shuddering in her arms as he followed her over.
* * *
Grif opened his eyes knowing two things. One, it was the middle of the night, and two, something was off. He sat up, and Kate murmured a protest in her sleep. “Shh,” he said with a light stroke down her back. “Go back to sleep.”
And then he slid out of bed and moved down the hall. He’d walked silently through the entire townhouse and was standing in the living room at the glass sliding door when he heard Kate come up behind him.
“Grif?” she asked groggily.
He turned. She’d flipped on a lamp in her bright-as-hell sunshine yellow bedroom, and the light behind her cast her in silhouette. She wore his shirt, some serious bedhead hair, and a confused look.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
When he didn’t answer, she frowned and stepped forward. “Are you . . . armed?” She stared down at the knife he’d taken from her butcher block in the kitchen. “You are,” she breathed. “You’re armed and . . . naked.”
Christ. He rubbed a hand over his head. “I heard someone.”
Her eyes went big on his. “Here?”
He pointed to her back door. “There’s muddy footprints on your patio.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, she stepped to his side and looked out the door. “Those are from yesterday. Tommy was over here playing in my garden.”
“Those prints are too big for Tommy.”
“He was wearing my dad’s mud boots.”
“Someone followed you here from the woods yesterday, remember?”
She set a hand on his arm, stroking softly. “I just got spooked. It’s okay, Grif.”
He went still then looked down into her eyes. She thought he was experiencing flashbacks or still adjusting to civilian life. Or hell, maybe she thought he was losing it. “Treading lightly for the crazy person?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she said, and kept touching him. “No,” she repeated more firmly when he just cocked a brow. “But this is Sunshine,” she reminded him.
“The door wasn’t locked.”
“I must have forgotten.”
That’s what Kel had told him when he’d called him a moment ago. It’s Sunshine, Grif, go back to bed.
He was well aware that everyone was thinking he was going over the deep end on this, but he didn’t care. He was not losing his mind. Maybe his heart but not his mind. Purposely unlocking his tense jaw, he clicked the lock and gave Kate a pointed look.
She acknowledged it with a nod. “I’ll keep it locked,” she promised.
He tried to shrug off the adrenaline. He wasn’t at war. He was in Idaho. “Always,” he said firmly.
“Always,” she repeated. “It’s very sweet of you to be worried.”
Sweet. She thought he was fucking sweet.
“Come back to bed now,” she whispered, stroking her hand down his chest.
And now she was humoring him. Perfect.
But then her hand drifted even farther south, and he decided that there was something else he was having a hard time shrugging off.
His need for her.
She was right. Time to go back to bed.
* * *
Kate woke up slowly, as always. It took her a moment, but eventually she realized that she was wrapped around a big, hot-as-a-furnace, hard body.
Griffin.
Earlier she’d found him prowling her living room, then standing at the sliding door, arms up, hands braced overhead on the doorjamb.
Sexy as hell.
Tense as hell. And armed.
No longer tense or carrying a knife, he was breathing slowly and evenly, clearly deeply asleep. Taking advantage of this fact, she drank him in. He lay sprawled on his back, all loose-limbed and utterly relaxed. Pride filled her at that because it was her doing. Knowing it, a smile crossed her face, and she had to force herself not to touch. Or stroke.
Or lick.
Yeah, she really wanted to lick, but he looked so peaceful that she didn’t want to disturb him. He seemed . . . younger. And completely sated.
She was sated, too. And naked and a little bit sore in spots. Not to mention grinning like an idiot because finally—finally—she’d gotten an adventure.
And oh, what an adventure it had been.
On a normal day Griffin was a force. He was strong inside and out, he was intelligent and tough and dead sexy, and he knew how to get his way in life—and as she’d discovered—also in bed.
She’d gotten everything she wanted out of the night, too, and if she hadn’t been wrapped around him like a pretzel, she’d have been floating on air.
Her phone lit up on her nightstand. Moving slowly so as to not wake up Griffin, she reached out and grabbed it. It was a text from Ashley.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Oh crap. She’d completely forgotten. Of course she’d had a few other things on her mind, such as the big, bad, naked Griffin Reid . . .
Don’t go there . . .
She shook her head and tried to clear her thoughts. It was her dad’s birthday, and this one was special for more than one reason, because it was also an anniversary of sorts.
Her family had planned to meet at the diner at eight, and it was . . . ten after. Slipping out of bed, she grabbed an armful of clothes and tiptoed out to the living room to dress as quietly as she could.
Stuffing her feet into her sneakers, she took a last peek into her bedroom. Griffin was still out like a light, spread out on her bed like a fantasy. Damn. Walking away was the hardest thing she’d ever done. But after a quickly scrawled note that simply said, “I’ve gotta run,” she did just that.
Fourteen
Griffin bolted awake, sitting straight up in the bed, heart pounding, ears ringing. He had a split second of disorientation when he didn’t know where he was or why everything was a need-sunglasses-to-look-at-it sunshine yellow. Then he saw the lace panties hanging off the footboard.
Kate.
He was in Kate’s bed. But no Kate. He slid a hand over the sheets. Still warm. He rolled over, but he could tell by the stillness of the place that he was alone.
It was a Sunday morning, crack of dawn—or close enough to it—so where the hell was she?
He pulled on his tux pants—all he had—and strode through the townhouse.
Empty, except for her short note.
Why?
The answer to that was painfully clear—he was an idiot. He should have kept his hands—and the rest of him—to himself. He’d known damn well she had a crush on him, forever in fact, and he’d taken unfair advantage.
Holly was going to kill him, and Adam was going to help, and Griffin deserved it.
A little shell-shocked by the events of the past twelve hours, he stood in the empty, quiet living room. The belongings he’d sent flying off the couch last night were still scattered across the floor. The couch itself seemed to stare at him incriminatingly, but all he could remember was the way Kate had wrapped herself around him, rocking up, holding on
tight, crying out his name . . .
Christ. He rubbed his hands over his face. It was Sunshine, he decided. It was being home. He’d been prepared to hate it as much as he’d always hated it, but that hadn’t happened. The small-town life wasn’t stifling him, wasn’t sucking the soul out of his body.
And part of it was watching the people in his life go on with theirs. Holly getting married to Adam. His dad with Deanna. Realizing that love and affection had been missing from his life for a damn long time . . .
Also his own doing.
He’d left here on purpose. Run hard and fast. But not Kate. She’d stayed in town for the responsibility, which he admired the hell out of. He admired other things about her as well. Like those warm mossy green eyes. The taste of her. The feel of her satiny skin sliding along his, the sounds she’d made when she’d come.
Sweet, slightly repressed second-grade teacher Kate Evans wasn’t so sweet and repressed after all . . .
Someone rang the bell. Thinking she’d somehow gotten locked out, he buttoned and zipped his pants and tugged open the door to a tiny little girl in pigtails and a pink and white dress.
“Hi!” she said at a decibel level that made him wince, and she thrust out a book with the picture of a puppy on it.
He stared down the book.
“Read,” she demanded.
“Uh . . .”
“Kate. Read.”
Ah, now he got it. “Kate reads the book to you?” he asked.
She nodded and waited expectantly.
“Kate’s not here,” he said.
The little girl took a look at the book and then back up at him, her eyes huge and filling with tears.
Shit. “She’ll be back later,” he said quickly, desperately, just about as undone by a three-year-old’s tears as he’d been by Kate’s.
The little girl opened the book for him, her pigtails bouncing.
Oh no. No, no, no. “I’m not Kate,” he said.
She stared up at him, her eyes swimming. “Read,” she said soggily.
“You’ll stop crying?”
Rumor Has It (An Animal Magnetism Novel) Page 13
