My mouth goes dry. It was hard enough to look at Greer when her wet t-shirt was clinging to her. To be confronted with the creamy flesh of her belly and the transparent lace of her skimpy lavender bra is more than a man should have to take. My cock, which has been on high alert since I sat down with the ice-creams—yeah, okay, all afternoon—takes it up another notch and throbs in time with the beating of my heart.
The pull I feel towards this girl—woman—keeps getting stronger and stronger, and no amount of reminding myself who she is or cold showers seems to be making any difference. Maybe even more terrifying is my lack of interest in other women. Even though work has been hectic, I’ve managed to get out with Will a couple of times, and despite several opportunities, I’ve gone home alone every time.
Clearing my throat loudly, I turn away as quickly as I can, holding the crusty towel in front of me. “What time are we expected at your mum’s?”
“About six. I guess we’ll have to wait this storm out, though. You couldn’t drive in this rain.” Greer smiles in a way I recognise. It’s the smile of a woman who knows she’s got under a man’s skin. Shit. Bugger. Bum. As we used to say when we were kids, and they were the worst words we knew.
“Yeah, well …” Wiping my face with the sandy towel, I risk a glance back at Greer, relieved to find her t-shirt back in place. It’s the colour of ripe watermelon flesh, and I want to sink my teeth into it. Into her. Greer almost always wears warm colours, which is odd for a redhead. But it’s as though the colours of her clothes reflect the warmth of her personality, and it works for her. I rack my brain for a topic of conversation to take my mind off my need to touch her perfect breasts and smooth stomach. Although, I don’t hold out much hope since it’s burnt into my retinas.
Anything would do. Anything at all.
Luckily, Greer unwittingly hits on the one subject guaranteed to calm my raging hormones.
“Mum and Dad are so keen to see your house. They were determined to come with me this afternoon. I managed to convince them they’d be a distraction. I’m not sure how much longer you’ll be able to hold them off though.”
“I can’t wait for them to see it either.” My desire for them to be proud of me is as strong as if they were my actual parents. It’s no exaggeration that they’ve been the only constant in my life. The first authority figures to trust me. To not assume the worst of me. Which is one of the long list of reasons Greer is, and always will be, off limits.
“They’d love that. It’s made them really happy, you buying a place. I think they see it as a sign you’re back to stay.”
“Well, that’s the plan,” I say, mesmerised as I watch Greer gather her hair into a bundle and squeeze the water out onto the floor. It’s many shades darker when it’s wet but no less beautiful.
“I kind of envy you, being able to pick up and go where you wanted to.” A small, wistful sigh escapes as she twists her hair into a knot. “If I tried it, Dad would report me missing to Interpol and I’d be dragged back in handcuffs.”
Jesus. Why did she have to mention handcuffs? It’s never been a particular fantasy of mine, but an image of her spread out on a bed and tied up with silk scarves slaps me right in the neocortex so hard I need to shake my head to try and dislodge it. Without success.
“You just got through saying you’d miss Twisties too much,” I remind her.
“Yeah. I guess so. It’s … sometimes my family can be a lot. You know?”
I’d give my right arm for a family who loved me the way the Carters love Greer. But I can also see how it would sometimes be a little claustrophobic.
I’m still struggling to shake the image of her in restraints. On a bed. Naked. With a sigh, or maybe it’s more of a groan, I move to the window to watch the lashing rain and lightning.
“Be careful what you wish for, Greer. They might be a lot, but they love you.”
“I know,” she whispers from behind me.
“I love storms, the weird light you get before they break, the crack of lightning and thunder …”
“Me too.” Greer moves to stand beside me. “I love the smell of them, and afterwards, the smell of the wet earth and the steam rising off the ground when the sun breaks through.”
“Petrichor,” I say. Greer gives me a quizzical look. “That’s what that smell is called. Petrichor.”
Her presence starts to chase away some of the chill the rain brought on.
“Huh. I never knew it had a name.”
We stand side by side at the window, looking out at the backyard. At the rain pounding the cracked concrete and the wind whipping the trees. Leaves and small branches are flying thick and fast. There’s an ominous creaking in the roof and a whistling accompanied by a cold draft across our feet that tells me somewhere nearby there’s a gap in need of filling. What a shock.
I don’t know how long we’re standing there before I realise I’m no longer looking at the storm. I’m looking at her.
Watching her watch the storm is mesmerising. In the dim light, her eyes are dark and serious. Greer turns, and my heart rate kicks up. She’s quivering. I don’t know how much of it has to do with the damp chill from the storm and how much from the intensity of our eye contact. I can see what she’s feeling as clearly as if it’s written on her smooth forehead. Time stands still as we look at one another. Moving in slow motion, my hand comes up to gently cup the side of Greer’s face, my fingers skimming her cheekbone before burying themselves in her hair. It’s like an out-of-body experience. I’m intensely there in the moment. At the same time, I’m observing from outside. I’m not conscious of moving, but my head lowers and our mouths draw together as if controlled by some outside force. Her eyelids flutter closed, and I hesitate, my lips a breath from hers.
A sudden deafening crack behind me has us both crashing to the floor.
Chapter Eight
Greer
