I jolt upright. “Thirty minutes? Griffin! That’s not enough time. I don’t have anything to wear.” I scramble from the bed, rushing to my closet. “Where are we going? What kind of restaurant is it?”
He chuckles and leans against the doorframe. He looks good in his plain black T-shirt, the very definition of effortless sex appeal. His eyes track me with obvious amusement. “Somewhere casual.” He raises an eyebrow as I panic, searching for the perfect outfit. “You always stress this much about clothes?”
“No, only when I’m meeting someone who is incredibly important to my boyf—” I freeze the moment the word starts to fall out of my mouth. I duck my head into a rack of clothes to hide my blunder.
“Did you just call me your boyfriend?”
I can practically hear the smirk. The question is asked casually but when I turn back to him there’s a note of curiosity in his eyes. Something almost hopeful that he’s trying to keep at bay. Which doesn’t help me feel any better.
“No, no I did not. We aren’t labeling this remember? I said ‘boy who is a friend.’” I say unconvincingly. Clothes pile up on the floor around me as I continue to shuffle through everything, trying to find something casual but perfect for a first impression. I try not to think about the mistake I made, praying he lets it go.
He steps into the closet with me to lean against the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The smirk doesn’t leave his face, in fact, it gets more pronounced as he eyes the growing mess. “Sure sounded a hell of a lot like ‘my boyfriend,’” he teases.
“You need to get your hearing checked.” I finally find an acceptable dress. It’s similar to the one I wore when we first met. Long maxi dress, flowy, with an open back that shows off my tattoo. The front is haltered, the collar coming all the way up to my neck. I grab a pair of panties and a backless adhesive bra and push past him to head to the bathroom.
He laughs as I try to brush off my slip of the lip. It’s a dark rumble and unfairly attractive. I pretend not to notice.
“My hearin’ is fine,” he retorts.
I head into the bathroom and undress, starting the shower. As I’m testing the water temperature with my hand, I think about how much I like the idea of having a label. Shaking that thought from my head, I step in. The spray of the shower relaxes my shoulders after the awkwardness.
“Wildfower,” he speaks through the closed door. “We’re not done discussin’ this.”
“Nothing to talk about,” I call out, wetting my hair before adding shampoo.
“Like hell there isn’t.”
For a while there’s silence, the sound of water hitting tile, and the quiet rustle of my movements as I wash my hair. Then, click, the door opens.
“You’re avoidin’ the conversation,” he states while pushing his way into the bathroom. “I heard what you said. So let’s talk.” He takes a step toward the fogged up glass, hesitating like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here.
“I already said there’s nothing to talk about.” I ignore him and continue what I’m doing, pretending my heart isn’t pounding in my chest.
“And I said, like hell there isn’t.” His words are punctuated by his clothes hitting the floor.
“What are you doing?” I back up and look at him.
His T-shirt lands in the pile of my clothes before he reaches for his jeans and shoves them down. His muscular frame is completely bare except for the boxer briefs that cling to his hips, outlining the fact that he’s as affected by this situation as I am.
“We’re gonna talk.” His boxers hit the floor. And then he’s sliding into the shower with me, stepping in without his earlier hesitation. Steam curls around him as water sluices over his shoulders and down that ridiculously perfect body. “You called me yours.”
His hands are on my hips before I can react, curling around me like they belong there. He crowds closer, forcing me to step back. Boxing me in against the wall with the broad expanse of his frame, he surrounds me completely. I have nowhere to run. Fuck.
“We’re gonna be late.”
He chuckles and leans in. His lips graze my ear. “Fuck dinner.” He presses me harder into the wall. “You called me yours. I want to hear you say it again.” A pause. “Properly this time.”
“Griffin, we agreed, no labels.” My words come out breathless, heavily affected by his proximity. I can’t concentrate on anything but the man in front of me. I am really not thinking about labels right now.
His lips brush my jaw before he pulls back, eyes searching mine. “We agreed to take it slow. Not pretend this isn’t real. I don’t need a label if it scares you. But I need you to know that I am yours.”
“I’m not going to pursue other people if that’s what you’re worried about.” I don’t back down but it’s feeble. Something inside me wants this as much as he does. That claim that everyone else would know means he’s off limits
He huffs, gripping me a little tighter. “Damn it, Wildflower. You’re missin’ the point.” His tone is rougher now, edged with frustration as he tries and fails to contain it. “I could give two shits about anyone else, you stubborn, headstrong, infuriatin’ as hell woman. I want you. And right now, you’re playin’ some game of avoidin’ havin’ a conversation we need to have, so you don’t have to actually admit what we both already know.” The air crackles with tension as he leans in, his face close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. “I need you to admit that you called me yours. No more of this ‘we aren’t labelin’ it’ bullshit. I need you to acknowledge yourself as taken. Not just off limits, fuckin’ taken.”
I lift my chin, “It’s only been three days.”
His fingers flex like he’s holding himself back. “Three days since the first time. But it hasn’t been three days since I wanted you.” His lips skim against the skin below my ear. “Three days or three minutes or three lifetimes, doesn’t change what this is.” His fingers slide up to grip my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Say it,” he commands. “Tell me I’m yours.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “Because we both know damn well, I am.”
