I don’t dare move. The last thing I want to do is spook her. But eventually, she locks eyes with me, and I can tell her the one thing I’ve wanted to tell her since we had our first kiss in this room a little over twelve hours ago.
“This isn’t just pretend for me. I care about you, Sloane. I don’t getinvolvedon mission. It goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. But you’re special. You’re smart, incredibly strong, and brave as fuck. You learned how to spell my name. And you don’t care that I’m half the man I used to be.”
“You’re not.” Sloane sits up, and her nipples strain against the thin t-shirt. “Griff, you’re amazing. I’m a coward who’s scared ofeverything. I have the best security system on the market, and the man Dimitri sent to hurt me back in San Diego? He disabled it like it was a child’s toy. I’ve been used byhundredsof men, and yet…our kiss this morning?” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and she wipes them away with a hatred I save for scorpions and spilled scotch. “I lied to you. That wasn’t my first kiss in a long time. It was myfirst kiss ever.”
Holy shit. I can’t continue having this conversation from the floor. I need Sloane in my arms. Or at least close enough to touch. If she’ll let me. Rising to my knees, I hold out my hand and wait for her to take it. Her warmth grounds me in a way I didn’t know I needed. “Sweetheart, this is going to sound like a line. But I swear on my right arm, it’s not. I want you. In every way. But if this is all we ever have? If we can’t go any further than whatever-the-fuck base we just slid into? I don’t care. This assignment was the best damn thing to ever happen to me, and I’m not giving up on you—or us—unless you tell me to walk away.”
For several long moments, neither of us move. I’m about to give her space and tell her I’ll sleep on the couch when she sniffles and peers down at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “Will you just hold me tonight? Please?”
“I’ll hold you every night, sweetheart.”
Sloane settles against me, and when I drape my damaged arm over her, she settles with a deep sigh.
My brain and my heart are waging a battle neither can win, and if I’m not careful, they’ll both die trying.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sloane
With Griff at my back, curled around me protectively, I slept until 5:00 a.m., but something woke me, and I can’t stop my mind from racing. Last night’s kiss, my panic, his understanding, Dimitri, today’s runway show, Marina’s safety. The last words I spoke to Max.
An inch at a time, I ease myself out of bed and tiptoe to my suitcase. Between the moon reflecting off the placid lake and the reading lights we never turned off before falling asleep, I can see well enough to pull out my sketchbook and calm myself by drawing.
For a moment, I think the lake would make a good subject, but then I focus on the man in my bed. At some point over night, he took off his shirt, and he’s a study in opposites. Hard muscles, relaxed in sleep, his face peaceful in a way I haven’t seen before.
The lines and curves take shape on the page. His hair—long on top, shaved close on the sides—lips relaxed, stubble darkening his jaw. A tattoo arcing from just over his heart to his left shoulder is marred by several thick lines of scar tissue, but it’s still gorgeous. Lightning and sparks, pure and raw power.
I don’t gloss over his injuries, adding the surgical scars on what remains of his left arm, what looks like it might be a long-healed bullet wound just above the waistband of his shorts. The sheet pooled around his hips, the way he sleeps with his bent right arm under the pillow.
Drawing has always been my escape. When I pick up a charcoal pencil, I can pretend I’m anywhere. Times Square. Niagara Falls. On the beach in Mexico. Rarely do I choose to draw what’s right in front of me.
Dawn breaks while I add the finishing touches. A small scar next to his right eyebrow. A hint of freckles sprinkled over his shoulders. Shading under each abdominal muscle—all eight of them. Thevof muscle leading into his shorts.
“That wasn’t sex.”
“This isn’t just pretend for me.”
Could this be something real?
“Sloane?” Griff’s voice, rough with sleep, startles me, and the pencil hits the plush carpet without a sound. “Are you okay?”
With a groan, he sits up and rubs his left shoulder, then squints at the sketchpad in my hand. My first instinct is to hide the drawing, but if I want this to be anything other than fake, I can’t keep hiding.
“I couldn’t get back to sleep,” I say, but he shakes his head.
“I can’t see your lips, sweetheart. The sun’s about to rise over the lake and you’re backlit. Can you come closer?” Griff holds out his hand, and though a part of me is terrified he’ll ask me questions I can’t—or don’t want to—answer, I’m not that much of a jerk that I’ll use his deafness to my advantage.
Setting the drawing on the nightstand, I flip on the bedside lamp and climb back into bed with him. “I woke up a little over an hour ago. Couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Any reason?” He’s not touching me, holding himself stiffly, his deep blue eyes searching my face for answers he’s afraid I won’t give him.
I shrug. “All of them?” His chuckle makes me smile, and it’s easier to continue than I thought. “I worry about everything, Griff. The runway show today. What Dimitri is going to do next. You.”
He arches a brow—just one—and it’s both cocky and funny at the same time.
“Yes, you. What happens if Dimitri didn’t believe our act last night? Or if he saw you go into Max’s room with me? What if he’s just toying with me? That was always his thing. String us along with promises of McDonald’s or hot showers or a fix…” I swallow the sob desperate to escape. “If he wasn’t beating us or letting his men have their way with us.”
Griff slides a little closer. “I’d ask if I could hold you, but my glasses are charging in the other room and I don’t want to read your words on my phone. I can’t stand not being able to touch you right now.” He’s not the only one, so I link our fingers. His strong grip grounds me, and I take a deep, almost steady, breath as he continues. “I was awake for at least an hour last night, wondering if I needed to know the details. What happened to you all those years ago. I’ll listen if you ever want to tell me, but Sloane, you aren’t that scared eighteen-year-old kid anymore. That asshole doesn’t own you. Not your body, your mind, or your heart.Youget to decide what happens now. With your career, with your life… and with us.”
