In the heat of the moment, the throes of concern for her, I didn’t take in the way her lavender-colored tights and tankare so… tight. They cling to her toned legs and the alluring line of her hips. She’s wearing a top with straps and a sliver of the aforementioned skin flashes when she moves. The material shapes against her chest, and the straps cut in closer to her neck, highlighting the lovely curve of her shoulders.
These clothes highlight every bit of perfection that is her body and it is frankly better than I’ve refused to let myself imagine. Good grief, she’s gorgeous, and I am standing here gawking at her.
“Grant?”
My brain snaps back into functioning, and I pull out my phone. “Finn said he’ll bring the girls home in about an hour, so I’m good.”
Or I will be, when I get a grip on my thoughts.
“Would you want to stay for a bit? We could watch something. I don’t have fancy hot chocolate or anything, but I was going to make popcorn.”
She doesn’t meet my eye and my heart clutches. What a sap I am with this woman, constantly reacting to her every move.
“I’d love to stay for a bit.”
She makes popcorn and we settle into the couch to watch a show. But I’m not paying attention to what Leslie Knope is doing on screen. I’m fully absorbed in the way our thighs are lined up, touching from knee to ankle. I’m wrapped in the scent of popcorn and the coconut sweetness of her hair whenever her ponytail swishes.
My pulse kicks when she laughs and bends over, resting a hand on my thigh to steady herself. I couldn’t tell you for all I’m worth what happened to make her laugh, and yes, part of me would love to know. Bringing joy to this woman is worth doing. It’s valuable.
But her hand is searing its way through my jeans, and the way she’s bent shows the ridges of her spine and the smooth skin where her top and pants gap. Her shoulders, the back of her neck, the curve of her ear… every exposed part of her flashes at me like my system’s on overload from the sheer wanting of her.
I watch my hand moving like it’s someone else’s—see the pad of my index finger trace along the curve of her shoulder. The contact thrills me, but my heart takes off like a rocket when she turns a confused gaze my way and snatches her hand back from my leg like it’s something she’s done wrong.
I grab her hand and hold it, then press it back down to my knee. “I like that there.”
Her lashes flutter and more heat tracks to her cheeks. “Oh.”
“You’re…” I can’t find the right words. I’m not used to this… this… overwhelm. It’s an old companion when it comes to the girls or even my siblings, but romantic overwhelm is all new. Even my ex didn’t do this to me—she didn’t make it hard to think straight.
Or make sense.
Or hold back.
And that’s probably why the next thing I do is kiss her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sam
One second, we’re watchingParks and Rec, the next, Grant Ryan is kissing me.
And it’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced.
One of his hands cradles my head and he inches closer, slowly enough I could move or stop this at any point, but I don’t. And I won’t.
Then his lips brush mine. Once, twice, such light, soft touches, like he’s asking.Is this okay? Do you want this, too?
If I’d let myself imagine kissing Grant, I would’ve guessed he’d be demanding. Bossy and a little gruff, even in his kisses. But that wouldn’t be taking in the whole picture of the man. That would be forgetting how he’s a gentle, thoughtful dad, and appears to be a conscientious brother, son, and even sheriff.
In the wake of our conversation andhis pushing me to tell him some of the ugliest parts of my recent past, he’s not demanding he be my now or my future.
He’s letting me decide, and I wonder if I have ever wanted anything more. If I’ve ever been offered the chance, to be honest. And honestly, I want to take this chance. With the lack of demand, it frees me to forget I’m determined to not get wrapped up in someone, and to simply enjoy the moment.
So I lean in, then open to him as he deepens the kiss with confidence and just enough need, it sends a thrill through me.
But too quickly, that thrill turns to cement in my chest, hardening over all the moving parts of me to freeze everything in place as the voice that has kept me in line cuts through all the longing and pleasure and desire.
What are you doing? How can you trust him? How can you possibly trust yourself? Didn’t you say you wouldn’t do this again?
