“Sorry,” Graham says quickly, trying—and failing—to wipe the laughter off his face.
Embarrassment, irritation, and frustration wash through me.
“Please keep going, I’m sorry,” Graham says again, seeming more sincere this time.
I shoot him one last glare before turning back to the laptop. “I lay back on the bed, and he climbs over top of me. My legs wrap around his waist as he inserts himself. I gasp.”
A second snort has me slamming the laptop shut.
“Delilah, I’m sorry!” I hear Graham standing from the couch, crossing the room, but I can’t look at him. I know my face is red, and if I look at him it’s only going to get worse.
I feel his hands on the back of my chair, and then his breath on my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine. “Dee,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. It’s not the writing, it’s …”
“The writing,” I answer, jerking around to finally face him.
He leans back, biting his lip.
I bury my face in my hands, utterly overwhelmed. I never should have shared it with him. I already knew it was bad; what was I expecting?
“It’s just a bit dry, a bit fast, no … foreplay,” Graham offers.
“Because I have no idea how any of that’s supposed to work!” I burst out.
Suddenly Graham’s hands are on either side of my face, gently tilting it up so that my eyes meet his. “And that’s what I’m here to help with,” he says softly. “No one’s blaming you for not knowing. But we can change what you know.”
My breath hitches in my throat at his proximity, and suddenly I’m transported back to last week when we’d made out on my couch—the feel of his lips against mine, his lips … other places.
Graham smiles softly, then his gaze slides past mine, and he cocks his head. He stands. “What’s this?” He reaches over me, and I turn just in time to see my notebook lying open on my desk.
“Oh, that’s not—” I start, but Graham is snatching it up anyway.
“Graham Whitaker,” he reads aloud, his face forming into that stupidly attractive smirk. “Underlined,” he adds.
“It’s for research,” I say, standing and desperately trying to get it back from him. “I took notes on last week, that’s it. But you don’t need to read it—”
“Tall, dark, and handsome.Almost cliched leading man. Why, thank you.” He shoots me a dazzling grin. “Confident—maybe too confident. Well, I don’t think one can have too much confidence,” he protests.
“Graham!” I nearly shriek, reaching for the notebook, but he’s too damn tall for me, and he simply holds it aloft.
“Hands large enough to pin wrists.” Graham’s eyes widen, and his smirk grows impossibly wider. “Delilah,” he murmurs in surprise, my name long and drawn out.
And I think I just died a little. Like, actually died.
“Give it back,” I demand, even though the damage has already been done.
Graham simply grins down at me, slipping the notebook behind his back. But instead of backing away, he takes a step forward. Toward me. I widen my eyes, stepping back.
“You like the idea of a man pinning you down?” he asks, his voice low but still tinged with amusement.
I swallow, staring up into his blue eyes that seem to be darkening. “I don’t know—I-I think I read it in a book once,” I stammer.
“And it turned you on,” he states.
“Well, I—I mean …”
“It’s okay if something turns you on, Trouble,” he says, taking another step forward. “That’s what we’re here for.” He tosses my notebook aside, and it lands on the couch across the room.
He steps forward, and I step back—only to back into the hard wood of the front door. Graham towers over me, his gaze sliding slowly from my face, down to my wrists, taking one in each of his hands and thensoftly, as if I might break, lifting and pinning them to the wall above my head. He leans his weight into it, his gaze capturing mine again, only the tiniest flicker of amusement left in his eyes.
