But I do.
Forty
By the time we’ve eaten greasy food, swallowed enough water to rehydrate a horse, and taken a shower, I start to feel human again.
My hair is damp, but my brain has stopped protesting the sunlight. Today is day two. The last day. The festival ends early, but the town stays awake for it. Bars, music, people dancing in doorways. It’s tradition, and I’m in no mood to break it.
Right now, though, I’m back in the tent, lying flat on my back, staring at the canvas ceiling. I’m drifting, letting my eyes close.
The zipper of the tent opens. Griffin crawls in on long limbs and low groans.
I smile without opening my eyes. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“Yeah,” he says, collapsing beside me. “Me too.”
Outside, I hear the world. The thump of a bass line from a sound check. Girls laughing. Tents zipping and unzipping.
I blink my eyes open. Griffin is propped on one elbow, looking at me.
I groan and cover my face. “Don’t look at me. I’m a disaster.”
He doesn’t listen. He never does.
Catching my wrists, he pulls my hands away from my face, then lifts one of them and presses his mouth to my knuckles.
My breath catches. I lift my hand, gently running my thumb over his mouth. His lower lip feels warm and soft. Something tightens deep in my stomach, replacing the last remnants of my hangover with something much more dangerous.
He watches me. He watches my mouth and the way my breathing changes. I try to stay still, but my hips shift.
His fingers skim up my bare arm, and my skin tingles at the contact. He reaches the strap of my dress and follows it across my shoulder, then lower until his fingers brush across my breast.
My nipple tightens instantly.
“Griff—” I whisper.
He leans in, his mouth at my ear. “Yeah?”
My thighs instinctively press together. He slides his hand down, finds the first button on my dress, and opens it. The air touches my skin. The next button follows, then the next. My chest is exposed beneath him, skin hot and sensitive. My heartbeat pounds so violently I can feel it everywhere.
His mouth drags down my throat, so I tilt my head back to grant him more access. I bite my lip to keep a sound from slipping out, but he pulls that lip free with his tongue, a slow sweep that wipes out every thought I’ve ever had.
His mouth moves down my chest, my stomach. When he settles between my legs, I exhale before he presses his mouth over me through my underwear.
He murmurs something against me that I feel more than hear. My thighs tremble as his fingers slip under the waistband. He slides against me, not inside yet, but enough to make my breath break apart.
He strokes me again, slower this time. A press. A drag. My head falls back.
“Come here,” he says softly. “I want to feel you.”
His fingers tease me again, right at the edge of where I’m desperate for him, and the tension in my belly pulls hard. Then, finally, he slides a finger inside me.
My breath fractures. “Ah,” I gasp.
He watches my face like he’s memorizing it. His finger curls, presses just right, and my hips jerk up off the ground.
“Stay,” he murmurs, his free hand pressing my hip back down. “I want you right here.”
I nod, too breathless to speak. He adds another finger, and my whole body tightens around him with a clench that makes him hiss.
