Page 34 of His Saving Grace

He pushed away from the wall and stepped forward. Grace must have caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, because she jumped so high, she damn near bumped her head on the ceiling. She shrieked and scrambled to her feet.

“Mason.” Her voice quivered, and she lifted her hand to tap it against her chest. “You scared me…”

That was definitely not a normal reaction. Yeah, he’d startled her, but she shouldn’t be trembling so badly. And she had absolutely no reason to apologize. He was the one who’d snuck up on her.

He continued forward, holding her gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice sounded loud in the silent, cavernous barn. He stopped a few feet away, giving her some space.

“It’s okay.” She swallowed hard, and the urge to wrap her in his arms, comfort her, simmered in his blood. He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop from reaching for her. She stared at him, her right arm across her chest, her hand rubbing the skin on her opposite elbow.

“Are you afraid of me?” The question slipped out, his voice low and gravelly in the stretching silence. He had no idea where the words had come from, because he sure as shit hadn’t been planning on saying anything. But there they were, hovering between them.

She licked her lips, and he couldn’t stop from tracking the sweep of her tongue. It was his turn to swallow hard. “No, I’m not afraid of you, Mason.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He kept his voice even, faking a calm he definitely wasn’t feeling. “Every time I try to talk to you, you run in the opposite direction.”

She glanced away, dropping her gaze to the ground.

He was pushing too hard, he needed to stop. It was way too late in the day for all this tension. Rubbing the back of his neck, he nodded—even though she wasn’t looking at him—and turned back toward the door.

“Because I’m afraid of what you make me feel.”

His heart bounced against his ribs at the quiet confession. He spun back around. She was staring at him, her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, longing and uncertainty warring in her golden gaze. Something shifted inside him, making him feel both light and heavy, grounded and adrift. “I don’t know what that means, Grace.”

“It means that I don’t know what to do when I’m around you.”

He walked toward her, keeping his steps slow, methodical. Giving her time to tell him to stop, to walk around him. Giving her a chance to leave. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Her gaze flicked down, across his shoulders, and then lower. She licked her lips again, and this time, he had a feeling it wasn’t due to nerves. It made his blood sing, whip through his veins. His fingers tingled with the need to reach for her, to touch her.

She watched him move closer, her eyes soft, her lips slightly parted. He loved the way she looked like this, and it had nothing to do with her physical appearance. It was the heat in her gaze, the longing that lay just below the surface. She’d had every opportunity to leave, and she hadn’t. It was a victory, one he planned on savoring.

He stepped into her space, and she tilted her head back to look into his face.

“This isn’t a good idea.” Her tone said even she didn’t believe the lie she’d just told. She took a step back, and he took one forward, until finally, she ran out of room and backed into a stack of hay bales.

“Liar. You think it’s a great idea. And so do I.” He planted his hands on the scratchy hay, one on each side of her, caging her in.

She smelled incredible, like sunshine and wildflowers, and he fought not to bury his face against the crook of her neck and soak it in. His pulse picked up an erratic beat, much like the one fluttering at the base of her throat. The urge to lick that pulse point, to run his tongue along her throat, see if she tasted as sweet as he imagined, overwhelmed him. Only through sheer force of will was he able to hold back.

He leaned in, bringing his body just a breath away from her. She inhaled sharply, the effort pressing her breasts against his chest. An unexpected growl escaped from deep inside him.

“Mason.” Her breathy whisper was barely audible over the rush in his ears. She pressed her palms to his chest. The heat of her hands, even through his shirt, made his skin tingle. He paused for a beat, a breath, waiting for her to push him away. Waiting for her to reclaim her space.

She didn’t.

“Grace.” He exhaled shakily. Lowered his face toward hers.

She stared up at him, their faces so close they almost touched. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience, patience, patience. His heart thumped against his ribs. Once, twice, three times.

And then she moved forward, ever so slightly, brushing her lips against his.

It was a soft kiss, tentative. He craved more, but needed to be patient. The last thing we wanted was to scare her. He would let her set the pace. Even if it killed him.

Her tongue brushed against his lips, light and hesitant. He opened his mouth, and she slipped it inside. She tasted sweeter than he imagined.