by Serena Bell
“Not a lot of guys do that,” she said, when he’d walked around to the other side and slid into the driver’s seat. “By which I mean, none.”
“What’s wrong with men?” he demanded.
“I think chivalry’s dead,” she said. “No one expects it anymore, so no one bothers.”
“See, that’s exactly the reason to bother. It’s like when people say nobody bothers with details anymore. Be the person who bothers, that’s what I say. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”
Becca made a small noise of appreciation, and he turned his head and narrowed his eyes darkly at her. “That’s right,” he said, low and growly. “If she’s worth doing, she’s worth doing right.”
She couldn’t help herself, she reached out and put a hand on his forearm, gave a little tug, and he grabbed her wrists, pulled her toward him, and kissed her breathless.
“Dinner,” he said firmly, breaking away. “That’s part of the foreplay, too. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.”
He kept his eyes on hers as he slid the key into the ignition—infinitely slowly and gently—and turned it. Heat suffused her face, and he raised his eyebrows and smirked.
When he finally let her off the hook, aiming his gaze on the road, she collapsed back against her seat, almost relieved.
Her whole body was screaming for more. And the thing was, her body didn’t scream. It cooperated. Or maybe, if she was with someone really hot who was a good kisser, it gave a quiet little yippee. But there was no screaming and no begging.
Griff had leveled her up, and she was starting to think—to fear—that when he was done with her, she’d be spoiled for everything she’d thought sex was supposed to be.
Which was exactly what shouldn’t be happening.
13
Her eyes got huge when they stepped into the Met, which made the whole thing worth it. Becca had fucking amazing eyes, a shade of blue that was like the clearest North Coast sky in July. She was wearing some smoky eye makeup—not cat eyeliner or anything, but something silvery that made her eyes even bluer and prettier. And whatever you called that stuff on the lashes, so they were a thousand miles long.
But he liked her the other way, too. Without makeup, the way she’d shown up the other night at Alia’s. Lashes the same light blond as her hair and the skin around her eyes pale and delicate. That look made him want to peel her slowly out of her clothes. This one made him want to tear them off.
It might be tougher to go slow with her than he’d thought.
She tucked her hand into his, a trusting little gesture that made something slip in his chest. Her head was practically swiveling as she took in their surroundings.
He was awed by the Met, too, but for his own reasons. All those photos—signed—of famous Seattle sports personalities. Like many of his North Coast friends, he was a Seattle sports fan, so he’d keep his eyes open in case any Grizzlies or Mariners or Storm players showed up.
They got seated in a quiet booth, like he’d requested.
“Is that the wine list?” Becca asked, pointing to a leather-covered tome. Her eyes were big again, and he realized she was panicking about how fancy things were. Maybe they would have been better off somewhere more casual. Or, you know, with Indian food. Maybe this whole snow her thing had been a bad idea.
“I know shit about wine,” he told her.
The corners of her mouth turned up. “Me neither,” she admitted, and he watched her shoulders drop and her lips soften.
It made him want to kiss her.
The waiter drifted back a moment later to see if they wanted wine. He must have correctly interpreted the glance that passed between Griff and Becca, because he asked, “May I recommend the Gramercy Cellars Cabernet? It’s an excellent value.” Actually, he didn’t so much ask as inquire, because that’s what guys like him did at restaurants like this one.
Griff was so grateful at being rescued from the price problem that he didn’t even mind that the waiter obviously knew he was not a $300-a-bottle kind of guy. Or a $1,000-a-bottle kind of guy, because he was pretty sure that people who ate at the Met popped that kind of money regularly to show off for their friends.
“Sounds good,” Griff said. “We’ll take a bottle of that.”
When the waiter had gone, Griff turned to Becca and said, “That was cool, how he did that. Said it wasn’t expensive without saying it. When I grow up, I want to be that natural. The kind of guy who can make everyone feel comfortable and not like a schmoe because they have no idea what kind of wine to order. You know?”
“Yes,” she said. Just that. But she reached across the table and took his hand. Which—well, fuck, it felt really good. Her hand was small and cool, her fingers were slim and—wow, there was apparently a direct line from his digits to his dick, because all she’d done was slide her hand into his and he was hard. She pulled her hand back again right away and bit her lip, like she thought she’d overstepped.
It didn’t go with the vibe they were supposedly setting up here—this one night, one time, I’m doing you a favor setup—but it hadn’t felt wrong.
It had felt right. Maybe a little too right.
“I guess we should figure out what we’re having,” he said.
They opened their menus and she made a small noise from the other side of the table.
“Forget the prices,” he said. “I just wanted you to feel special.” Because that was the thing. Losing her virginity was about Becca, and any guy who’d try to make it about himself was just a dick.
The look she gave him pretty much tore his chest open. Because it was so surprised. That feeling, of being ripped throat to gut, gave way to something way more familiar, a sense of anger at all the idiots—the CJs—who’d missed seeing that there was way more to her than met the eye.
“Get whatever you want,” he said. It came out rough, almost abrupt, because he didn’t necessarily want to spill out all the thoughts in his head, not to mention the crap crowding in his chest.
The waiter came back with their wine. He uncorked it, poured a little into a glass, and handed it to Griff. To taste, Griff was pretty sure, so he did. “It’s, um, great,” he said, and it was, though he had no real point of comparison. Now, set him up with a blindfold and a few brews and he would know his way around. But he wasn’t going to fake it and do the wine-talk thing, nose or finish or whatever. He’d leave that to the rich guys at the tables all around him.
The waiter poured the wine and took their orders. Becca ordered a fancy salad and a filet with garlic mashed potatoes, and Griff ordered clam chowder and a boneless rib eye with a baked potato.
The waiter jotted their order down and melted away. More fancy restaurant waiter skills.
“So. Um. Tell me shit about you.”
Becca laughed. “Is that always your small talk opener?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, you know some of it. Alia and I grew up in Seattle. Our dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was six and Li was nine.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
She made a no big deal gesture, the same one she’d made when she’d waved off the failed date the other night. He was about as convinced of her unconcern this time as he had been then.
“But you had Li and your mom.”
“Well, I had Li.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She looked down at the table and twisted one hand in the other. “My dad was retired FBI, and after he died, there was enough money from that and his life insurance that we were okay financially, but my mom fell apart. She just withdrew into herself. She didn’t really have a diagnosis and we were too young to know it was depression. Li basically did everything. She had to grow up really fast. She was essentially full-time momming by the time she was ten. When a lot of kids still believed in Santa Claus, Li was buying her own Christmas presents.”
She raised her gaze and caught him wincing. Her story explained a lot about Alia and her hyper ca
pable schtick.
“And you? What was it like for you growing up?” She tilted her head.
“My dad wasn’t around either. He left when I was eight. Married again, had a second family. Three adorable little girls—not so little anymore, obviously—who he dotes on. My mom never remarried. I think my dad was the love of her life—she just wasn’t the love of his.”
She winced. “No wonder you’re not so interested in marriage and commitment.”
He shrugged. “No—I thought I wanted to settle down, when I was a kid. I wanted what my dad had with his second wife. But you know, kids, they think they have it all figured out. It wasn’t in the cards for me, and I’m good with that now.”
“It sounds like there’s a story there.”
Griff shook his head. “Yeah, of course, there’s always a story.” The last thing he wanted was to tell it right now, cast a pall over things and let her know what a pathetic wreck he’d been when Marina had left. “Maybe some other time. The gist is, you’re right about me. I’m not interested in that stuff. At least not anymore.”
The waiter saved Griff by showing up with their soup and salad. Becca’s salad featured what he and Nate called “spiky” lettuce, plus candied nuts and goat cheese—definitely not his thing—but she dug into it and made a humming sound that found its way to his dick. She was so intent on the salad that he could watch her eat, which—damn. Neat, delicate, but fully invested, her eyes widening when she liked something, so he practically got a vicarious taste of all the flavors. She looked up and caught him staring, cocked her head to one side like she was asking a question.
He shrugged. “It’s hot. The way you eat.”
She laughed. “How do I eat?”
“You get into it. You enjoy it.”
“Yeah. I freaking love food. It’s probably my favorite thing.” She dove back in, deftly spearing a pecan and humming again.
Yeah. Who didn’t love food? But truth? Right now, Griff wanted to dig into the woman sitting across the table and savor every bite. If watching her eat a salad was making him drool, he couldn’t imagine what would happen when she sank her teeth into a piece of meat.
14
Okay. Now she got it. The dinner-as-foreplay thing.
Griff took his credit card from the leather portfolio and tucked it into his wallet. He’d taken the bill from the waiter and relentlessly refused her offers to split it or chip in.
She wasn’t opposed to paying her own way, but Griff made it easy—and sexy—for her to back down and let him handle it.
It was the same way he’d been about the wine. Zero bullshit but also so, so competent. It was obvious he was ill-at-ease with the whole ridiculously expensive wine list thing. But he’d handled it perfectly. He hadn’t starting posturing, but he also hadn’t acted intimidated. What he’d said, about wanting to be a guy who made everyone comfortable when he grew up? That was already him, in a nutshell.
And it was unbelievably hot.
Then there was the way he’d been watching her eat, before she’d caught him. If it had been anyone else, it might have been creepy, but there was nothing creepy about having Griff’s attention on her mouth. Plus, she got it when she’d watched him with his clam chowder. He took the first bite and said, “God. Good,” and made a rough noise of approval. Sort of like a hum or a groan. A noise she’d want to hear him make after he slid down her body and—
It had gone on like that through the main course, too. But what else could you expect from a guy who made turning the key in the ignition sexy?
Dinner hadn’t been all dark looks and food flirting, either. They’d talked about her salon job and her relationship with Alia, then about his siblings and what had brought him to R&R. He said it had been pain from a serious knee injury—but she thought there was probably more to that story, too. Obviously, Griff didn’t love to talk about himself. Which was actually way better than the alternative. She’d been out with mansplainers who couldn’t shut up about their jobs, their cars, their doctoral dissertations, whatever. But Griff’s restraint made her want to probe. Find out the whole story.
Except that was something you’d do if you were getting to know someone. If you were going to have a relationship with someone. And she was not. He’d made that abundantly clear: You’re right about me. I’m not interested in that stuff. Meaning commitment, marriage, family, kids.
She’d made that one misstep, reaching for his hand after he’d been so great about the wine. She’d pulled back right away. Touching him like that had been too familiar, the kind of thing you’d do on a first date but wouldn’t do on whatever this was. Foreplay for First Rites of Pleasure.
“You ready to go?” Griff asked.
“Sure,” she said. Something wiggled in the pit of her stomach. Nerves. She hadn’t been nervous up till now, but this was the rubber-meets-road portion of the program. If there was going to be any awkwardness, it was coming soon.
But he rested his hand at the small of her back and guided her out of the restaurant, and she felt herself relax into the sure touch.
Griff’s truck was waiting, and he helped her up again.
She could get used to this treatment, but she wouldn’t let herself. At least she wouldn’t let herself expect it from him.
He drove them toward the waterfront and turned off into the Edgewater Hotel.
“What—”
“I wanted your first time to be someplace nice.”
Oh, God. That made her throat tight. The fancy dinner had been way more than enough. “This place is—it must have cost you a fortune. I can’t let you do that.”
“Look.” He faced her across the center console of the truck. “I don’t have a lot to spend my money on, okay? I get room and board, and Jake pays well, with benefits, and—let me treat you. You asked me to do this, right? This is what you get when you ask Griff Ambrose to take a woman’s V-card. The luxury package.”
God help her, he smirked, and she was way beyond God’s help because she felt it all the way down. She bit back a smile. “If she’s worth doing . . .”
“Exactly. That book you were talking about. The one you were reading. Do you think he would have done her just any old where?”
“No way. Furs and firelight and all that.”
He nodded, as if she’d just proved his very important point.
“Can I at least split it with you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“But—”
“No.”
He turned away, dismissing the topic, threw his door open, and jumped down. He came around, helped her out, got a small bag out of the back of the truck—“supplies,” he said, which made her low belly pull up tight with nerves and excitement—and ushered her into the lobby.
“Oh,” she said. Under a vaulted ceiling, a wall of windows looked right out on the sound. “That’s pretty.”
The floor around the check-in desk was carpeted with plaid, and sculpted metal tree branches protruded from the front desk. In the main seating area, there was a stone fireplace with models of fish mounted over it, and a mammoth chandelier of antlers. If a hunting lodge, a cruise ship, and the Hilton had a love child, this lobby would be it.
“Have a seat. Relax. Wait here.”
She sat in a comfy arm chair, and he set his bag beside her on the floor and went to check them in.
When he came back, he had a room key in his hand. “Key to the castle.”
Various dirty jokes occurred to her, but she pressed her lips together. He took her hand, threading his fingers deliberately through hers and giving her a look. Several thousand volts of chemistry zinged the receptive parts of her. Her nipples tightened and her clit stood at attention and—
Those body parts were not usually nearly so—chatty.
“You ready?” he asked.
He was smirking again. The bastard. He knew. And the worst part was, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
15
He kissed her in the elev
ator. Because, elevator. Because she was just so damn cute, all big-eyed and awed one minute, then a moment later flushed and flustered, her nipples visible through the lightweight cloth of her dress. Maybe the innocent thing was an act, maybe it wasn’t, but he had to admit that it worked on him, like a ton of bricks.
But the kiss wasn’t cute. It was—
She was—
Her mouth was soft. Warm. And the way she opened for him, it felt so personal. Like she was letting him in. And she didn’t just take his tongue, which would have been sexy enough, she gave back. She tangled with him. She teased him. She edged into his mouth and took control for a hot second, which jacked him way up, fast. He took control back, pressing her against the wall and wedging his thigh between hers, and that pushed his buttons hard, too.
So did the little moan she let out when his thigh made contact with the vee of her legs, and the heat he could instantly feel through whatever she was wearing—not much—and his own pants.
Ding!
The doors opened. She clutched at his arms when he pulled away, trying to keep him close, and he laughed. She laughed, too, and let him go.
“You’re hot, you know that?”
Again, that goddamn surprise on her face. Fuckers, all of them, whoever they were.
He led her out of the elevator and down the hall. To their room. He didn’t look down because he knew his dick was making an undignified tent in his pants, and he didn’t want to draw her eyes there. Not yet, anyway. Later, he’d want her looking plenty. The tent jumped at the thought of her, big-eyed, her mouth puffy from kisses, staring at him with the same awe she’d given the Met earlier tonight and the Edgewater lobby just now. Not that he deserved any particular awe—although he did okay for himself—but just because that was what he wanted, desperately, to put on her face.
He opened the door to the room and let her walk in ahead of him. It wasn’t a brilliant act of chivalry or anything, it just let him ogle the sway of her hips under that teeny-tiny dress. The dress was so ridiculously short and so ridiculously loose that a stiff breeze would bare her ass to him. He wanted so badly to flip the edge up and look at what she was wearing underneath . . .