by Serena Bell
Her eyes were huge.
He cupped her cheek, feeling so much tenderness for her, for every part of her, that it hurt. Like your toes getting feeling back after being frozen, but he was pretty sure in this case that the thing that had been frozen was his heart. He touched one part of her after another—her hair, her lips, her ear, her throat, and each place he touched her, she made a different sound, like he was playing her. It was the sexiest, most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
He stroked her nipple, settled his mouth on hers again, and began very gently rubbing himself against the heat between her legs. One slow, sure tilt of his hips, clench of his ass, after another, while he alternated between kissing her and watching her. On a kiss, she bit his lip, gave a sharp cry, and came. He pulled back and cupped her tight in the palm of his hand so he could feel the flutters, like a trapped bird, and she breathed and sobbed into his ear.
His cock surged and for a second, he thought he was going to lose it, too. Like a high school kid. Like a virgin.
What have you done to me, Becca?
He scooped her up, carried her to the bed, laid her down, and stripped her leggings off. She was wearing a barely-there thong—really just strings—and he moved it to the side so he could see her. She was beautiful, every shade of pink God had ever invented, and slick with desire. And when he bent to lick her—she tasted so good. Clean and briny. He took his time, sliding first one finger into her slickness, then another, crooking them to find the spot that made her arch and cry out.
“Come again for me, baby,” he urged.
He looked up to find that she’d propped herself up on pillows and was watching him. She’d pushed her sweater up and her bra down and she was playing with her nipples, toying, pinching, twisting, almost absently, like she couldn’t help herself. Holy fuck.
“Keep doing that,” he said roughly. He hadn’t meant to speed up what his fingers were doing, but he was fucking her now, and she didn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite. She was fucking back against his hand.
“Feels better when you do it.” Her voice was a low murmur.
Who was he to resist a request like that? His left hand was free, and he let it play over her nipples, which she’d teased to beads. Jesus. He pinched one nipple. She moaned, and reflexively, he grabbed her hand and flattened it over the bulge of his cock in his jeans. She squeezed him. “Griff. Please.”
“I’m supposed to make you come one more time, first.”
“What if I said I really just want you inside me? What if I said I—”
Her voice tightened and choked off the words.
“I feel so much right now, Griff. I just need you. I need you to be inside me so I can show you.”
He knew what she meant because he felt it too, at the painful thawed achy middle of his whole fucking self. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could say. You had to do.
He pulled away from her, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, dropping them, kicking them away. He tugged the nightstand drawer open, pulled out a condom and rolled it on. Now that he had abandoned his plan, he was in a hurry—he needed her like he’d never needed anything, like now that the deep freeze was gone, all the held-back life in him had to pour itself into her.
But he wouldn’t rush it.
He crawled over her, bracing himself, and kissed her. Her mouth was open, helpless, out of rhythm. Wet and hungry. He was the same way. She spread her thighs and opened to him, so his painfully hard cock slicked through her folds, long, slow, blissful strokes. If he didn’t stop, he’d come all over her belly, and he wanted to give her what she was asking for too much to do that. He wanted to be inside her, like she’d asked him. He wanted her to show him how she felt, and he wanted to show her.
“Griff, please.”
He lined himself up, grabbed the base of his shaft to hang onto his fleeing self-control, and eased in, just enough to feel her soft, slick flesh part and give way.
She made a sound so needy and primal that he almost came right then. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, her cheek pressed against his, her breath in his ear. She raised her hips and he eased deep inside her.
“Like that, Griff, feel it?” she murmured, her arms tightening. “But even more. Give me more.” And she slid her cheek along his until their mouths caught, hot and wet. Her tongue found his and stroked, so he was in her and she was in him.
It was so good, the heat, the sweet fucking slippery glide of her, but mostly how tight she was around him, all of her, holding him, showing him. “God,” he said. “God, Becca—”
“I know. I know.”
She held on and held on, and he thrust, hard, and then again, giving up completely on trying to be gentle or thoughtful or any of that.
And she thrust back just as hard, lifting her hips, jamming herself against him, rubbing herself when he was in her to the hilt, tightening down on him. She was coming, he realized, suddenly, shaking in his arms, pulsing around him, whimpering, until the whimpers turned to words and the words were, “Like that, Griff, like that, like that.”
The long pulses of her orgasm pulled his out of him, and he was coming, too, and he knew exactly what she meant, even if he couldn’t say it, not yet: This is what I wanted to show you, how much I like you, how goddamn much I like you—
This, baby, this is how much I love you.
36
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Becca rose through layers of tufty cotton dream sleep to find Griff sitting on the edge of the bed with two to-go coffee cups and a bag that she prayed contained something that tasted as good as it smelled—of fried dough and sugary frosting.
He was wearing a dark green t-shirt and jeans. His hair was rumpled, as if he hadn’t bothered to comb it when he’d gotten out of bed. They’d spent the night spooned with her back to his front. Not that she’d slept a whole ton, because they’d gone three rounds and eaten a ridiculous amount of Thai food before falling asleep probably only about four hours ago. She was going to have to do a walk of shame to work today, and the thing was? She didn’t give a crap.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said.
“Hey, yourself.”
They smiled at each other. Becca felt even happier, which seemed almost impossible, because she thought she’d maxed out last night. Not that she hadn’t freaked out a little bit, after that first time. She’d come down from the crazy heights he’d taken her to, feeling a bit like some kind of wind-up toy that had been disassembled so its gears and cranks were strewn on the floor. She was pretty sure she couldn’t be put back together, not the way she’d been before.
At that moment, she’d wished for a do-over. Just so she could hold a little, tiny part of herself back. Just . . . to be careful.
Sex with him in the Edgewater Hotel room had been amazing, but she had definitely kept herself at a distance. She’d known where she was and where he was and how wide the space between them was, the whole time. Even so, when he’d said Marina’s name in the street outside afterwards, she’d wanted to throw up. She could admit that to herself now.
And if that’s how vulnerable she’d felt before, he could destroy her now. He could make what Todd had done to her look like a bee sting in comparison.
What she’d also realized last night, though, was that it hardly mattered anymore, because she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop wanting him, and she wasn’t going to stop being with him until he wanted to stop being with her. Worst—or best—of all, she couldn’t stop loving him, which, she was pretty sure, was the feeling that had broken her apart when he’d made love to her, and the thing that made it feel like her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
He had to be feeling it, too. The way he’d looked at her across the table in the study booth, what he’d said about not wanting her to go. Telling her he wanted to make love to her.
The way he was looking at her now, like she was the best thing ever, as opposed to ratty-haired and raccoon-eyed from not taking off her makeup.
> So that was what she was going to hold on to, for now. If she gave this thing between them some space—and the rest of the time they had left together—everything would work itself out. Somehow.
Meanwhile, she was going to enjoy every last solitary minute she had with him.
She accepted a cup of coffee, took a slug, and then kissed him good morning. A long, hot kiss that almost made her forget everything else—but not quite.
“Need my donut,” she said.
“What flavor do you want?” He held up the bag.
She licked her lips. “What are my choices?”
“Ah. We have the official pink Dundee donut, maple bars, chocolate bars, bismarks, and glazed cinnamon twists.”
“Can I have one of each?”
“You can have two of each if you want. Especially if I get to watch you eat them. Damn,” he said. “If I’d thought of it, I would have gotten you something with cream inside so I could watch you lick it out.”
“You are a dirty, dirty man.”
“And you know you love it.”
He slid onto the bed beside her.
“Are we going to eat them in bed?” she asked, startled.
“Were you never allowed to eat in bed?”
“Alia was a surprisingly strict parent,” she admitted. “But one time, when my mom was in a good period—I think I was about nine—we ate takeout in her bed. She called it a picnic, and she let us have Oreos, and she—” She bit her lip, remembering the delight of that evening. “She laughed. She didn’t laugh very often, but she laughed that night.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Alia is never going to let Robbie do anything like that. I’m going to have to be one of those aunties who sneaks him candy and stuff.”
“I’m in, too,” he said. “You and me. Between the two of us, we’ll make sure the kid grows up right.”
He tilted his head after saying that, probably realizing how it sounded. “More immediately, though, have you decided which donut you are going to defile the bed with?”
She giggled. “Glazed cinnamon twist.”
He handed it to her and she took a bite.
“Oh. Oh, God. God, that’s good.”
“Becca,” he said suddenly.
She thought he was going to make a crack about the donut, which was rather phallic in shape, or her outburst, which had definitely sounded orgasmic, but he said, “What did you tell Nate and Alia? About why you didn’t come home last night.”
She squinted at him. “Just not to wait up for me.”
“Did you say you were with me?”
“They don’t know we’re still—” She gestured at the bed around them.
“You going to tell them?”
“Depends, I guess.”
“On?”
“On what it is we’re doing,” she admitted. “I mean, if this is going to end in a week, then no. Because they’ll just make a fuss about it, and it’s just not worth it. But if—”
She stopped. Once she said it aloud, it would be impossible to take back. And the ball would be in his court, and she would know.
“Becca,” he said.
“Uh-huh?”
“Do you know what we’re doing? I mean, literally, right this second, in this bed.”
“Eating donuts and—”
Suddenly she got it.
“Eating donuts and drinking coffee.” Her voice cracked.
He nodded and reached for her hand. Squeezed it. “You killed my fear of complications. Killed it dead. I want complications with you.”
Her heart was pounding. Hard.
“Would you think about—? I know this is a big ask, but would you at least think about sticking around here a while? Maybe seeing if Jake could give you the receptionist job long term? Doing a little more work for Nate? I know,” he said, “one successful tutoring session and all that, but—”
The way he was looking at her, almost pleading, it was hard to breathe around the lump in her throat.
“Yes. I will think about it,” she said.
He looked startled. Like he hadn’t actually expected her to say yes, let alone so quickly. And then he broke out in a grin so big it made her smile, too, and the two of them just did that, beamed stupidly at each other until he took her donut and her coffee cup out of her hand and set them on the night stand.
Becca was very late to work, which she supposed didn’t make the best impression under the circumstances, but it had been the best morning she could remember. And she didn’t want to waste a crumb of it.
37
“Hi, Becca,” Jake called, rushing past her into his office. “Overslept!”
He’d come in even later than she had, but unlike her, he was not wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. He was, however, looking every bit as flustered. Becca got the distinct feeling that whatever went on in Jake and Mira’s house, it was off the charts. She didn’t like to think about the details, but it did make her smile, seeing this big, tough, in-charge man still acting like a teenager in love a decade into his relationship. It made her feel hopeful about romance.
Or maybe she was just so happy herself that other people’s happiness felt like icing on the Dundee pink donut.
His first patient was waiting for him, so she knew she wasn’t going to get a chance to ask Jake now about a permanent job, but maybe she could snag some time with him later. She got up from her desk and peeked her head into his office.
“Hey, Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I grab fifteen minutes with you later today?”
“It’s going to be a crazy one, Becca,” he said. “Tell you what. Is it something we can talk about tonight? At Friday Night Dinner?”
She shrugged. “Sure.” He’d made his last job offer to her at the dinner table in front of her family members, so she didn’t see why not.
“Okay. Remind me.”
Becca’s project that day was to clean out the desk, the perfect thing to do on only four hours of sleep.
Sibby might have been a stern taskmaster, but she wasn’t a neat freak. Becca tossed out, among other things, a half-eaten candy bar and a People magazine from five years ago. She found twenty black pens that still worked, threw away nine that didn’t, then turned up a brand-new unopened box of pens. Note to self, no office supply orders until you do an inventory.
She chatted with several repeat patients—she was getting to know them now: Garcia and his knee, Jaquizz and the neck pain that made him hold his head brittlely at an angle, McElroy who wouldn’t talk at all or even make eye contact—and met three new ones. She let Yuri Osterich see Jake even though he’d arrived ten minutes late. Sibby might have the ovaries to send away a guy who was clutching his hand and walking with a limp, but Becca was, for better or for worse, a softie.
She went to lunch, spotted Alia, and set her tray down. Her sister looked up, raised both eyebrows and said, “Yesterday’s clothes.”
“Don’t be judge-y.”
“When were you going to tell me that you were still sleeping with him?”
Becca sighed. “I wasn’t in a hurry to tell you, because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
Alia closed her eyes. “I just—”
“I know. You just don’t want me to get hurt. Well, I’m not going to get hurt. It’s not like that. He asked me if I’d think about staying here.”
Alia’s face went blank, and Becca’s stomach clenched. She pushed the tray, with her spaghetti-and-meatball lunch, away.
“Things are really good with him, Alia. You need to be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you,” Alia said. She did a creditable job of sounding and looking like she meant it. If the words—and the accompanying body language—had come from anyone Becca knew even slightly less well, she might have bought it, but she wasn’t convinced.
But there wasn’t much she could do about it, was there? Aside from hope that Alia was wrong to be wary.
“So are you going to stay?” Al
ia demanded. Now she was smiling for real. “Because you know that would make me really, really happy.” Then her look sharpened. “What are you planning to do for work?”
“I’m hoping Jake can find me something permanent.”
“Something with growth potential?”
“I didn’t ask him that,” Becca admitted. “But I will, Mom.”
“I just want what’s best for you.”
Becca gripped her sister’s hand, but she heard the warning behind the warmth in Alia’s words, too. And while part of her wanted to brush it off, another part of her curled in on itself, as if her sister’s wariness were catching.
The afternoon was peaceful, with the retreat winding down towards the weekend. Just before five, Becca’s brain ran out of steam for organizing the office space, and she began scrolling through the retreat’s Facebook page and making notes on how Jake could improve it. That’s what she was doing when the knock came at the door.
It was a woman, which was unusual. Almost everyone who walked through that door was a man and would be until the retreat opened its doors to female veterans, which was slated to happen next spring.
The woman was young—not much older than Becca—and strikingly pretty. She had long straight glossy black hair, dark wide-set eyes, and a rosebud mouth. She was like a Disney princess come to life. Her eyeliner winged at the corners and her lips were painted bright red. She wore skinny jeans and a metallic silver button-down shirt. Her body was lean but curvy. Becca couldn’t say why, but she knew this woman meant trouble for her.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Becca returned.
“I’m looking for Griff. Griff Ambrose.”
Something clicked, gears slowly grinding into action, and Becca’s stomach tumbled. “I—he’s—I’m not sure where he is right now.”
“Is there any way to get in touch with him? Let him know I’m here?”
“Is he expecting you?”
And who are you? Are you who I think you are?
But she didn’t ask, partly because she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear the answer.