by Beth Andrews
He was perfect. Dusky skin, a sprinkling of dark hair across his wide chest, flat abs. She smoothed her palms over his chest, across his beaded nipples. He kissed her again, trapping her hands between them. Her fingers curled, scratched his skin and he deepened the kiss, his hands gliding underneath her dress to trail up the back of her thighs.
Spinning her around, he edged her forward until she stood before her large dresser, their reflection in the mirror. He tugged down the zipper at her back, pushed the straps off her shoulders. She slipped her arms free and dragged the dress past her hips. It pooled at her feet and she kicked it aside as Griffin reached around and unhooked the front of her bra.
She watched their reflection as his big hands pulled the cups aside exposing her breasts. Her nipples tightened. Her breath caught. He hooked his forefingers under the straps and slowly drew them down her arms.
“Angel,” he said huskily, reverently, his body big and warm at her back, “you are so beautiful.”
Her eyes on his in the mirror, she lifted his hands to her breasts. “I’m not an angel.”
“Nora,” he breathed, cupping her. “Beautiful, sweet Nora.”
He rubbed his thumbs across her nipples, gently pinched and pulled until she bucked against him. He slid his hands across her rib cage, over her belly to her panties, pulled them down. She stepped out of them as he gathered her hair in his hand, latched his mouth onto the side of her neck and suckled gently.
She gasped, pressed back into him. He rolled his hips, his khakis rough against her skin, his erection nestled at the base of her spine. His hand went to the dense curls between her thighs, his fingers warm…his touch sure.
Pressure built. Her body heated. He laid the flat of his other hand on her stomach, held her against him. The sight of them in the mirror, his expression so fierce, his hands on her undid her. Her breathing quickened, her pelvic muscles contracted.
Looking into his eyes, she flew over the edge into pleasure.
* * *
GRIFFIN HAD NEVER seen anything so beautiful. Nora leaned back, her head against his shoulder but her eyes stayed on his in the mirror and he watched them darken as her body convulsed with her orgasm.
She was bowed back, her back arched, her hair brushing his chin, her ass pressing his arousal, her lips parted on a soundless gasp.
When she came down, he stroked her hair, laid his mouth on the side of her neck, the salty taste of her skin on his lips. He gripped her hips and gently turned her around, pressed a soft kiss to her still open mouth. She was so lovely, so perfect. She deserved for him to be gentle. To take care of her.
But her hands went to his pants, began unfastening them.
“You in a hurry?” he asked on a half-laugh as she fumbled with his belt, yanked his zipper down.
She kissed him, a hard, possessive kiss that about knocked him off his feet. “Yes.”
And she shoved his pants and briefs down his legs then made a sound of exasperation to realize he still had his boots on.
Before he could move, she knelt in front of him and untied his boots, tugged at them until he toed them off. Then she pulled off his pants.
And the sight of her kneeling by his feet, her hair a golden cloud, her skin still flushed from her orgasm about did him in.
She trailed her fingernails lightly up the back of his calves. He shuddered.
“The bed,” he managed to say through grit teeth.
She just shook her head and continued that slow torture. Across each knee, up the front of his thighs around to his ass and back down again. The next time she went up, she used her fingertips, her touch featherlight, up his inner thighs before tracing the underside of his penis. It jumped.
Sweat broke out along his forehead. He fisted his hands at his sides while she touched the length of him. Tipped his head back on a groan when she circled the head then wrapped her soft, warm hand around the base and kissed the head.
He yanked her to her feet, kissed her voraciously.
“Bed,” he said again when he came up for air.
Her arms linked around his neck, her beaded nipples brushing against his chest, she leaned back and shook her head. “I like it right here.”
She reached back and opened the top right drawer, took out a box of condoms and shook out a package.
His head was spinning, his body throbbing. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what she was saying, what she was doing. But then she slowly rolled the condom on him and turned back to the dresser, her hands on the glossy top.
She smiled at him in the mirror.
Any and all thoughts of taking his time, of showing her what she meant to him, of treasuring her, flew out of his head. She wanted him. Here. Now. And he couldn’t hold back.
Watching her reflection, he rubbed the tip of his erection against her opening. So slick. So hot. She bit her lower lip. Then he entered her slowly, never taking his eyes from her face, from the pleasure in her expression.
He held her hips, adjusted her better against him and stroked in and out. In and out. Her eyes went glassy and unfocused. Her mouth opened on a soundless cry. His pulse thundered in his ears. His movements quickened. He felt her tighten around him.
“Griffin,” she gasped, her gaze holding his. “I see you. Only you.”
He knew what she meant. He’d told her when he looked in the mirror he saw his father.
She saw only him.
It was that thought, knowing it was true, that sent him tumbling over the edge, taking her with him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I’LL GO with you,” Griffin said the next morning while Nora made scrambled eggs.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her stomach flipping pleasantly. They’d made love twice more, once in the shower—where brooding Griffin York had gently washed her hair—and again an hour ago when he woke her with kisses, his big body pressing her into the mattress, his arousal nudging her heat.
Now he stood at her counter making toast, his feet bare, his shirt open, his hair mussed. He was all scowly and so sexy she wanted to push him onto a chair, straddle him and do it all—every position they’d tried, every touch they’d shared—over again.
But not until she’d had something to eat. She wasn’t a robot after all.
“Where are we going?” she asked, turning the burner off and sprinkling salt and pepper into the pan.
The toast popped up. “When you talk to your uncle tomorrow.”
She stilled but then forced herself to go through the motions of plating the eggs, getting forks from the drawer. “Thank you,” she said. He couldn’t know how much it meant to her that he offered. “I would love to have you with me…”
He looked up from buttering the toast, his eyebrows drawn together. “But?”
“But…I think…given the nature of what Uncle Ken and I have to discuss, it would better if I went alone.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, squeezed his arm. “Could you… Do you think maybe you could maybe meet me after, though?” She tried to smile, to lighten her tone. “I promise not to cry on your shoulder.”
“I don’t mind if you do,” he told her so solemnly, so sweetly, her throat clogged.
She cleared it. “Thank you,” she said, setting the plates on the table before pouring orange juice into two glasses.
He sat and dug into his eggs, grabbed a piece of toast from the pile he’d made. She could easily imagine him, in her kitchen, making breakfast with her day after day. Could picture him in her bed at night. Could see him in
her life, with her, forever.
“What?” he asked around a mouthful.
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring at me. And you’re smiling.”
She scooped up a bite of eggs. “I’m only staring because you’re so damn pretty. And the smile is just one of those biological responses to happiness.” She chewed. Swallowed. “You should try it some time.”
His lips turned up, his gaze heated. “If you keep doing that trick you did last night in the shower, I’ll never stop grinning.”
“Yeah,” she said smugly, knowing exactly which trick he meant, “that’s a good move. Although—” She dropped her voice, slid her hand up his thigh. “I’m not sure I’ve perfected it yet. Maybe I need more practice.”
He covered her hand with his. “You kill me,” he said softly, his gaze serious. “In the very best possible way.”
Her heart tumbled, then fell when he lifted her hand and pressed a warm kiss to her palm.
Someone pounded on the front door. Nora frowned and glanced at the microwave clock. 8:11.
“Hold that thought,” she told him, getting to her feet.
When she reached the front door, she opened it to find Layne and Ross Taylor. “Well,” Nora said, taking in their dark blue uniforms, the identical grim expressions on their faces, “this can’t be good.”
“You’re not answering your phone,” Layne said as she pushed past Nora and walked into the living room. Ross at least waited until Nora stepped back, gestured for him to enter.
“No,” Nora said, shutting the door, “I’m not.” She couldn’t even remember where she’d left her cell phone after getting home last night and she’d never bothered getting a landline. “I’ve been busy.”
“So I see,” Layne said flatly as Griffin entered the room.
“I’m pretty sure everything we did last night was still legal in the state of Massachusetts,” he said, causing Layne’s eyes to narrow dangerously. “No need to arrest us.”
“What’s going on?” Nora asked before Layne could think of one of her pithy responses. “Is everything all right?”
“Actually we were hoping to find Mr. York here,” Ross said with a nod toward Griffin. The chief was all competence and control with his steady blue eyes and Boston accent. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that your father has passed away.”
A chill gripped Nora. Had her hugging her arms around herself. She looked to Griffin but he seemed as shocked as she was so she turned back to Layne. “What? What did he just say?”
“He’s dead,” Layne said, sounding like a cop, emotionless and removed, but her eyes told another story. “Dale York is dead.”
* * *
THE BASTARD DIED in his sleep.
Griffin grabbed a beer from his refrigerator, twisted the cap off and drank deeply. Wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Sudden, severe cardiac arrest according to the coroner who performed the autopsy. He hadn’t suffered.
He should’ve suffered. For what he’d done to Nora, for what he’d done to Griffin and his mother. Christ, he’d taken Valerie Sullivan’s life. For that alone, he should’ve spent the rest of his miserable life in prison. Instead he’d never be punished, never be found guilty.
The truth would never come out.
He took another drink. Maybe that was for the best. At least this way, Nora wouldn’t have to worry about the secret of her mother’s affair with her uncle coming to light.
He blew out a shaky breath. He’d left her yesterday. Had just…walked out after Chief Taylor and Layne told them a hotel maid had found Dale’s body early that morning. He hadn’t been able to face her, not when he’d had too many emotions roiling through him. So he’d pretended not to see the hurt in her eyes, how stricken she’d seemed when he left without a word.
He’d spent the rest of the day on his bike, drove up the coast until night had overtaken the day, then he’d gone even farther until he’d had to stop, to spend the night at some dive motel. After catching a few hours of restless sleep, he’d turned back to Mystic Point.
He’d wanted to call her. Had even rode past her house, stared at the windows like some damn stalker, hoping and wishing for things he could never have. But it was better to be alone. Safer.
He lifted the bottle back to his mouth. The sound of the front door opening had him turning, his shoulders tensing.
But it wasn’t Nora walking into his house as if she owned the place. It was his mother.
He never should’ve given her a key.
She shut her eyes in relief when she saw him, her hand over her heart. “You’re here. Thank God. I was so worried—”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, cursing himself when she flinched.
Like she used to when his father raised his voice. Raised his hand.
But then she straightened her shoulders. “I’m here because you haven’t returned any of my phone calls. Because you’re not at work.” Her tone softened and she stepped closer. “I’m here because I was worried.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine.” He lifted his beer, drained it and got out another one. “Just fine.”
She frowned. “Do you think that’s going to help?”
“It can’t hurt.”
Nothing could hurt him. He wouldn’t let it.
“Why don’t you come over for dinner?” she asked gently.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Griffin,” she said, approaching him like she would a wounded, wild animal, “honey, I don’t think you should be alone. Come with me. Come home.”
Resentment built, tightening his chest with pressure. With bitterness. “You never gave me a home.”
But she’d given one to Tanner. Had married a good man, had raised her second son in a house without violence and anger and fear.
“I did my best,” Carol said, her eyes stark.
“You stayed with him,” he said, the words ripping from his throat. “You stayed with that bastard for all those years.”
His words seemed suspended in the air between them. Ugly. Accusing. His stomach churned. He’d only said the truth, he assured himself, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gone too far.
Too bad he had no idea how to take his words back. How to fix it.
His mom blanched and she swallowed visibly. “The first time Dale hit me,” she said softly, “was shortly after we were married. I was shocked. I’d never been hit before, never had anyone hurt me. Up until then he’d been so…wonderful. So charming. When he apologized, I forgave him. When he told me it’d never happen again, I believed him. How could I not? He seemed so sincere. So truly sorry.” Her fingers were white on the strap of her purse. “I loved him. Had vowed to love him for the rest of my life.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Griffin said, not wanting to hear this, not wanting to see how much Dale had damaged her. How much pain Griffin’s words had caused her.
She just shook her head. “But then it happened again. And again. And I started to wonder what I was doing wrong. Why I kept making the same mistakes, the ones that pushed him to hurt me.” Tears glimmered in her eyes but her voice was strong. “I started to believe it when he said I was ugly and stupid and worthless. That no one would ever love me but him. That he’d kill me if I ever left him, if I ever went against him.”
Griffin’s stomach burned. He lifted an unsteady hand to reach for her. She stepped back and he let his arm drop. Knew that the least he could do was hear her out. She deserved that much from him. That much and so much more.
“All I could think about was getting through the day without setting him off,” she continued relentlessly. “I learned how to gauge his every mood and I hid my bruises the best I could and, yes, I taught you how to live in fear because that was the life I knew. That was the only life I felt I deserve
d. But then you got old enough, big enough to try to protect me, and he hurt you, too. And I’m sorry for that, Griffin. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t change the past, I can’t undo the mistakes I’ve made or give you the childhood you deserved. And for that, you’ll never forgive me, will you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I’ve tried so hard to make it up to you but it’s never enough. It’ll never be enough for you.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. All he could do was stand silent while she walked away, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Griffin was afraid she was right. Afraid he couldn’t forgive her. That he didn’t know how. Wasn’t capable of it.
And what kind of man did that make him?
* * *
AN HOUR AND another beer later, someone knocked on the kitchen door. Griffin ignored it, not even looking up from where he sat at the table, his legs out straight, his shoulders hunched. They knocked again. By the third time, the knock had changed to a pounding and, from the sounds of it, a few kicks for good measure.
Grabbing the bottle, he stormed over and yanked open the door.
Nora, holding two plastic bags and looking beautiful and untouchable, smiled at him.
Goddamn it.
He slouched in the doorway. Took a drink. “Something I can do for you, angel?”
She raised an eyebrow, looking at him in that way that made him feel like she could see inside his head. Didn’t he deserve to have some thoughts of his own? He didn’t want to share every damn piece of himself.
“Nope,” she said, ducking under his arm and into the house.
He stood frozen staring out at the side of his garage. What the hell had just happened?
He slammed the door shut. “I don’t remember inviting you in,” he said as Nora stood in his dingy kitchen looking as out of place as a nun in a strip club with her dark jeans and a short-sleeve top that barely skimmed the waistband of her pants. Her hair spilled down her back, those damn diamonds at her ears.
“If I waited for you to invite me in,” she said in that calm way of hers that only made him feel more out of control, more like he wanted to shake that calmness out of her, shock it out of her, “I’d still be outside.”