Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Wasn’t reality.
I raise a glass. “Cheers to that.”
He catches me smiling above the brim of my wineglass as I, too, take a sip. “What?”
“This is nice,” I say, embarrassed by how earnest it sounds.
“It is,” he agrees, like he doesn’t need to qualify it. Then: “You want more?”
I do.
We continue eating, forkfuls stolen from each other’s plates even though our plates are the same, fire in the next room crackling, and the music changes to something older, slower.
“Okay,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “My turn to be honest: I’m a tiny bit tipsy.”
“Same.” I hold my fingers a fraction apart. “Like this much.”
“Have you ever danced in a kitchen?” he asks, almost shyly.
“I have never. But I’m willing to dance in yours, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He stands, pushes back his stool, and offers his hand like it’s not a big deal. Maybe it isn’t to him, but it is to me. So I slide off my stool and slide my palm into his.
So different from Hayes in a more rugged, mountain-man kind of way. Grady’s smile has me smiling back. His hands bracket my waist and tug me in—my fingers climbing his shoulders, the flannel soft under my touch, the man underneath decidedly not. He smells like soap and bourbon and cinnamon from the dessert we haven’t started yet . . .
He’s so close.
“You’re good at this,” I say, pretending my pulse isn’t in my mouth.
“At dancing?”
“Mm-hmm. I don’t do this enough.”
He hums low in his chest. “I don’t remember even dancing at weddings.”
The space between us shrinks a tad. I press closer. He presses closer. My knuckles brush the hair at his neck, and a shiver trips down his spine like I’ve found a switch. He feels me feel it; his hands tighten around my waist. An inevitable pull . . .
The song ends. Another begins.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Can I—” He gestures, the tiniest flicker toward my face. “If it’s okay.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, pulse in my mouth. Please do.
I want to see what it feels like kissing someone else.
Take away the memories of him.
Grady kisses me—gentle first, like he’s testing a lake with his toes. His mouth is warm and patient and then not patient at all, the kind of kiss that learns you quick and then decides to graduate early.
Damn.
I open for him on a startled sound I don’t mean to make, and the kiss deepens—lazy turns hungry, sweet turns sinfully curious. Grady tilts his head, and I swear I feel it in my spine. My hands end up in his shirt, fingers curling in flannel, tugging him closer because why the hell not?
Hayes is nowhere to be seen, Is He?
No.
God, Grady is warm. Tastes like red wine.
When he groans, the sound rockets straight to my vagina. I step forward until his back is against the counter without meaning to, laughter catching in my throat and dissolving when he kisses me; he didn’t plan on me being bold, but he’s absolutely here for it.
Excited.
Hopeful.
I didn’t expect this. Not with him, not tonight, not while the ghost of someone else clings to the edges of my thoughts. I’m desperate now to get the ghost of Hayes out of my mind, and Grady’s kisses are the perfect way to do it.
More, more, more . . .
“Trying real hard not to rush,” he admits, forehead to mine. “But you’re making that difficult.”
Heat nips at my skin. “A little difficult is fine.”
He lifts me onto the counter with a little gasp of surprise from both of us, and I hook my knees around him without thinking, pulling him in, letting the new angle turn sparks into heat.
His hands are big and strong at my waist, thumbs stroking juuust under my sweater, testing future territory. I fist the front of his flannel and pull him closer until there’s no polite space left.
“I like your hands there,” I whisper.
“Here?” He slides them higher along my ribs.
“Yes.” The word is a breathless wisp of permission.
“I keep thinking about how we only met this morning,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth like it’s fragile. “And now I’ve got you on my counter.”
“Weird coincidence—I was thinking the same thing.”
He drags his mouth along my throat, and I tip my head, offering. The scrape of his stubble, the careful press of his teeth, the slow stroke of his thumbs . . .
I rock forward, chasing the pressure, trying to push memories of Hayes out of my mind when Grady swears softly, forehead tipping to mine as we find a slow, filthy rhythm that’s nothing but friction and want and the wet sound of our mouths. Every place he touches feels new; every place he hasn’t touched yet is curious.
There’s hope for me, yet . . .
Still. Part of me wonders why I’m here.