Chapter Six
He froze,the competing urges to pull away and to draw her close making him unable to do anything at all. Anything, that is, except to lose himself in that kiss. One beat. Then another. And yet another after that before reality caught up with him, and he pushed her away with a regretful frown and a soft, “I’m sorry.”
Mortification bathed her face as she swallowed. “Oh, God. I didn’t mean—shit.” She drew a breath, and he watched, helpless to ease the awkwardness that had moved in, dulling the electricity that had been sparking between them.
“You know I want to,” he continued, “but I can’t—”
“Don’t even go there,” she snapped, embarrassment clearly giving way to anger. “Can’t? Goddammit, Griffin, you can do anything you want to with me. And I want you to. Don’t you get it? I want you. I want you one hundred percent, and I know you want me, too. So why the hell are you ruining this for both of us?”
“Bev, I—”
But she just shook her head and turned away from him. “I’ll—I’ll call you tomorrow and we can find a time to work on the script. This was stupid. Tonight was stupid. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll have erased it from my mind.”
He believed her. And the sudden realization that this might be his last chance to touch her—to have her—cut through him as viciously as a serrated blade.
Her hand was on the doorknob, and he crossed to her in two long steps, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward him.
“Griffin, what—”
But he didn’t let her finish. And he damn sure didn’t give himself time to change his mind. Instead he cupped her head with his right hand, not feeling the hair that brushed his burnt, damaged skin, but rejoicing in the pressure of her head against his open palm.
And then, before she could utter another syllable, he drew her closer, bent his head, and claimed her mouth with his.
The kiss was slow and deep and colored by the depth of the attraction they’d been battling. But there was no more battle now—there was only surrender.
“Bed,” she said, and he picked her up, carrying her like a bride to his bedroom.
“Beverly, I want—hell, I don’t want to hurry this, but I want you so bad I’m not sure I can go slow.”
“Believe me. Right there with you.” She grabbed his sweat jacket and tugged him down onto the bed with her. Her fingers closed on the zipper. “Are you sure?”
He felt a sharp stab of fear, but the look of genuine desire in her eyes calmed him, and he nodded.
She unzipped the jacket, and he shrugged it off, the hood and the sleeves abandoned to nothing more than a short-sleeved T-shirt, so that he was now revealing more than he’d revealed to almost anyone.
Her eyes met his before traveling to his face, his scalp. He knew she was seeing the burn around his eye. The section of his scalp where no hair would grow again. The mottled, raised scars where there should be smooth skin.
Gingerly, her hand went to his brow. “Can you feel this?”
He shook his head. “No. Not anywhere the scars are bad. The nerve endings were destroyed. We thought a drug trial I was on might restore feeling, but it didn’t.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a total loss, though. I got back some range of motion. You should appreciate that this evening,” he added, winking his left eye at her and making her laugh.
“Well, what about here?” she asked, brushing her finger over his left eyebrow.
“That I’ve got.”
“And here?” This time her fingers traced his lips, and when he started to say yes, she slipped her finger inside his mouth, then closed her eyes as he sucked on the digit.
“I like that,” she said. She opened her eyes, then hooked her arm around his neck. “And what about this?” she asked then pulled him in for a kiss. But this was no slow, seductive kiss. This was wild. This was passion. This was kissing as sex, and as their mouths moved together, hot and sinful, he felt his cock get even harder than he already was. His body primed. Craving. Needing.
“Take off your shirt,” she demanded, her voice breathy when they broke the kiss.
“You first,” he replied, making her laugh. He didn’t give her time to answer. Instead, he began to slowly unbutton the tiny, flower-shaped buttons on her blouse.
“Rip it off,” she said.
He looked at her, his brow raised.
She shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “Call it a fantasy. I want you to rip my clothes off.”