Her lips, sweet and wet, meet his. His entire body tenses at the contact and then as she melts into him, he hooks an arm around her waist, pinning her against him. Christ, she feels like everything a woman should. Soft, full of curves, feminine, yet strong. A hard shudder rockets through Griff. His body’s damn near ready to overheat from her nearness. Every part of him needs her worse than he ever has, is crying out to taste every inch of her.
She rakes her fingers through his hair and moans into his mouth.
This kiss is all Alabama, and yet it’s a far cry from the girl he knew. His girl is a woman and she’s doing things to him that he never knew she could do.
Things like make really bad decisions.
Fuck.
That thought has Griff’s growl of lust curdling in his throat. That thought forces Griff’s brain to regroup, to man up and recognize just what the hell is happening. Alabama’s goddamn gorgeous, and all over him, and drunk.
She’s drunk as shit.
As much as it pains him, literally, he forces himself to tear his lips away from Alabama’s. He does this, he’s no better than Bolo Tie taking Alabama out back into the alley.
She sits there, panting, a stunned look on her face. Then she leans in, trying to kiss him again, to go back for round two, but Griff braces himself. He cups her bare shoulders. Holding her upright, he presses her gently away from him.
“No, Al. We can’t.”
“Griff ...”
Alabama’s pleading whisper nearly rips him in half.
“Oh, we’re gonna do this,” he tells her, brushing a finger across her cheekbone. His mind’s already made up—he’s having Alabama. “Just not now. Not tonight.” He tucks a long lock of copper hair behind her ear. “You’re drunk and I ain’t that guy and you deserve better.”
She nods, her eyes downcast, her expression disappointed.
“Let’s get you some water, sweetheart, then get you into bed.”
After a careful glance at Alabama, who sits with sagged shoulders, Griff exits the room to fill a glass of water in the small bathroom. He stares back at his harried reflection in the mirror, willing his cock to play dead, wondering how in the hell he got to be such a goddamn saint.
Alabama, he thinks. It’s the closest to heaven he’s gonna get, his lips on hers. That’s not to say she ain’t playing the devil with that hot-as-hell body of hers.
When he returns to the bedroom, he swears.
Alabama’s passed out cold, lying on her side, one slender arm dangling off the bed, her fingers splayed.
Griff goes to her. Gently, he scoops her into his arms and then lowers her into the bed. Her head rolls off the pillow to her right shoulder, a thin veil of copper hair obscuring her pale face. He brushes a tender hand across her brow, his heart wrenching violently. She looks so fucking gorgeous, so vulnerable and strong at the same time.
Griff covers her with a blanket and then trudges over to a corner of the room, where he settles into a chair. He knows the proper thing to do is leave, but he ain’t taking the chance on her waking up and getting sick with no one around to help her. He’ll stay, wait a few hours to make sure she’s okay, and then he’ll go.
Griff gives Alabama one last long look, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. As he stares at her, he knows his mind’s made up. He’s told himself time and time again he wouldn’t do this with her, he’d stay the fuck away, but he can’t fight it any longer.
He wants her.
In every way he can possibly have her.