Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Chapter Twelve
BROOKS
I stalk into my room. Toss my key onto the dresser and spear my hands through my hair. Hold them at the back of my head as hunger rips through my body.
What. The fuck. Did I just do?
That kiss.
Her taste.
Her trust.
My lungs aren’t working, but my dick sure as hell is. I can’t touch it, though. I’ll know I’ll just think about Greer the whole time. Those sounds she made. How unafraid she was to take as much as she gave. She wanted, so she took.
She needed, so I gave.
I want to give her more. Show her that her needs are valid and important and should be attended to. That she shouldn’t leave herself behind by not asking for what she wants.
That fucking body of hers. Soft tits. Legs for days. I could make it sing. Any memory of burnout and stress gone.
The shit I could teach this girl.
Her hunger for knowledge is the best, most vicious aphrodisiac I’ve ever encountered.
I gasp for air. Glance at the minibar in the corner. Without thinking I grab the airplane bottle of Elijah Craig. Crack it open. Down it in a single, desperate gulp.
My skin sings, the buzz only intensifying my arousal. I look at the door. All it’d take is me opening it. Knocking on her door. Going inside her room.
That is all it would take to show her everything.
I can’t. I can’t. Porgeous. Her age. My major fuck-ups. My parents, and Margaux . . . I said I’d give her a chance . . .
I chant the reasons over and over inside my head.
The silence in my room is deafening. Being alone after having Greer in my arms is a special hell I was not prepared for.
She’s just there, on the other side of the wall. All it would take is one knock. One word.
I can’t.
But I want to. More than I’ve wanted something in a long, long time.
Coffees in hand, I take a deep breath and rap my knuckles against Greer’s door the next morning.
I don’t want to do this. But it has to be done.
I tossed and turned all night. Wondered if I should go the traditional WASP route and pretend the kiss never happened.
Instead, I put together the speech I’m about to deliver. One about me being bad and her being good and us never, ever touching each other again.
Really, I just want to hand her this coffee and get the fuck out of here. I could buy her a first-class flight home out of Asheville on Monday so she could stay if I drive back to Charlotte today. Her room is already paid for. So are all our meals.
But then she’d be alone here. Easy prey to the likes of Mike from Richmond.
We could both go home today. She needs a longer break, though. Twelve hours away isn’t going to come close to recharging Greer’s batteries.
I like that I got her thinking about what she needs. Liked that she confided in me. I want her to keep thinking, keep talking, which she won’t if I cut this trip short.
Helping her feel better makes me feel like I did a good thing. I could use the win. Especially this time of year.
I did not do a good thing by kissing her.
Not only because she’s young and romantic. But also because it was a fucking good kiss.
I wouldn’t say Greer is timid. But I had no idea just how passionate she could be. She put her whole being into that kiss, holding nothing back. I gave her a lesson, and in return she gave me everything.
Which is why a kiss like that cannot happen again. Even if I did stay up half the night fantasizing about what would’ve happened if I’d kept kissing her. Gone into her room.
I’d be fucking her for the third—fifth—time right now, that’s what. I’d’ve kept her up all night with my mouth between her legs. She’d come and she’d come and she’d come. She’d realize she’s perfect. Gorgeous. Way too good for . . . well, me, for starters.
Lizzie’s voice pops into my head, unbidden. Hey, butthead, that’s not true.
The door swings open. Greer stands in the threshold. She’s wearing a T-shirt and . . .
Nothing else.
Jesus.
Her hair’s a lush, messy halo, loose around her shoulders. Her bare legs are limned in the fuzzy white light particular to mornings in the Blue Ridge mountains. Lips still swollen.
Eyes still lit up. A little dazed. The way they were when I left her at her door last night.
“Hey!” She’s breathless.
I notice the darkened tips of her breasts are visible through her shirt. She’s obviously not wearing a bra.
My body leaps. To my very great dismay, the pull between us is stronger than ever. Her honesty—the nervousness of her smile, the hunger in the way she bites her lip—it drives me wild.