Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
This heat. This connection. All this possibility.
It’s like a whole new first kiss as his mouth takes over, owning my lips. A heavy warmth spreads in my body, along my thighs, down to my dick, where it sets up camp.
I’m aching with arousal. Hungry to get reacquainted with this man.
But I’ll take whatever he’s willing to give—and give he does. He kisses deep and hard, his tongue skating over mine, his lips feasting like we’ve never done this before and it’s all we ever want to do.
He groans as he kisses me, and his noises ignite flares of pleasure. Here, there, a spark, a flame, a fire. They make me moan too, and our mingling sounds are like jet fuel. This kiss is rocketing to the stratosphere, powered by harsh breaths and hot growls, and now . . . hands.
His hands cover me. Those big, strong hands that I’ve missed.
With one palm, he holds my head while his other snakes around my waist to my back, then covers my ass.
Curling over me. Squeezing possessively.
My entire head turns hazy.
Neon lights flash everywhere in my mind as my body becomes like Vegas lit up at night, blinking, broadcasting its wishes across billboards, blasting its desires on sound systems across the whole city.
He is all my desires.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m still his, I think as he yanks me against him, letting me feel what I do to him. The same damn thing he does to me.
Everything.
That’s when I take over.
With his back against the counter, I slam my body to his. I press and grind against him, grabbing his face, holding him tight, devouring those lips I’ve missed. Kissing him all night long sounds like exactly what I want to do. Rubbing my beard against his clean-shaven jaw draws out a wild groan from him. From me.
We kiss feverishly, in a hot frenzy of need, of want, of coming back together.
But soon, he slides a hand down my chest, gently pressing me away.
Breaking the world’s sexiest kiss.
And I want to whimper.
He runs his thumb along my beard. “I like this,” he says, all hot and needy. “A lot.”
“Good.” I let out a staggered breath as he strokes my jaw, and my gaze drifts to his hand on me. “I like that. A lot.”
A smile curves his lips for a split second, then his expression turns serious as his eyes meet mine. “I needed to know.”
My brow knits. “Know what?”
“If it still felt the same,” he says, lust coloring his tone, but a hint of sadness too. “Kissing you.”
“The verdict?” I ask, hoping his answer rocks my world.
“It’s better,” he says heavily. “That’s the problem.” He slides away from me, tips his forehead to the living room. “Let’s talk.”
Kissing was never the hard part, but talking has always been tough.
But it’s time to start.
17
Declan
As soon as Grant joins me on the couch, I dive off the cliff.
“My father is an alcoholic. He started drinking when I was in grade school. It got worse and worse. Arguing, fighting with my mom, lobbing accusations at her.”
It’s like an excavation, digging into this. It feels like a bulldozer is scooping out my insides. “He’d accuse her of cheating—which she wasn’t, but it didn’t stop him. If she was happy, he figured she was cheating. If she was sad, he figured she missed her boyfriend. She didn’t have a boyfriend; she was just trying to keep her shit together and to help him.”
“Ah, man. That sounds so hard,” he says gently, his hand inching closer to mine on the cushion.
I record that response, how his gut reaction is to touch me. To reassure me with contact.
“He started drinking more, even when he was coaching my baseball team. Like, I could tell something was off. He was boisterous.”
“He was coaching . . . under the influence?”
“Yeah,” I say, still embarrassed at the memories of those days when I started to understand the fine differences between tipsy, buzzed, and drunk. “Soon, he stopped coaching because he missed too many practices. Then he was just a dad. A dad who showed up at my games drunk.”
“Deck . . .” Grant’s voice is full of empathy.
“Cheering me on while he reeked of tequila,” I continue, and I can’t look at Grant as I tell him this next bit. “When I was thirteen and was in this championship series, he didn’t show. Not until the end.” I draw a deep breath for courage and say words I’ve never spoken to anyone. Not even Emma. She knows the basics, but not the specifics. “He was there when I hit the game-winning homer, and he stumbled onto the field and fell over on home plate, completely smashed. Everyone stared at me, at us. Then they all looked away.”
Grant gives a heavy nod. “That’s seriously rough. I feel you, man. That must have hurt so much.”