novelxo A False Start: Chapter 24
Griffin laid beside me in the field, and a companionable silence stretched between us. He may have flirted back with me, finally rising to my bait, but he didn’t take it any further. He didn’t put his hands on me. He didn’t crawl on top of me and take my clothes off, but he didn’t just disappear after getting naked with me, either.
He looked at me like I fascinated him. Like I was a treasure, like I held value to him. He laid there with me, not touching. Just talking. He listened to me, and I could see him turning my words over in his mind. I could see he wanted more, but he was respecting my space. I guess I made myself clear when I handed him his clothes and said goodnight.
I kicked him out because I was tripping out. The complicated feelings crashing through me after having sex with him were totally consuming and complicated, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I don’t want to be consumed by a boy. A man. Whatever. I don’t want to be that vulnerable to another person. Period.
And he gets that. Respects that.
But now I’m laying here in my tent wishing he were far less of a gentleman. A growly, rude, dirty-talking gentleman. Go figure.
He tried to fight me on staying out here rather than in his house. But I wasn’t having it. Staying in that house with him would be too tempting.
The way he claimed me last night. His gruff words, his sensual touches. God, his rough touches. I’d never had sex like that. Sex where it felt like the other person knew exactly where to put their hands. When. How hard. Knew to say something that would light me on fire. Followed by something sweet that would make me swoon.
Sex with Griffin Sinclaire was filthy and romantic all at once.
It was also addictive. I realized as I lie here, replaying it over and over again. His fingers in my mouth while he filled me up, the tenderness in his eyes, the reverence in his hands. The way his face had momentarily filled with disappointment when I all but told him to leave.
Usually guys were all for that, but Griffin had looked downright wounded. Like he would have stayed and held me all night long. And I hated that look on his face. I hate I want nothing more than to be lying in his arms.
I pull the sleeping bag up over my face and let a quiet, frustrated scream out. My plan was to stop having meaningless sex with meaningless men, and I figured I could break my rule for one night. I thought I could scratch that itch.
The problem is, Griffin is right. Nothing between us feels meaningless. And sitting here journaling until my vision blurs has brought me to that exact conclusion.
Catching feelings for a guy has always scared me. It ruined my mother’s life—almost ruined my life in the process—and keeping feelings and sex separate has been a sadly easy line for me to walk.
Until Griffin Fucking Sinclaire waltzed in with his growly moods and bristly fucking beard and ruined my streak. Never mind the shirtless lumberjack routine. That was just cruel temptation.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to have sex that meant something, but I went and fucking did it. And now I’m tripping balls.
My brother’s best friend. A man a good handful of years older than me. It’s bizarre that something so outwardly wrong can feel so damn right.
I flip the sleeping bag down and force a deep breath into my lungs, weighing my options. After a full day of working around this gorgeous goddamn oasis, I should be exhausted. But I’m jittery. Confused. Frustrated.
Horny.
So. Fucking. Horny.
I either need to be close to him or get as far away as possible from him. I know it in my bones. My options are: jump in my car and abandon Griffin up here, which would make me a huge dick, but might salvage the course my love life seems to be taking, or I walk up to that house, bang on the door, and tell him everything.
Lay it all on the line. Risk him treating me like I’m a tragic little girl who he got what he wanted from on the off chance that he wants to bang again.
He won’t. I know it.
Deep down, I know he won’t turn me away. I saw the shift. I felt it. And that’s the scariest part of it all. If I open myself up to him, will it ruin me? Will it make me want to quit school? Give up my dreams? Hide away in the mountains with him?
It almost sounds appealing, but I’d never forgive myself if I gave up on everything just to do that.
My heart rate jumps, and my breaths turn to anxious pants as my mind races through all the worst case-scenarios.
Only one way to find out.
I flip the sleeping bag off myself as I stand and burst through the tent flap. I don’t even bother with shoes. The damp grass tickles the bottoms of my feet as I jog up to the front door of Griffin’s beautiful little mountain house.
My knock is tentative. I glance over my shoulder briefly, wondering if I should have jogged to my car parked mere feet away from where I currently stand. Two options so close together, and yet so far apart.
The door swings open, and Griffin fills the space, an expanse of bare chest and bulging biceps covered in scrolling black patterns. His dark hair is loose and disheveled, and I can still feel it running between my fingers. All he’s wearing is a pair of simple gray shorts and a concerned scowl.
I love that scowl.
“What’s wrong?” He’s peering around behind me, like an axe murderer chased me up here.
“I’m scared,” I blurt out, squeezing the wrist cuffs of my oversized sweatshirt between my fists.
“Of what?” He’s still staring beyond me, like there’s something out there, one thick arm wrapping around my waist and pressing into the small of my back, pulling me into the protection of his house while he steps out past me. My breasts brush against his bare chest as he switches spots with me, like he can just waltz out there and slay my inner dragons while I curl up in the safety of his home.
I wish it were that simple.
“Nadia.” He turns, gripping my shoulders and crouching down just far enough to look me in the eye. “Did you hear something out there? See something?”
I blink, trying to find my nerve again.
“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, turning out to face the dark yard again. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you about staying out there by yourself. You don’t have to be so fucking tough all the time.”
He reaches for the rifle hanging by the back door, and my fingers find his bicep, stopping him in his tracks. My pink nails are a perfect contrast against the black ink there.
It’s true. I had been absurdly stubborn about staying in the tent rather than in his house. I felt like I needed the space.
“No,” I breathe. “I’m scared of this.” I can’t even look at him. I keep my eyes trained on his chest, searching madly for the words that this beautiful man deserves from me.
“This.” I wave a finger between us. “I’m scared of this. Us. You.” I turn my face up at the ceiling, tracing the lines of the doorjamb as I shove my fingers through my hair. “I’m scared of myself.”
I wait for him to say something, and I don’t know why. Griffin is a man of few words. I should have seen this coming. I should have known I wouldn’t be what he needs. He’s a man who knows what he wants out of life, and I’m the girl who’s flitted from guy to guy like she’s pollinating fucking flowers. “You know what, never mind. Forget I said that.” I laugh, but it’s a dark laugh. “I should have realized you’d be after something else.”
I move to shove past him. Fleeing. A-fucking-gain. Am I being childish? Maybe. But he’s got my head all jumbled. I’m not making a lot of sense, and I know it.
But his forearm wraps around my waist, and he yanks me into his body, my back pressing against the warmth of his chest as his heavily corded arms wrap around me like a vise. “Don’t tell me what I’m after, Wildflower.” His voice holds an edge of danger now, like I’ve said something that pisses him off. “Any man not after you is a fucking idiot.”
My heart thunders so loudly I can barely hear his deep, growly voice over its beat.
“Then why do you keep pushing me away? Or letting me push you away?” I sound small and sad and a little bit broken. My eyes flutter shut, as though that can block out the embarrassment of giving voice to that question. Why hasn’t he burned the world down to have me?
His beard rasps against the side of my neck as he cranes to catch my eye. “Why the fuck do you think?”
“Because I’m your best friend’s little sister who’s been out with half the guys in town? Because you got what you wanted from me now?” That’s a gross exaggeration and a sad attempt at sarcasm. It’s also possible that I’m being angry and combative—it’s my default mode.
His arms clamp down on my body even harder, one hand gripping my chin and turning me back to him. Pure fury dances in his eyes, but not the kind of fury I’ve seen before. This is different. He’s incensed. “Who told you the only thing you have to offer is what’s between your legs?”
My shitty dad and every shitty guy I’ve met since.
He rakes his fingers through his hair in agitation. “I could honestly tear apart every man who has ever made you doubt your value.”
I scoff and try to look away, jerking my head sharply and failing. His fingers bite into my jaw. “Fucking look at me when I tell you this, Nadia.” I blink rapidly but hold his wild gaze. “I don’t give a flying fuck who you’ve been with. You could have ridden every dick in the entire city of Vancouver, and I’d still want you. I’m happy to wait for you. Do you know why?”
“No,” I grit out. I genuinely cannot fathom why he wouldn’t care about that.
A feral smile touches his lips as he glares down at me. “Because my dick is the last one you’re ever going to ride.”
Shock courses through my veins, along with a disbelieving laugh. “You can be one cocky motherfucker, Sinclaire.”
His lips twitch, but he’s still perfectly intense when he says, “It’s true.” His thumb strokes my jawline as he stares down at me like I’m the night sky, full of complicated constellations, dark spots and bright flashes of pure light. “I push you away because I’m fourteen years older than you. I’ve lived a lot of life that you haven’t yet. There are days I feel so fucking washed up that I hardly think I’m worthy of your attention. I’ve got baggage inside my baggage. But I care less and less about that all the time. I’m trying so damn hard to be good, Nadia. I want to be good for you.”
His arms soften around me, and I turn in the cage of his embrace, feeling every point of contact as I do.
“I don’t care what other people think of me. I’m long past that, and I’m not asking your brother’s permission to take the one thing that has breathed life back into me since everything fell to pieces. I’m trying to be mature. I’m trying to give you space to figure yourself out. God knows, I’ve got some shit I need to figure out. And it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. But I care what you think of me. I want to be worthy of you. I’m afraid I’m not there yet. I know I’m not there yet.”
His hands cup my skull like I’m the most delicate piece of glass, his thumbs rubbing across tears I hadn’t even realized I’d spilled.
“I’m scared, too.” His breath whispers across my wet cheeks, and his forehead rests against mine as our eyes fall closed in unison. “I’m scared because I want to give you the world, and I know I can’t. Not yet.”
My hands go from fists to sliding across him, exploring the hard lines of his abdomen. “Just give me right now. Give me one day at a time. With you, they’re always better, and I just want more of the better days.”
He swallows loudly, and neither of us moves. My words hang in the air, suspended like they’re about to shatter on the floor between us if he doesn’t reach out and take them. Then this interaction will be what I feared, never mind my angry outburst before. If he turns me away now, I might never recov—
“I’ll give you all my right nows, Nadia. Every fucking last one. I’ll give you anything you want. I’ve been powerless since the first time I laid eyes on you.” His deep voice, what he’s just professed, sends gooseflesh racing over my body even though I’m warm in the cradle of his arms, and when his lips press against mine, every fear melts away.
He kisses me like he did that night. Not desperately, not roughly—reverently. He kisses me how I know I deserve to be kissed. The comforting rasp of his beard on my face sends a low throb between my legs and the soft swipe of his tongue against my own has me whimpering and turning to putty in his hands. Like my body knows that the two of us together are just right.
“That noise. You have no idea what that noise does to me.”
“What noise?” I whisper right as he presses me up against the doorframe and takes my mouth again, his tongue teasing mine with just the right amount of pressure as his fingers push a lock of hair back behind my ear. His touch lingers, and I whimper.
“That noise. Fuck this.” He pulls away, taking me in with furrowed brows. “You’re mine, Wildflower.”
He hoists me up, and my legs instantly wrap around his waist as he kicks the door closed behind us and carries me further into his house. I giggle in surprise and clamp on to him, loving the feel of his hands on my ass and those words on his lips.
Mine.
No one has ever said that to me before. No one has ever made me feel wanted the way Griffin does—wanted in the most complete way.
“Say it again.”
He storms across the little bungalow toward what I’m certain must be a bedroom. His eyes flash up to mine, the curtain of my blonde hair between us making me feel like we’re in some private bubble.
“Mine.” He growls and kisses me just beside my lips as he strides into the bedroom. He tosses me down onto the king-sized bed before standing over my body, looking over me like he’s a conqueror and I’m land that’s ripe for the taking.
The pure desire in his eyes takes my breath away, especially when they flash with possessiveness as he says, “You got that? You. Are. Mine.”
I nod eagerly, speechless, as he undresses, dropping his shorts to the floor. The room is lit by two bedside lamps, and I have a far more generous view of him than I had last night. Every hard line is more exaggerated as the light plays out across his mouth-watering body.
His body is perfect. Bulky in all the right spots, his calloused hands a result of how hard he works, the fine lines beside his eyes a testament to days when he might have laughed more.
I want to make him laugh more.
Within moments, he stands naked before me, in many ways. He’s shed his clothes, but he’s shed so much more. His insecurities, his restraint, he’s completely undone all for me.
He tugs at the ankles of my leggings, but his eyes never leave mine. He looks at me so closely that I almost can’t stand it. Like he sees every insecure corner and still wants to make me his.
“Prove it,” I say. My tongue whips out across my bottom lip, and a fountain of nerves bubble up within me as he tosses my leggings away. “If I’m yours, prove it.” I tip my chin up, not wanting to appear as vulnerable as I feel.
He falls to his knees at the end of the bed, letting his gaze move between my legs as his fingers grip my inner thighs and spreads me wide. “I thought we’d been over you not telling me what to do?”
“Really? I don’t recall—”
The movement is quick, but unmistakable. I gasp. The burn that follows is unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome. I push up on my elbows, panting. “Did you just slap my pussy?”
The look he gives me from beneath a crooked brow is completely devilish and so fucking hot. “This?” He takes two fingers and twists them into me, torturously slow, and my head falls back. “Is mine.”
I whimper right as his lips follow his fingers. He’s slow and intentional, every thrust, every kiss to my inner thighs. It’s the perfect symphony composed to drive me insane.
“Please.” I moan.
He pauses only to press a kiss to my knee and ask, “Please what?”
“Please . . .” I trail off. Fuck me, is what was at the tip of my tongue. But saying that right now feels wrong, and yet I can’t bring myself to say the other thing. I’ve put too much of myself out there tonight already. I’m not ready to give this that type of label yet.
“Please . . .” My mind races. Please what? The kisses he’s trailing up my inner thigh while he waits for me to find my words are so goddamn distracting. “Show me what gentle is like.”
His fingers flutter against my skin as he pauses, lips on me, and my heart aches with the confession. That I just want someone to hold me, to use their hands on me with something other than anger or messy, crazed lust.
“Anything you want, Wildflower,” he murmurs as he works his way up my body, taking my sweatshirt with him as he goes, peeling back the layers until all that’s left is him and me. Bared to each other. His eyes tell me as much, all traces of his growly indifference erased.
He kisses my stomach. “Mine.” He kisses my sternum. “Mine.” He kisses my temple. “Mine.” And then he holds me.
All our scars melt away as our hands trail over one another’s bodies.
All our restraints dissolve as he nudges the head of his hard length between my legs.
And all our hope for not falling head over heels for each other washes away as he pushes into me slowly, savoring every inch and whispering how incredible I am against the crook of my neck.
And as we rock into each other quietly, slowly—gently—a perfect tangle of limbs, I’m pretty sure I cross something monumental off my list without even trying.