Rm W/a Vu (19 page)

Annoyed that the only reason he asked me out was to get into my pants, I slam the door. “UGH!”

“Hey, take it easy, champ. What did the door ever do to you?” Greyston jokes.

Turning to face him a little too quickly, I topple over. Before I can hit the ground, though, Greyston is there to catch me. His arms are around my waist, and my shirt has risen up a couple of inches. I can feel the bare skin of his forearms against my flesh, and I exhale shakily.

“You’re drunk,” he points out.

I nod. “You’re like a detective,” I tease, poking his chest—his hard, muscley chest. As though my hand has a mind of its own, it flattens against his chest, but before I can get too out of control with my drunken groping, Greyston helps me upright, pulling my shirt back into place for me.

Killjoy.

I take in his appearance, noticing that he’s dressed in a white cotton tee and a pair of grey plaid pajama pants, and he looks absolutely delicious. He clears his throat, and when I look up at him, I think I barely catch a glimpse of him checking me out, too.
Weird.

“Why don’t you go change, and I’ll make you some coffee,” he offers, turning me toward the stairs. “You need to sober up a little, or you’ll be in a world of pain tomorrow.”

For some reason, my brain turns this into something dirty, and I envision whips and chains and stuff—like I thought his fun-room upstairs held.

I stumble on the first step because I am imagining being tied up, and also because I’ve got no control over my legs. Sitting on the stairs, I bend over to remove my shoes—because I’m certain they’re also culprits—but soon give up because it just seems like
a lot
of work.

Ever my knight-in-shining-armor, Greyston kneels before me and gently grabs my ankle, removing my right shoe and then my left. That familiar spark pulses beneath my skin and up my legs, coming to a full stop between my thighs. I wish his hands would follow that trail.

The minute I think it, his hand moves up from my ankle until it’s caressing my calf muscle. I’m certain it’s only been a few seconds—if that—but it feels like he’s been holding onto my leg for much,
much
longer. Biting my lip, I stare at him, trying to figure out the look in his eyes. Before I can analyze further, he glances away and sets my foot back on the stair.

“Go change. I’ll make coffee.”

He leaves me alone and confused. As if it isn’t bad enough that my mind is working over-time to wade through the alcohol, now I have to try and figure out why
he’s
acting so funny?

“Ugh,” I grumble, rolling over and pushing myself to my feet so I can climb the stairs. “Men suck.”

Opening my bedroom door, I walk into my room and shed my clothes, dropping them to the floor as I walk to my dresser. I pull out a pair of sleep shorts, a thin tank top, and a pink button-up flannel pajama top that is covered in bright red cherries. I pull them on, leaving it unbuttoned, and giggle because the color of it reminds me of Greyston’s ruined laundry.

Once I’m dressed, I brush my teeth, because the taste of beer has begun to make me feel nauseous. It’s possible I’m way more drunk than I’ve ever been. With minty-fresh breath, I head downstairs with the intention of going to the kitchen, but Greyston has just appeared with two cups of fresh coffee and leads me to the living room.

Before he gives me my coffee, he asks me to take a seat. “Here you go. Be careful; it’s hot.”

I take the mug from him, blow on it before taking a sip, and then set it on the coffee table. “Thanks.”

Greyston nods, smirking over the rim of his own cup as he takes a drink. “So, Erik seems
really
nice,” he says, and I have this weird feeling that I’ve heard that before… Oh right,
I
said it before leaving with the creep.

Playfully, I lean over and shove his shoulder. “Shut up. I was wrong, okay? You happy now?”

His smile disappears, and he sets his cup next to mine before turning to me. “No. Not happy. Do you have any idea how much I wanted to punch that guy?”

“There you go again,” I tease. “Always with the punching.”

Greyston laughs, making me feel better because I don’t like when he’s so tense. “Yes, I suppose I do need to work on my impulses.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I kind of wanted to punch him too. A couple of times, actually.” We’re both silent for a while, leaving me alone with far too many thoughts in my current state. I think back to my high school boyfriend, to Ben, and now to Erik. How is it I attract these guys? Am I emitting some kind of loser pheromone?

“I don’t get it,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “What’s wrong with me?”

Greyston’s eyes widen incredulously. “Excuse me?” I don’t elaborate further, because it seems like a pretty straightforward question. “Juliette, there’s nothing
wrong
with you.”

“Please,” I snort. “Then explain how I keep letting this happen.”

Moving closer to me, Greyston rests his arm along the back of the couch and exhales heavily. “Juliette, you’re the type of person who’s always trying to see the good in people. It’s not your fault that they fail to see just how amazing you really are.”

I scoff. “Yeah, okay.”

His eyes narrow, almost like he’s trying to get inside my head. Not exactly the safest place to be swimming right now. “How is it you don’t see just how great you are? You’re warm, compassionate…stunning.”

“You’re insane,” I tell him pointedly. “In fact, I think that’s it.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I reach out and rest my index finger against his mouth to silence him. “Shhh… I’m having an epiphany here. I think there’s a very real possibility that all men are crazy. That has to be it.” Greyston smiles against the pad of my finger, drawing my attention back to his mouth—to his perfect, soft, kissable lips.

Licking my own lips, I shift my hand slightly until it’s my thumb touching his mouth, and my gaze darts between it and his penetrating stare. “You know,” I say softly, “you’ve got the perfect Cupid’s bow.” My thumb moves lazily along the ridge of his upper lip, and his eyelids drop slightly.

“Juliette,” he whispers against my roaming thumb, his eyes falling closed while his hand comes up to cover—but not move—mine. The minute his thumb presses into the pulse point at my wrist, I know he can feel just how fast my heart is racing.

For him.

When his eyes open again, they’re a brilliant blue and filled with unmistakable want. While this confuses me, I also know without a doubt that I’m not imagining it. He continues to stare at me in a way I never expected, and when I think back over the last week, I come to realize that this isn’t the first time he’s looked at me…and I mean
really
looked at me.

I’m aware that my alcohol-induced state is probably forcing my brain to blow everything out of proportion, but there has to be something there; a spark that maybe, just maybe, has the potential to grow out of control.

I know it’s wrong, but I can’t fight it anymore. And with the amount I’ve had to drink tonight, I don’t know if I’d be able to fight it even if I wanted to. Impulsively, I move forward on the couch until my knees touch his thigh. Butterflies flutter wildly in my stomach at what I am about to do; never in a million years have I been the one to initiate anything, and while I know there’s a very real possibility that he’ll reject me, something in my brain tells me to proceed.

“I want to try something,” I tell him, my voice soft and raspy. I remove my thumb from his soft lips, letting my hand rub the scratchy stubble along his jaw, and I lean closer to him than I’ve ever been.

Our eyes are locked, our breathing is matched breath for labored breath, and he nods. I move in a little closer until the tip of my nose brushes his, and his hold on my hand tightens. My lips are so close to his I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Don’t. Move,” I instruct. His head bobs slightly in understanding, and I close the very small gap between us.

Chapter 15

I
only peck his lips at first, staring into his eyes to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t seem utterly repulsed, I kiss him again. This time, I press firmly, my bottom lip finding a home between his. With a moan, his mouth molds to mine, and his eyes close. Swept up in the moment, I allow my own eyes to flutter shut, and he drops my hand in favor of cradling my face.

In the back of my mind, I know this was only supposed to be an experiment—one I wasn’t sure he would allow me to conduct—but it appears to have been successful for the most part. His fingers move up into my hair, releasing it a little from the loosening hairpins and sending a delicious jolt of pleasure down my spine.

Even though I don’t want to, I stop kissing him, opening my eyes to find him staring at me, bewildered, and breathing quite heavily. I definitely see something there, something that pulls me back to him. That spark I saw only a moment ago has ignited, and my entire body feels like it’s caught fire; it’s all consuming, and there’s only one way to extinguish the burn.

I don’t think anymore; I act.

In a flash, I’m moving to straddle him, my lips seeking his out again, and I rejoice once they’ve made contact. It’s Greyston who makes the next move, his fingers curling in my hair, and his mouth parting slightly until I feel the sensual warmth of his tongue pressing against my lower lip. Soon, my own tongue is moving languidly against his as his hands move from my hair and run down the length of my back, stopping when they reach the curve of my backside. I can feel Greyston’s fingers trailing along the hemline of my sleep shorts, tickling the sensitive flesh right below my ass, while his thumbs move in firm strokes over the thin cotton fabric. The gentle movements of his fingers send shots of white-hot passion pulsing through my veins, and I can’t take it anymore; I shift my hips against him to quell the intense desire I’ve felt for this man for weeks.

A low growl escapes Greyston when I thrust toward him again, which only makes me want to kiss him harder and deeper. So, obviously, I do. He’s
more
than receptive to every single one of my impulses, pulling my hips to him again, a little rougher this time, and I gasp in surprise the minute I make contact with his own arousal.

“More,” I plead breathlessly against his lips, letting my hands travel down his body, grabbing at the hem of his shirt and tugging it upward so I can feel his bare chest with my hands. It’s then that his hands leave my backside and grab hold of my wrists, stopping me. He stops kissing me and just stares at me while we both pant heavily. Greyston’s lips are red and swollen from our kiss, and I can see my tousled reflection in his eyes.

 “Juliette,” he says, holding my hands still. While his eyes still scream with desire, there’s something else there too: remorse. “We can’t. Not like this.”

I feel sick to my stomach—and not because of the alcohol. Actually, I’m feeling slightly less drunk as reality comes crashing back down around me. I tug my wrists free and climb off of his lap, feeling pretty damn humiliated—and also like an awful human being because I basically just forced myself on Greyston with no warning.

He wanted it too
, I try to tell myself, but it doesn’t change the fact that I still acted without consideration for Toby. Toby, Greyston’s partner. I’ve turned Greyston into a cheater—the same thing I’ve condemned Ben for.

I press my fingers to my lips because they’re still hot and tingly from our kiss. “I-I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I-I—” There’s nothing I can think of saying that will make everything all right between us, so I rush from the living room and up the stairs.

Behind me, I hear Greyston get off the couch. “Damn it,” he curses quietly. “Juliette, wait.”

While I want to hear what he has to say, I also don’t think I can bear it. Not right now, anyway. I hurry up the last two stairs and fly into my room, closing the door and keeping all of the lights off before flopping down on my bed and staring at the door.

I fully realize that I’m not handling this the way I should be; I should be down there right now, talking to him and clearing the air between us. I guess I’m just scared. I’ve been rejected, cheated on, and more recently used, and I just don’t think I can handle Greyston telling me that what I was doing was wrong…that
I’m
wrong. For him. For everyone.

Basically, I’m a coward.

The light in the hall comes on, and I lift my head from my pillow the minute I see Greyston’s shadow appear beneath my door. There’s a gentle knock, followed by him whispering my name, but I don’t respond. I let him believe I’ve passed out. He stays put for a few minutes before eventually retreating to his room, and I’m left alone with my guilt until I finally succumb to sleep.