Page 78 of On The Rocks

I shifted on his rock-hard thighs. The guy was far more muscular than he looked. And the vague memory of spooning with him sneaked in until I ruthlessly shoved it back. He might be muscular, but he was still cuddly enough to comfort.

I’d been with gym-rat guys that looked great on the outside, but it was like touching plastic. Griffin wasn’t like that. But this couch wasnotmeant for cuddling.

Suddenly, he stood up with me in his arms, and I yelped.

“If we’re going to bare our souls, I need comfier clothes.”

Bruce sang “Hungry Heart” as he carted me up to the kitchen to toss the last of the pint back into the fridge. Then he juggled me so he could grab a pair of cans of water before heading back into the living room.

“I’m not a sack of potatoes.”

“Nothing sack-like about you, Lenny.” His grin was wolfish as he headed for his bedroom. “Grab the owl for me?”

I reached for the lever for his bedroom as the bookcase shifted and he pushed in the door. He set me on the bench.

“I was perfect capable of walking.”

“I like holding you.” He brushed a kiss along my forehead then went to his closet and came back with a white T-shirt with the E-Street Band emblazoned across the front. “Seems fitting.”

I took it. I wasn’t sure what it was about his shirts, but they were soft as hell. I was definitely stealing this one too.

Saying nothing, he went back to the built-in closet and tugged off his shirt. I had to make sure my tongue didn’t roll out when all his back muscles came into view. Most of his ink was relegated to his arms, but there was a hummingbird on his shoulder blade.

Small and green with a flash of pinkish red at the wings as if it was midflight.

As he dropped his jeans, my breath hitched for a whole new reason. Black boxer briefs cupped his tight butt. All sorts of muscles flexed as he took off his socks, as well, and tossed all of his clothes into a basket hidden in a lower panel. When he turned around, the cotton cupped all the rest of him that I enjoyed.

“Enjoying the view?”

“I am.” I stood up. “Are we getting into our jammies?”

He padded over to me and lifted my work shirt off me, then he reached around to the snaps of my bra. It flicked open a little too easily for my taste. I arched a brow at him.

“I’ve been getting into bras since I was fifteen.” He slid the army green lace down my arms, then he cupped me lightly and brushed his thumbs across my nipples until they tightened. His eyes were dark with hunger, but it wasn’t the intensity fromearlier. Just the quiet and confident kind that made my skin prickle.

I swayed toward him, but instead of moving this ride along, he reached around me for the shirt. He dropped it over my head, and it fell around me like a dress, then it slid off my shoulder. Then he slipped under the shirt to unbuckle my belt, then the button of my jeans, letting them drop to the floor.

He crouched in front of me, did the same for my socks and tossed them on the bench. He trailed the tips of his fingers up my legs, along my inner thighs, then skipped where I needed him most to rest his hands on my hips, pulling me into an easy dance while Bruce sang about the haunting “River”from the end of the album.

It wasn’t a romantic song.

It was full of pain and reality, along with so much longing for a different life.

It felt far too much like a soundtrack to a part of us. When the song ended, the record player clicked and another album that had been in the stack dropped, and the haunting vocals of James Arthur’s distinctive voice floated around us.

This song was chock full of longing in a different vein. It spoke of the one that got away. Of compromise and sadness.

It crawled into my chest and left a lump. Then his mouth lowered to mine and it started to dissolve. The kiss was light and sweet. As if he was content to simply learn me instead of devouring me like we had earlier that night.

As the soaring lyrics spoke of not being able to let go, I lifted my arms to his shoulders and held onto him.

I didn’t want to let go of him. Not tonight.

His hands slid down to cup my ass, drawing me against his hardness under the cotton, but still, he didn’t hurry. We swayed as the kiss spun out to tender touches of tongues and lips. Of theunfurling of a rising need that curled around us like the strings of the acoustic guitar that built around us.

His instrument, if not his music.

His deep and abiding love for music matched mine. It had been my only friend some days when I was moving from city to city, town to town, and job to job. The fun, the ache, and sometimes, yes, thepainhad kept me sane.

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