Page 41 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Lowering the arm from behind his head, he pushed the sheet away. With his head tilted to the side, still smoking his joint, he gripped the base of his erection. He studied me while his hand slid up to the crown, and I watched, helplessly fascinated. How the hell did all of him fit inside me?
With just a few strokes, he was ready for me. Was he still high? Drunk? Because it didn’t seem possible he could do this again so soon. But what did I know? Fifteen minutes ago, I was a virgin. I’d never been in this particular situation before.
“Do you want this?”
My eyes dragged up until they met his heavy-lidded stare. I was painfully aware of my body’s response. The way my own wetness dampened my thighs. How my heart accelerated, thumping so hard he surely must have heard it.
“I’ll die if you don’t kiss me,” I whispered, and his eyes widened the slightest bit with surprise. “Please, Greyson. Please…”
“I told you I’d want you more than once.” Greyson traced my bottom lip using the pad of his thumb. Leaning over to the nightstand, he snubbed out the joint and snatched up another condom from the mirrored surface. In a matter of seconds, the package was ripped open and the rubber material encased him.
Leaning forward, his mouth inches from capturing mine, he grinned. “Saddle up. And, sweetheart? Hearing you beg is my favorite part.”
This Greyson Finchis not the same man who turned me inside out that night in West Hollywood.
This Greyson Finch is surprisingly sweet andmostly respectful. He’s funny and attentive, but an unknown element of danger still swirls around him. It makes this man irresistible. I am oddly saddened that, someday, one lucky woman might have that beautiful smile aimed in her direction for the rest of her life. What would I do to be that woman? What would I sacrifice to make it happen?
Why am I even considering it? My thoughts have turned dangerous. They scare me.
Greyson’s eyes narrow as if he’s abruptly figured out something vitally important. Desperate to snap the tension billowing between us, I reach for my wine. I grip the stem tightly before recognizing my agitation might crack it.
Taking a sip, the sound of approval slipping from me is almost a moan. I blush furiously but babble on. “Oh, this is really good. What’s it called again?”
Greyson’s gaze drops to my mouth. An air of satisfaction wars with the hunger emanating off him. I am stupidly and deeply affected by it. The look on his face says everything. He wants to eat me alive and I revel in the knowledge.
Because I’m hungry, too. For him. I want to jump on him like he’s the winning bronco at a rodeo. All I gotta do is hang on for eight seconds and the prize is all mine.
“Batard-Montrachet. Do you like it?”
I nod and take another gulp.
His smile is indulgent and worldly and, at that moment, he looks nothing like the strung-out rockstar I knew before. “You should sip it. It’s meant to be savored. How is the grouper?”
“Excellent. But I expected nothing less.” My next taste of the crisp white wine is a sophisticated one. “Did you know Geoffrey is a James Beard award recipient?”
“No, I didn’t know.” Greyson takes a bite of the fish. “You’re right. It’s perfect. Have you known Geoffrey long?”
I hear a tiny edge in his tone when he says the chef’s name, but I can’t fully decipher the reason behind it. “Not very long. He moved here from Las Vegas about five years ago. Since my grandpop was good friends with The Shayla’s owners, we came to know him quite well.”
There’s no reply to that and, for a few more moments, we simply enjoy the dinner and the beautiful evening. It’s a comfortable silence, accentuated by the faint crashing of the waves as the tide rolls in, and the music playing softly. Down along the shoreline, seagulls cartwheel about in the breeze, their faint cries carried on wind currents that reach us on the terrace.
When we finish eating, Greyson waves off my help, taking our dishes and placing them in a cart Geoffrey left behind. Pouring us a second glass of wine, he gestures toward the gift waiting to be opened.
“There was no need for that, you know.”
“I know.” I settle back in my chair, carefully holding the wineglass by its delicate stem. “My mom is a stickler for such things. If someone invites you to their home, you always take a small gift as a way of showing thanks. It’s a southern thing, I suppose.”
Greyson frowns thoughtfully. “Still, you shouldn’t have.”
“Do you want to open it?”
His expressive gold-green eyes shoot to mine, the intensity swirling in their depths making my breath catch. He’s so damn good looking. Like a dark, fallen angel, surrounded by the sun’s rays as it begins its descent into the ocean. “Of course, I do,” he says huskily, reaching for the kraft paper encased square.
In short order, the wrapping and the ribbon are torn away, but upon removing the lid, Greyson just stares at the box’s contents.
It feels like a black cloud passed over the sun, turning me abruptly cold. The blood in my veins thumps with increasing intensity the longer he is silent.
I’ve overstepped. Made a huge mistake.
