Page 6 of Mountain Man's Longing
Instead, he says, “Any chance you know how to play Gin Rummy?”
Chapter four
Brenna
Minutes later, we’re settled on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, the cards dealt between us. I’m stretched out on my stomach, my chin propped in my hands, calves bent up behind me. Graham’s gaze keeps drifting over my body.
“I used to play this for hours,” he says, arranging his cards. “But it’s been a while.”
“My grandmother taught me,” I admit, picking up my hand and doing my best interpretation of my prim and proper mother’s mother. “‘Ladies should know proper card games.’”
A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “And do you? Know proper card games?”
“I know this one. And Spades.” I study my cards, acutely aware of how close we are. “Though I suspect you played for higher stakes than cucumber sandwiches and gossip.”
That earns me a genuine laugh, deep and rumbling, and the sound makes me smile. When was the last time I made a man laugh like that? The boys in my circle treat me like either precious china or an acquisition. But Graham looks at me as if I’m…interesting. As if he’s curious to hear what I might say next.
We play in comfortable silence broken by occasional banter about our hands. But I’m distracted by the way the firelight catches the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, by the sure way his calloused hands hold the cards.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, without looking up from his cards.
Heat floods my cheeks. My heart hammers against the rug beneath me as I meet his gaze. “Maybe, I see something I like.”
The air crackles between us as Graham’s storm-gray eyes hold mine. The cards in my hand are forgotten as heat spreads through my body like warm honey.
“Gin,” he says quietly, laying down his hand.
I barely glance at his cards. “You won.”
“We didn’t say what we were playing for,” he says after a beat.
The observation, in a husky tone, sends fire racing through my veins. I look at him through my lashes and murmur, “What do you want?”
His jaw tightens as he draws back slightly.
“Brenna,” he growls.
“What?”
“You’re trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“You, looking at me like that…” His hands clench into fists, his fingers curling tight.
I swallow hard but lift a shoulder and play innocent. “Like what?”
“Like you want something you shouldn’t.”
God, yes. I want this man with an intensity that makes my knees weak. I want to know what those calloused hands feel like on my skin. What it would be like to lose my virginity to a real man who’s so unlike the fumbling boys at the club.
And there it is. The revelation hits me like lightning. I’ve never been attracted to guys my age because they’ve never felt likemen. Not like this. Not weathered and experienced and utterly confident in their own skin. Until this moment, I didn’t know how much I craved this. Desired someone who’s lived, who’s survived, and who looks at me as if he knows exactly what to do with me.
It’s insane to want someone this much after knowing them for barely an hour. But then again, this entire trip is about taking risks, isn’t it? About finally going after what I want instead of what’s expected of me. And I want Graham Hughes more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone. I want him to be my first.
I rise onto my hands and knees and crawl closer across the rug, emboldened by the way a muscle in his jaw works as he watches me move. Thunder crashes overhead, echoing the storm building between us. “Why shouldn’t I?”
He looks off, toward the window where rain lashes against the glass. “I’m thirty-nine, sweetheart. Old enough to know better.”
