She covered his hand with her own and pushed at the waistband, lifting her hips to help him slide the pants over her bottom and off her legs. Then she reached for him, and his jeans quickly joined the growing pile of discarded clothes next to the bed, until it was just her and Grant tangling between the sheets. He kissed her and caressed her, teased and rewarded, murmuring sweet encouragement until all her senses coiled tight, and burst. A dizzying spiral that left her breathless and blissful. He joined her soon after, his breath ragged and welcome as he pressed his mouth against the curve of her neck.
“Beautiful, Lane,” he whispered moments later. She didn’t know if he meant her or the experience, but it didn’t matter. She was one and the same. All good. Her surroundings began to take shape once more. The voice of Elvis singing floated into her ear from the television, some song about being all shook up. She could relate. Her body still crackled like a downed wire, with Grant the only thing grounding her. She could feel his heart thumping against her ribs. Or maybe that was her heart. They were so close it was impossible to tell where one started and the other ended.
After another moment, uneven breathing returned to normal, and Grant shifted his weight, rising up on his elbows to gaze down at her. “I’ve made a mistake,” he said, but his smile showed no remorse.
“A mistake?”
He nodded. “I should have grabbed twice as many party favors. We’re going to need them.”
Chapter 18
THE SUN SHONE BRIGHTLY THROUGH the hotel window, casting pale yellow beams over the gold bedspread. Delaney’s body sizzled with aftershocks from the third mind-blowing orgasm she’d had in the past eight hours spent in bed with Grant, and for the first time in her life, she was thinking about having a panic attack. She’d never had one before. Not once in her whole stupid life. Not even when she’d seen that awful video for the first time and realized it was her. But she was giving serious consideration to having one now—a panic attack—because she’d just realized she was totally, madly, deeply in love with Grant Connelly.
If anything could trigger a panic attack, that had to be it.
He didn’t even know her name.
She had to tell him.
She had to tell him everything.
She had to tell him. She had to tell him. She had to tell him.
SheHadToTellHimSheHadToTellHimSheHadToTellHim.
But she didn’t want to tell him because it felt so good to be adored. Since the moment they’d first touched, he’d strummed her body like an instrument, and now every cheesy love song Elvis ever sang made sense to her. She was all shook up, she was a fool rushing in, she couldn’t help falling, all of those . . . and all because Grant Connelly was a hunka, hunka burning love. But it wasn’t just the sex. It was the way his eyes changed from hazel to green depending on the light, and the way those same eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed. It was the way he talked about wanting a more meaningful job and a better relationship with his family. It was the way he was trying to protect her and get her money back. It was the way he looked at her, her, as if she were gorgeous and fragile and fresh. As if she was valued for simply being herself, and she wanted to hang on to that glorious feeling for as long as she could.
Annnnnd—there was the sex, which had been pretty fucking phenomenal. Really. Truly. The sex alone could have been enough of a reason to fall in love with Grant Connelly. But just as the aftershocks of her climax faded, so did her fantasy that she could keep her identity a secret. Guilt and anxiety swooped in like fake Elvis at a polyester jumpsuit factory. Grant deserved better than this. He didn’t deserve to be lied to, but oh, everything would shatter once she told him the truth. Everything would be different. Maybe he would forgive her deceit. Hopefully he could, but even so, once he knew who she was, once he knew about Boyd and the video, everything—everything—would be different.
Even so, it was time to come clean—and she would—just as soon as she was actually clean. She needed to shower, and she needed to get dressed because this was not a conversation to be had during this post-coital glow, while the sheets were still twisted around their feet and Grant was breathing raggedly against her shoulder. No, this was not the time.
She’d tell him all about Delaney Masterson just as soon as they were dressed.
Only she didn’t because he’d followed her into the bathroom, and then the shower, and by the time they came out, Reggie was pounding on the bedroom door.
“Hey! Honeybun, me and Fincher need our toothbrushes. How long are you two going to be takin’ care of business?”
“I hate that guy,” Grant muttered as he pulled on brand-new Elvis boxers. They had pictures of little blue suede shoes all over them, and she bit back a smile as she called out toward the closed door, “Hang on a sec. We’re almost dressed. Five more minutes.”
“Please don’t laugh at me in my underwear,” Grant added, quietly, but his own smile tilted at the corners of his mouth.
“I promise. You make those look good,” she said.
“No one could make these look good.”