He looks at me, a silly grin spreading across his face, and then his eyes skim the length of my body. Mine do the same to his, and that’s when I understand.
I laugh, looking at his soaked briefs as they mold even closer to his shape, no question as to whether or not he wants what we’re about to do. “I guess we should get you out of those.”
“I guess.”
His face grows serious as his hands skim down my sides until his thumbs hook inside the seam of my panties.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and I answer him by guiding his hands with my own, then stepping out of the garment so nothing is left to hide behind.
If I had to answer him with words, I wouldn’t have the right ones. Am I sure? No. I’ve never been less sure about anything else. But I’ve given myself until daylight, when I’ll have no choice but to turn back into a pumpkin. Though the ache behind my eyes threatens to grow, the need for his hands on me overpowers the risk.
I help him out of his boxers and marvel at the beauty of the boy before me—black eye and all—a boy who looks like a man but is just as lost as me in some ways, a child still needing a hand to be held but not trusting anyone to do it. I should be nervous, showing every bit of myself to him. But he only sees what I let rise to the surface. We may be naked, but I’m far from bare. So we hold each other, the hot water washing away the armor for a little longer.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask, stepping back to get a better look at his scratched-up torso. With the blood rinsed away, the wound looks better, but the deeper cuts stand out, the skin a tender pink. Then I kiss his neck, his collarbone, and feel him breathe beneath me.
“No.” I can barely hear him above the flow of water, above the thrumming of my pulse in my ears.
My lips trail across his chest to his shoulder, the other side of his neck, the line of his jaw. When I’m standing straight again, Griffin turns me gently so my back is to him as he reaches over my shoulder to the wire shelves hanging from the shower head. He grabs a bottle of apple-scented shampoo, pouring a generous amount in his hand before depositing it on my head.
I can’t suppress the moan of pleasure that leaves my lips as his fingers massage my scalp, chasing the idea of a headache to the far reaches of my mind. He’s hard against my back but does nothing to indicate his intentions go beyond washing my hair, which is fine by me for now.
“That feels amazing,” I tell him. Never mind that what he’s doing right now is far more intimate than anything I anticipated. When his soapy hands massage their way down my neck and shoulders, finding a path to my breasts, my arm shoots out to brace myself against the wall, my legs threatening to lose all ability to support me.
“You’re beautiful, Maggie,” his ragged voice whispers in my ear. “So beautiful.” I want to tell him there’s no need for flattery, that I couldn’t want him more than I do right now. That is, until the water rinses the shampoo away and his right hand skims across my stomach, hesitating for only a second. Then he dips lower, a finger brushing me at just the right spot, and I suck in a breath as he parts me, enters me, and I almost come undone right there.
Has it been so long since Miles and I gave this a try, since I felt the pleasure of someone else’s hands on me?
Of course I know the answer. It has nothing to do with when or how long. It has to do with whom. I know why I should have gone, why I should run as far from this guy as possible. It’s not because he’s trouble, not the way he claims he is. He somehow allows me to see past that, which is how I know—he could steal my heart. If I had enough to give back, I might even let him.
That’s why one touch, one night of coffee and crazy, can bring me to this.
“Griffin…I…” His fingers keep moving, and my thoughts and vision begin to blur. He must be holding me up now because I’m not sure I still have legs to support me. “Griffin…” I say again, not wanting to burst at the seams, not alone. “Together.” I press my back against him, and he groans. “Not alone.”
I don’t think I’m making any sense until his fingers slip out, and he spins me toward him as I gasp.
“Not alone.” He repeats my words, his brown eyes dark with need but also with understanding.
Somehow the water turns off. Did he do that or me? A warm towel over my shoulders, and Griffin’s hand in mine, he leads me through another door. I sigh, noting the rumpled sheets and blanket, items of clothing strewn on his floor, grateful for some visual reminder of the disorder that is his life—that the image doesn’t hold up past the cozy living room. I ignore thoughts of why the bed may be in said condition, deciding not to let nameless, faceless others intrude on this moment.
I drop my towel, and my hands instinctively go to my hair.