No headache plagues me this time, no excuse to run. When I wake in the morning, I know where I am and who I’m with, and I don’t want to leave. We’ve barely changed positions since last night. I lie in the nook of his arm, my face inches from his.
He’s still asleep, so I watch him, waiting, wondering if his offer still stands, if what he asked of me last night was because of the moment or because it’s what he wanted. I haven’t believed in something more with anyone for so long, waiting for the right time, until I could handle it—until someone else could handle me.
His eyes flutter open and meet mine, an adorable sleepy grin lighting up his features.
He angles his face so our lips align, and I gasp and cover my mouth.
“Not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” he says, his voice raspy with the day’s first words.
“Morning breath,” I say, the words muffled in my hand.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, freeing my face from its protective barrier.
“Then we’ll cancel each other out,” he insists, and while I know he’s full of shit, I don’t argue. Because I want him close. I want his mouth on mine. I want too much, so I’ll settle for whatever I can get, even pre-Colgate kisses from a guy who wants no complications.
He laughs at my feeble attempt at resistance, and without hesitation, he kisses me. The moment our lips touch, I forget any objections I had because I’m an idiot for putting this off for even a second.
He smells of soap from his shower last night and something else inherently him—apples. I remember his shampoo, remember in my haze of a waning migraine last week the scent of my own hair, how it reminded me of him.
His lips trail the line of my jaw to my neck, and down. Somewhere in the middle of the night I must have removed my bra and jeans because only my T-shirt and boy shorts remain.
Propped on one arm, Griffin’s hand glides to the hem of my shirt, and then it slips beneath.
A breathy sigh escapes my lips, and he groans lightly against my neck.
While his hand finds its way to my breasts, mine walks up his flannel-covered leg, to the drawstring of his pants.
“Wait,” he says, his voice full of need. “Before anything happens, I need to say what I should have said last night.”
We pause, his hand still under my shirt, mine ready, so ready, to help him lose the flannel.
“Okay,” I say, trying to hide the rawness of my need.
“Whatever last night was called, you need to know I feel the same, that it was my best night in…let’s just say in a long time.”
I think of the implications of this, of the guy who drove to his parents with a bruise under his eye and a phone number on his hand. Maybe that guy was the act, the one who was pretending, and this one, he’s the real deal.
“And I meant what I said last night, whether this morning’s activities go any further or not. Come home with me, only for a couple hours. If it’s a disaster, we’ll get out of there and, I don’t know, do other things.”
He tries to hold back a grin, but it breaks free. Who the hell can say no to that? Still, I take a little pleasure in teasing him.
“Other things like…see a movie? Ooh, or go bowling? How about painting pottery? I hear that’s a fun thing.”
He wraps a lock of my hair round his index finger. “If you want to paint pottery, Pippi, we’ll paint pottery.”
A shiver of delight runs through me at the sight of his playful grin, the teasing of his voice when he uses his nickname for me. I slide my leg over his, straddling him and feeling him beneath me, ready and wanting. And I want him, too. In so many ways.
I lift my T-shirt over my head. I am without the cloak of night or the distraction of the shower. Just me, bare but for my underwear and Griffin’s eyes, watching.
“You know what I want?” he asks.
I try to sit still, so still, because the anticipation of his touch is almost too much to handle. “What do you want?”
“To kiss every one of your freckles.”
I draw in a breath. “That will take a very long time.”
He places a hand behind me and maneuvers me to my back, now straddling me.
“I’m a patient guy,” he says, and he kisses the tip of my nose. “There’s one.” His lips find my shoulder. “Two.” The next one on my neck. “Three.”
“Yes,” I say, sounding as composed as I can when I’m minutes from oblivion. “I’ll come home with you today.”
His face is the picture of happiness, a smile all the way to his eyes.
“There must be hundreds of freckles on and around your lips,” he says.