Rogue (Real #4)(22)
“Considering I’ve been inside you, you should at least let me put my arms around you while we watch . . . what are we watching?”
“The Princess Bride. My favorite movie of all time.”
“Ah.”
He stretches his arm along the back of the couch, and my heart thumps like mad.
“Buttercup is engaged to Prince Humperdinck but her true love, Westley . . .”
His lips curl, and I shut up when I notice how amused he looks. Secretly amused by . . . me. It’s hot. And frankly, it bothers me. I whisper, “You’re a playboy. I know you are.”
“You know nothing about me.”
I roll my eyes. “I know your name. Greyson.”
“You mock my name with that evil glint in your eye like you love it, all it does is make me want to f*ck you until you moan it.” He pulls my face to his. “I know every time you lie because I’ve been taught to detect liars since I was very, very young. You learn it when your father lies all the time,” he breathes, his hot breath on my lips causing a fire to stir inside my stomach. “I think of you, Melanie. I see your face in every woman. I flew here just to see you. Communication. Relationships. Those aren’t things I’m good at. There are other attributes I have that are far better. Like I see I’m good at making you pant. I see your pupils are dilated, you keep looking at my mouth instead of your favorite movie, and it’s taking all of my self-control not to give us exactly what it is we both need right now. It’s been a week, but as far as I’m concerned”—he cups the back of my head and nibbles on my lower lip—“I’ve been waiting a lifetime to sink myself in you.”
He presses me close, and I ache so much, I’m scared. By him, by this, this need to claw into his skin, press my lips to the hard line of his jaw, touch his thick, silky hair.
“Let me watch my movie, let go,” I protest feebly.
When he chuckles, his breath moves a couple of tendrils of loose hair at my temple. “If you want me to let you go, you need to stop pressing your pretty nipples against my chest as you say so, stop getting closer when you ask me to let you go,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose against mine, and his closeness, his scent of forest, his warm breath, his lips so close I can almost taste them, trigger a flood of need between my thighs and a hot, aching ripple in my sex.
I gasp as we almost kiss, and he groans and gives me space to breathe. He lifts his head, and I see him appraise me like a connoisseur would appraise a jewel or some antiquity. Why does he look at me like this? Why like THIS? Like he wants inside me as much as I want him. Like he wants more than my body, like he wants to suck the blood out of me, eat my soul up, and then pray to me.
Quietly, I close my eyes, trying to pretend we’re just dating, have never had sex, are just watching a movie. I force my muscles to relax and watch the TV, and I sense him relax gradually too. He stretches his big body suddenly down the length of the couch and pulls me up against him. Oh my. I hate how he assumes control of things that pertain to me, but I love it too.
I feel his gaze on the top of my head. Pretending to watch the movie, I weave my fingers in his hair and bring his arm around me, complaining, “Your elbow’s digging into my rib cage.”
His chuckle—I can’t even explain how much I love the sound of his chuckle—tells me he knows I just want to get more comfortable. And I do.
“Better?” he asks, shifting that lean, hard, long body of his underneath me.
“Shh. I like it when he fights with the Spaniard.”
I’m pretending to watch, but really, I’m struggling with how much I want to give him a second chance. But what if I fall? What if it gets out of control, and not only do I fall, but plunge into him?
That night with him?
It was incredible. He was incredible. He still feels, smells, sounds incredible.
His muscles flex and I fear he will pull away, but he doesn’t. He tucks me closer, cocooning me in his arms. I breathe softly in a nearly overwhelming sense of contentment, engulfed by the feeling of security he gives me, and I finally succumb to the urge to set my cheek on his chest. “This feels good,” I murmur. Beyond good.
Suddenly nothing feels righter than this. On my couch. With this man. His spicy, comforting scent is like a drug, and I can’t help but take deeper, more conscious breaths of him.
“Princess,” he says in my ear, conspiratorially.
A shiver runs through me as I close my eyes. “What?”
“I wasn’t going to call.”
“I know, douche bag. Why did you?”
Westley and my Spaniard are at it with swords but it feels like the real action is in my ear, in his whisper: “You need me.”
I scoff and sit up to glare at him. “I don’t need you.”
He sits up too and his eyes flash in challenge. “Maybe I need you.”
When I only stare, he shoots me an adorable grin that’s cocky but also sad. “Do you know what it feels like to carry the weight of a dead heart with you your whole life, like you’re just looking for your grave?” He waits for me to answer, but I’m speechless. “I live the moments I’m with you. I live a lie, but this isn’t a lie, watching this stupid movie with you.”
“Stupid!” I gasp.
He laughs and stands, and says, “When I go out, lock up. I’ll be back with food.”