The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(69)

The ragged feelings in my chest ease as my lips move over Winnie’s. Slow down, I chide myself, wanting something different than the explosion in the elevator last night when I couldn’t hold back any longer.

It takes all the control I have, but I keep my kiss a caress. Tender and light and soft. I want to soothe the ache in Winnie, smooth the rough, painful places as well as I can with my mouth. But when she makes a small sound and arches toward me, I release a little bit of my control, losing myself in Winnie.

I want my kiss to assure her of my intentions, though truly—I’m not sure what they are, other than to protect, to cherish, to keep her close and safe. I want to explore; I want to treasure. I want her to know her value and worth and how royally both her father and her ex screwed up.

But I’m also not ready for this to go beyond a kiss. When she wiggles and shifts, seeking more, pulling me closer, I press a last soft kiss to her lips and spin her back around so we’re spooning again.

She groans in protest, but I only tighten my grip, chuckling. I press a kiss to her hair, then her temple, then bend to kiss her shoulder. “Sleep, temp.”

I stroke her hair with one hand, holding her in place with the other. After a moment, I feel her sigh and relax against me. In no time at all, her breathing evens out. When I’m sure she’s asleep, I lean closer in the darkness, whispering a truth I’m not ready to admit in the light of day.

“I knew one kiss would never be enough. Not when it comes to you.”

I’ll worry about what, exactly, this means later.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX





James



I smell Winnie before my eyes are open, before I’m aware of her body curled into mine. Caramel Perfection. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or curse to know the name of her bodywash, because I can’t get the name out of my head, like I can’t get the scent out of my nose. Somehow, she still smells of it even though I used my body wash in her bath last night. I draw in a deep breath, closing my eyes to focus on her scent.

I haven’t woken up many times with regret for something I did the night before. As sleep slowly lifts away from me, I refuse to feel regret now.

Not for the kiss on the elevator, not for the way I took care of Winnie after running into Dale in the lobby. Not for holding her after her nightmare or kissing her in the darkness. No regrets.

That doesn’t mean I have any idea what I’m doing here or what to do with the woman in my arms.

Maybe you should listen to your dad. Try. Risk.

And maybe lose …

But at least TRY.

In what’s an absolutely unwelcome intrusion to my thoughts, I suddenly hear Yoda’s voice in my head, telling me there is no try. Do or do not. I bite back a laugh just as Winnie sighs softly, the sound sending a pulse of warmth through me.

She shifts, and I let my body move with her, not wanting to wake her. I’m not ready to let her go.

Her skin is so soft under my palms, and in the light peeking through the crack in the blinds, I get a chance to study her up close. I start with the tattoos on the arm I’m closest to.

It’s delicate work, real artistry. The designs are not necessarily flowery, but thin, black lines flowing like ribbons or vines, twisted with the occasional flower, image, or word. I see a tiny anchor here, the word hope there, next to a rose. A secret garden of treasures on her skin.

I have one tattoo on the inside of my upper arm, a somewhat hidden spot because it’s just for me, in memory of my mom. It’s her name, written in Japanese lettering. I made sure to get the design drawn by a friend who grew up in Japan and moved here with his family when he was six. I didn’t want to think I was getting my mom’s name and really spell out something like disco ball.

Winnie and I talked about a lot of things last night, but I didn’t ask about her ink. I wonder if there’s meaning behind them, like mine for my mom, or if she based them on vintage tattoos or artwork.

The urge to press my lips to their lines, to trace the path with my mouth on her skin almost overwhelms me. But I’m not sure how Winnie will feel about the vulnerable things she shared in the night or about waking to my lips on her. The last thing I want to do is push her—or myself—too far, too fast. If I’m going to take this risk with her, it’s going to be slow. It has to be. Especially considering her current employment status. I don’t need to worry about getting in trouble with HR, obviously, like in a normal job. But there are reasons companies often put nonfraternization policies in place. If things go bad, they’ll go bad on multiple levels. It’s complicated.

Winnie stirs again, which probably means she’s close to waking up. Ever so slowly, I begin peeling back my body from hers, pausing when she grabs my arm, nuzzling her face on it and leaving a trail of drool over the dusting of hair. I bite my lip, holding back my smile. She’s adorable, and I know she’d be horrified if she knew she wiped drool on me. I wait again until she settles, then manage to extricate myself from her without stirring the bed too much. I take a big risk by running my fingers over a lock of her hair just before I step away.

I’m on my feet now, but the sight of Winnie with her sleep-creased face, her beautifully inked skin, her rumpled hair—it all tempts me to climb back into bed, to wake her with kisses.

Backing away, I decide to head to the lobby so I can grab a coffee to wake her with instead. I asked Winnie in the night who took care of her, and in the silence, through her tears, I heard what she didn’t say: no one.