When Our Worlds Stand Still (Our Worlds #3)(29)

“Literal distance?”

“Literal. Hypothetical.” I scoff. “I don’t bite, Graham.” I tilt my head to the spot next to me. “You can sit closer if you’d like.”

He avoids my stare, awarding the yard with his attention. “No, I can’t.”

I stand, and take the small steps I need. His eyes turn up to my hover stance above him. I drop until my knees barricade him in, straddling his lap. Graham’s hands naturally fall to my thighs. “And why can’t you?”

Graham twists his neck, again, avoiding looking me in the eyes. I grip his chin, pull him to face me, and silently demand an answer.

“You can’t ask me questions when you’re wearing that,” he gestures to my suit, “and are rubbing your ass against my dick, Ken. It’s not fair.”

“Since when do we play fair?” I burst out in laughter.

“I’ve been trying my hardest … okay … Jesus!” Graham shouts. “Stop moving.”

I stifle my laugh because I hadn’t noticed my hips small movements.

My skin flushes. “Old habits die hard, it seems.”

“When I first saw you standing in my kitchen, I wanted nothing more than to kick everyone out, splay you out over the island, and bury myself inside you,” he confesses, rubbing his wet hands over his face. When they fall back into the water, his eyes soften. “And then, when you were wrapped in the towel and sitting on the edge of my bed, all I could think about was the first time we were together, and how I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Do you remember our last time? At Violet’s?” My eyes tingle with tears. “I think about it a lot.”

“When you’re alone?” He attempts to lighten the mood.

I don’t allow it. Before we can do the fun stuff, we have to get the hard stuff out of the way.

“I’m always lonely.” His stomach tightens at my own confession. “But what I was going to say is, I think about it a lot. As always, you have this way of making me feel okay, and sometimes, okay is enough. Sometimes, okay is everything.”

“You were wearing that damn yellow sundress,” Graham reminisces, his stare unfocused.

“You were wearing those khaki cargo shorts and those aviator sunglasses I love so much. You walked through the back door of Violet’s, looking for me,” I add to the story.

“You were cutting watermelon.” I nod, remembering prepping the food for the last time we would be together, at least until the trial. “What you don’t know is, I stood outside the back door for almost ten minutes and watched you move around the kitchen. You made something as minuscule as cutting up fruit seem rhythmic. I’ve never understood how you do it, but you never ceased to remind me of how magnificent you were. Are.” Graham corrects himself.

I smile at the sweet memory. “You walked up behind me and started tickling me.”

“At the time, you didn’t think it was funny. You yelled, threatening me with the knife in your hand.” He laughs at his sliver of the story.

“You always had a way of making me forget why I was mad in the first place.”

“I kissed your neck and you melted into me.”

We stop for a second, our eyes absorbing each other’s emotions. As if it could be our last time to read each other. As if the world will swallow our memories for us never to recall them again.

I drop the knife to the countertop and circle in Graham’s arms. On the tips of my toes, I balance to kiss him, but as I pull away, his hand wraps around the back of my head, tugging me close to deepen the exchange. His hands slide down my body until they reach my hips. He lifts me until the back of my bare thighs hit the cold marble.

I gently poke his chest. “Everyone’s right outside.”

“So.” His lips fall to my neck, leaving a trail of kisses along my collarbone. Instincts kick into overdrive, and I twist my legs around his waist, pulling him in close.

“I know we said we’re going to wait. I know we said a lot of things, but Kennedy …” His words are desperate.

Without thinking, I deepen the kiss, and a familiar flutter radiates through my belly. My mind can’t process what it means, or how I’ll react, or how it will affect me. None of the handful of outcomes matters at this moment.

Graham’s hands wrap around me, pulling me into his arms. My legs wrap tighter to mold my body to his. He walks until he rests me against the laundry room door. Once again, as if they don’t have any choice, his lips fall to mine. We become a mess of desperation linked between our kiss. My fingers graze the bottom of his shirt, and I pull it to the sky, dropping it to the floor behind him. Our lips are quick to continue their journey. Graham reaches down, turns the knob, and the door swings open. As he carries me in, he kicks his foot out to slam the door behind us.

“Why the laundry room?” I break the memory. “Why not go upstairs?”

Graham’s eyes dilate. “It’s simple. It would have taken too much time.” I rub my wet hands along the length of his damp shoulders. “I needed to touch you,” he answers.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Graham whispers, setting me on top of the dryer.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. He notices.

His head dips to fully look me in the eyes. “If you aren’t ready, Kennedy, you need to tell me. I don’t want to pressure you. We both need to be ready,” he insists.