Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(60)

He reached out slowly, handing her the bottle, and she took it, her fingers brushing his and sending a jolt of electricity up her arm. She held his eyes as she raised the bottle and placed her lips around the spout where his had just sucked.

Cain stared at her with interest, in growing realization, his eyes increasingly hot, his half-naked body primed and sleek before her.

When she lowered the bottle, she licked her lips slowly, deliberately, her breath hitching as his eyes lowered to her mouth and lingered there.

“What do you want, Gin?” he asked, still staring at her mouth, his voice low and gravelly.

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Her raincoat pressed against his chest, her breasts straining through two layers of clothes. “Cain, there isn’t much time until you go, and I want . . . I mean, I feel like . . .”

He didn’t move away from her, and when he took a deep breath, his chest pushed into hers insistently, making her tender breasts ache for his touch. She gasped softly, and he cut his eyes to hers, reaching out to put his hands on her upper arms and kneading them gently. “You feel like what, princess?”

“I’m in love with you,” she blurted out, gasping again as soon as the words left her mouth, then holding her breath as she stared at him in wide-eyed panic. Adrenaline pumped uncomfortably through her body, and out of nowhere she heard herself add, “I want to be with you, Cain.”

“Ginger,” he ground out, the sound shocked and stilted.

“You’re the one I want. I have always wanted you. You were my first kiss, and I want you to be my first . . .” Her words trailed off as her cheeks flamed with heat. “Cain,” she half gasped, half whispered, “I want you to make love to me.”

His eyes searched her face, shocked and wild, and she licked her lips, her breath coming in fast, short spurts as his hands tightened around her arms. As he stared at her lips, she arched her back, pressing her body against his and whispering, “Please.”

Like a match to a fuse, he yanked her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as his lips crashed down on hers. Groaning into her mouth, he kissed her madly, backing her against the old barn wall and slamming his groin into hers, his tongue parting her lips and sweeping into her mouth.

Ginger’s hands were trapped between them but she flattened her hands on his chest, her fingers curling into the wall of muscle, and her back arching so that her breasts rubbed against him through their clothes. His hands slipped back around her waist to her front, pulling at the buttons of her coat, and she worked to help him release them, their fingers meeting in the middle. He opened the coat and dropped his hands to the hem of her sweater, skating underneath until the flesh of his rough hands landed on her soft belly. His tongue tangled with hers as his hands stroked her skin, higher and higher. He pushed his pelvis forward, and she felt his erection, hard and straining against the zipper of his jeans.

His hands found her breasts, cupping them through her bra, and she whimpered, fighting to release her hands from between them and wind them around his neck, pulling his head down to hers and sliding her tongue along the smooth hot velvet of his.

He groaned, dropping his lips to her throat, kissing, licking, sucking, as his thumbs rubbed her nipples, the friction of the lace over her taut skin sweet and sharp at the same time. Sweet and sharp. Like Cain. Like her and Cain together.

Letting her head fall back against the wall, she moaned his name—like a prayer, a litany, a plea: “Cain, Cain, Cain . . . I love you. God, I love you so much.”

His lips paused against her neck, and his hands stilled over her breasts.

“Gin,” he groaned. “Oh, f*ck, no. What’re we doin’?”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Cain, wait . . .”

“No,” he panted, though his body still pressed into hers, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her throat. “No, this is wrong. This is . . . no.”

“Stop sayin’ no,” she said in a voice that broke into a sob.

He slipped his hands out from under her shirt and rested his forehead on hers, his breath coming in light pants against her cheek.

“Princess, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” she sobbed, tears of rejection and humiliation streaming from her eyes.

“’Cause I’m no good for you.”

“You are. You are good. And I’m in love with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Cain. I love you. I want you.” She leaned forward, trying to kiss him again, but he pinned her shoulders to the wall, holding her away from him. “I’m offerin’ myself to you. Please don’t turn me away.”

He winced like her words hurt him, really hurt him, then suddenly his eyes grew cold.

“You want the truth?”

“I want you,” she mewled, her voice small and broken.

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Do you know where I go every night, Ginger? I go f*ck Mary-Louise Walker. Every night. Three, four, five times a night. At her apartment. On my bike. At the distillery. Against the bathroom wall at O’Halloran’s between shots of Jack Daniel’s.”

Ginger gasped, whimpering her disbelief and fury, and struggling to slap him, as if hitting him would somehow negate the words. But he reached out and held her upper arms in his iron grip, his erection still swollen against her belly, his eyes icy cold.