Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(43)

“Sure,” he said.

I opened the door.

Griffin spread his hands. “What do you think?”

He was wearing a tight, tight Rolling Stones t-shirt. It was black, and the letters were starting to flake off. It looked grungy and too-cool. And it hugged each and every aspect of his perfect chest. His jeans were snug too. And he was wearing cowboy boots!

I grinned. “You look awesome.”

He was staring at me, a stunned look on his face.

“Griffin?”

He shook his head “I like the dress, doll.” He reached for me. “I like you in blue.”

I knew that. I put my hand in his, happy with his reaction. I let him tug me close.

He gazed down into my eyes, searching them.

I reached up to brush my fingers against his cheek.

He closed his eyes.

I was so close to him that I could feel the faint patter of his heart through his shirt. I wanted to be wrapped up in him. I wanted us closer.

But he swallowed and pulled away. “Dinner?”

I bit my lip and nodded.

*

The restaurant was dimly-lit and furnished with mismatched, brightly colored tables and chairs. The food was delicious—smoky, spicy, and crispy. I was beginning to think that my favorite thing about Texas was the food. If I lived here, I’d probably gain at least eighty pounds. I couldn’t stop eating.

There was a band tucked in the corner on a small stage. Two guys with acoustic guitars and another guy on hand drums. The sound was a fusion of African beats and southwestern folk. I’d never heard anything quite like it. But there was an earnestness to the way the man crooned into the microphone that I liked.

I swayed in my seat to it, occasionally taking long swigs of the Shiner Bock that the waitress had recommended to me. It was a fairly nice beer, not quite as tasty as the homebrew of Silas—but, then, that was a tall order to fill.

Griffin chuckled at me. “You want to dance.”

I smiled. “Yes, I do.”

He gestured. “Go for it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Oh come on, you can’t pretend like you can’t dance when I spent months helping you get in touch with your inner dancer.”

He might have blushed again. I couldn’t be sure in the scant light. “No way. I’m not dancing.”

“You can pretend like you didn’t like it, but I know better.” I got up out of my seat and held out my hand to him.

He sighed heavily, took his napkin off his lap, and put his hand in mine. “One song.”

I pulled him to his feet and across the room to the band. Griffin could pretend all he wanted that he didn’t like to dance. I knew better. We’d had conversations about it, in fact. They were often the same conversations that touched on spirituality. And we both agreed that dancing was powerful primarily because it was about surrendering your body to the music.

I even remembered what Griffin had said. It’s like music and dancing is all about shutting off your inhibitions, or whatever’s in the way, and letting your body move.

It was my influence that had led him to that conclusion. He’d never have danced if it hadn’t been for me. And he was a good dancer. Griffin was big and burly, but he was a physical person. He spent time working out—lifting weights and jogging in the mornings. How I remembered the way he teased me about my couch potato ways. Dancing was a natural fit for him, once he allowed his body to move, like he said.

The music was upbeat and quirky. We danced together, but with a foot between our bodies, swaying and bouncing, both grinning. The music made us lively and buoyant. We wound our way between the other dancers, and we were happy.

But then the song ended, and the strains of the next song were quieter. Slower.

Griffin and I both stopped moving, and the smiles slid from our faces.

He swallowed, gazing at me.

I peered up at him, searching his expression.

He reached for my hands and pulled me close.

Our gazes still locked, we began to move together. His hands slid over my waist, settling on the curve of my hips. I snaked mine up and around his neck. The music was soft and slow, but the African beat of the drums spoke to my hips, and I found myself undulating them.

Griffin’s fingers dug into my skin.

I let my fingers travel over his shoulders.

Distantly, I could hear that the crooner had started to sing the words to the song, and that it was a song of lost love, a lament for a lover gone away. But Griffin was so close that the music seemed further away. He loomed, blocking out the rest of the world.

My chest felt tight.

His fingers shifted. One of his hands went to the small of my back, and he pushed me closer to him. Our bodies were practically touching.

His other hand moved up my body, cupping me behind my neck.

I moistened my lips.

His gaze had grown thick with intensity.

We were barely swaying to the music anymore. We’d been slowing down, as if we couldn’t be bothered by it anymore.

I stopped moving entirely.

Griffin’s head dipped down.

I tilted my chin.

Our lips met.

His lips were soft and warm. His kiss was sweet and thorough. My body sank into his, and I thought of the sun going down, the stars appearing in the sky. Their bright spots in the darkness were my desire for Griffin, still burning brightly through the smothering night of our separation. The kiss made my desire brighten, come back as strong as ever.