What If (If Only.... #2)(37)

He tries to hold back a grin, but it breaks free. Who the hell can say no to that? Still, I take a little pleasure in teasing him.

“Other things like…see a movie? Ooh, or go bowling? How about painting pottery? I hear that’s a fun thing.”

He wraps a lock of my hair round his index finger. “If you want to paint pottery, Pippi, we’ll paint pottery.”

A shiver of delight runs through me at the sight of his playful grin, the teasing of his voice when he uses his nickname for me. I slide my leg over his, straddling him and feeling him beneath me, ready and wanting. And I want him, too. In so many ways.

I lift my T-shirt over my head. I am without the cloak of night or the distraction of the shower. Just me, bare but for my underwear and Griffin’s eyes, watching.

“You know what I want?” he asks.

I try to sit still, so still, because the anticipation of his touch is almost too much to handle. “What do you want?”

“To kiss every one of your freckles.”

I draw in a breath. “That will take a very long time.”

He places a hand behind me and maneuvers me to my back, now straddling me.

“I’m a patient guy,” he says, and he kisses the tip of my nose. “There’s one.” His lips find my shoulder. “Two.” The next one on my neck. “Three.”

“Yes,” I say, sounding as composed as I can when I’m minutes from oblivion. “I’ll come home with you today.”

His face is the picture of happiness, a smile all the way to his eyes.

“There must be hundreds of freckles on and around your lips,” he says.

“Then you better get to work.” I pull him to me, and he obliges.

His mouth finds mine again, and we abandon any pretense that we don’t need this. His hand fumbles in the nightstand drawer and produces a condom. He slides my underwear to my ankles, and I kick free. His hand drifts between my legs, and I shake my head. I want to be filled up with him in a way that scares the shit out of me, but I crave it anyway. The flannel pants are history, and in seconds he’s inside of me. For once everything is clear and focused, and I know without any doubt that I’m falling.

I let the hunger take over, let it obliterate the emotion, and I kiss him, taste him, devour him with my senses, my chest pressed to his and our bodies entwined.

“Maggie.” His voice is ragged but with a twinge of emotion. “Maggie…I…”

I kiss him again before he has a chance to finish, rocking my hips to his, bringing him deeper, bringing us closer, every thrust and every kiss keeping him from saying more.

When we reach the edge, and he collapses next to me in exhaustion, I think the words back to him.

Griffin…I…

I don’t finish the thought, and he won’t finish the phrase.

Ground rule number three, and this is one that only exists in my head: Never let emotions get in the way of what’s best.

We lie in silence, wrapped up in his tangled sheet, in each other. But with every second, I slip further away from ground rule number three. Whatever we call this, dating or not, every second I’m with him I want more seconds…minutes…hours…days. I want, but wanting isn’t what’s best, for either of us.

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, tracing the trail of my clothing throughout the bedroom.

“Oh shit,” I say once I have my T-shirt back on. “I have nothing to wear!”

How could I say yes to this stupid idea? I’m going to meet his family in a day-old coffeehouse T-shirt and jeans? Plus I smell like a stale pot of coffee. I can change my mind. I’m a master at making up excuses. This isn’t part of the plan, and it’s only going to make things harder. I’ll fake a call from Miles that I need to fill a shift. But he cuts me off before I get the words out.

“You can wear that,” he says, pointing to a Minnesota hoodie draped over a chair. I peel off my wrinkled Tee and swap it for the sweatshirt, and hell if it doesn’t smell like apples.

“Thanks.”

My tone is clipped, and his eyes narrow at the sound of it. In a room where we should have released every bit of tension along with a few yelps of pleasure, a tightness fills the air, one that is my fault. The anticipation of brunch—and what it means that he wants to bring me home—isn’t part of our deal.

He wants to bring me home, and I said yes, which means he doesn’t deserve the fallout from my heightened anxiety.

DEFCON 1 blares from my bag. Meds.

“Just…give me a second?” I ask, and he nods, brows crinkled as he stares toward the source of the sound. “Forgot to turn off my alarm.”

I back into the bathroom and kill the alarm. Once the door is closed, I pull out my backup supply of daily meds, the ones that hang in my bag just in case. This morning counts as just in case.

After rushing through the routine and splashing some water on my face just to snap myself out of this frenzy, I take a deep breath and head back to his room.

“That’s one hell of an alarm,” he says. “You must be a heavier sleeper than I thought.”

My only response is a nervous laugh. Crisis averted, for now. But I maintain my early assertions of this guy. Griffin Reed is a distraction.

Swimming in his garment, I hop back on the bed next to him, putting on the show of all smiles and whimsy, the Maggie he met last week. That’s the Maggie he wants to hop in the car. She’s fun. Families love her, and maybe I can pull her off for a few hours.