Page 59

His eyes find mine, dark and intense. “Everything.”

The single word hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I take another sip of bourbon, trying to steady my suddenly racing heart.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I say, desperate to break the tension. “That first night you found me in the cottage garden—how did you know I was there?”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “I could smell you.”

“You could—what?”

“Your scent,” he clarifies. “Lavender and something uniquely you. I could pick it out anywhere.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s...intense.”

“It’s a wolf thing,” he says with a shrug, but there’s something in his expression that makes me think it’s more than that.

I readjust slightly, suddenly aware of how close together we’re sitting. The space between us seems to have shrunk without either of us moving. The moonlight catches in his silver hair, and an overwhelming urge to touch it washes over me.

“Griffin,” I say, my voice not quite steady, “I think I should go.”

“Why?” he asks simply.

“Because...” I trail off, not sure how to explain the strange, magnetic pull I feel toward him, the way my skin seems to hum with awareness when he’s near.

His gaze drops to my lips, then goes back up to my eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “and I will.”

I should. I know I should. But the word sticks in my throat as he closes the distance between us, his lips brushing mine in the softest of touches. A question, not a demand.

My answer is to surge forward, my hand finding the back of his neck and pulling him closer. The kiss deepens instantly, his bourbon-tinged tongue sliding against mine. A groan rumbles in his chest, vibrating through me.

His hands are everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my sides, pulling me into his lap so I’m straddling him. I can feel him hardening beneath me, and I rock against him instinctively, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth.

“Maya,” he breathes against my neck, trailing hot kisses down to my collarbone. “We should stop.”

But his hands grip my hips tighter, guiding my movements against him. The friction is delicious, maddening.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, reaching for the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

He helps me pull it over his head, and I take a moment to admire the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen. He has filled out in the past weeks, his body recovering its strength. I trace my fingers along a faint scar that runs across his ribs, and he shivers.

Then his hands are on my cardigan, pushing it off my shoulders, tugging at the thin t-shirt beneath. I lift my arms, letting him pull it off. His eyes darken at the sight of me in just my bra, his hands warm and slightly rough as they glide up my sides.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, reverence in his voice.

I’ve always been the aggressor in my relationships—taking control, setting the pace. I’m used to shy, intellectual men who are happy to follow my lead. But there’s nothing shy about Griffin as he stands up, lifting me effortlessly in his arms.

“Inside,” he murmurs, carrying me through the balcony doors to his bed.

He lays me down with surprising gentleness, his body covering mine as he captures my lips again. His knee nudges my legs apart, and I welcome him between them, wrapping my thighs around his hips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says against my skin, his hand sliding up to cup my breast through my bra.

“You,” I gasp as his thumb brushes over my nipple. “I want you.”

A low growl rumbles in his chest. “You have me.”

He makes quick work of the rest of our clothes, his movements efficient but not rushed. Each newly exposed inch of my skin is worshipped with his mouth, his hands. By the time we’re both naked, I’m trembling with need.

I reach for him, wanting to touch, to explore, but he catches my wrists, pinning them gently above my head.