Page 14 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Elodie

H E DOESN’T ASK what I want. Instead, he waves his hand at the couch in a clear command to sit and picks up the bottle and rocks glass on the table a few feet away. He pours two fingers, then plucks three ice cubes from a small cooler that sits next to it.

Was he waiting on me?

The thought is dizzying. When was the last time anyone did that for me? The realization is another gut punch: never.

I study him, his form casting long shadows as he tops his own drink off before turning to close the distance. I expect him to sit on the couch opposite me, but he doesn’t. He lowers his massive form to the one I’m on, not even a cushion away.

I reach for the glass as he’s handing it to me, and our fingers brush against each other when he releases it into my grasp.

It’s the lightest of touches, but my body wakes up, electricity coursing through me. I literally felt a zing when we touched. That’s…that’s not real. I imagined it.

I definitely imagined it.

Shaking it off, I lift the glass in thanks and bring it to my lips. It doesn’t smell like anything I’ve ever had before, a little sweet but still leaning toward whiskey.

Ansel’s gaze never leaves my face, even as he brings his own glass to his lips for a drink.

I take the smallest sip, then another. It’s delicious. Almost sweet.

His lips quirk at my expression. “It’s a liqueur made from Irish whiskey.”

I grin. “One of the Irish rugby players introduce you to it?”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged.” He takes another sip, then places his glass on the side table. “How was your night?”

It occurs to me that this is the first time we’ve been alone together— really alone—and the realization sends a burst of heat through my body.

Or maybe it’s the drink. “Good,” I answer.

I lick my lips nervously, and he tracks it before snapping his gaze back to mine.

With a deep breath, I ask, “What did you mean before?”

“By what?”

“When you said you weren’t alone in this.” I want him to tell me he feels this, too. This pull. This desperate, undeniable need to touch me, to feel my lips on his, the same way that I feel it.

His eyes darken behind his glasses, then shift away. His chest expands and contracts as he breathes, and I shouldn’t watch him this closely, but I can’t make myself stop. Eventually, he grabs his drink and looks back at me. “It doesn’t matter.”

I wait to see if he’ll elaborate. When he doesn’t, I set my liqueur down and fold my hands in my lap. Still nothing. But his eyes…they stay on me this time. Studying. Memorizing. Unlocking something inside me.

It feels cellular, whatever it is this man’s attention is doing. As if here, in the dark of the night, when the rest of the world sleeps, I’m waking up. My heart kicks around, a Mustang free on the plains.

Eventually, I find my words. “Do you know what everyone says about me?”

Twin lines appear on either side of his mouth as he frowns. “No.”

“That I’m nice.”

He furrows his brow, easily catching the disdain lacing the word nice. “And that’s…a bad thing?”

Instead of answering, I take another step into the unknown. “Do you know what I realized tonight?”

He shakes his head, his gaze still firmly on mine, unlacing every rope I’ve ever lashed across my life. Ropes I didn’t even know were there. Restraints he’s plucking off, one by one, by simply listening.

I can’t remember the last time I held someone’s attention so thoroughly.

Not like this. Mom would inspect me before a pageant, but this kind of intense review, as though he’s seeing deep below the surface and is reading the neon signs that blare.

Never. I have never had this. Not even Jeremy gave me this kind of undivided study.

It’s intoxicating, and it’s impossible to fight the feeling of lightheadedness it brings.

Because it’s not the drink. Not even close.

Ansel waits. Like he’s content to listen to the cicadas and frogs while I find the courage to say the words that are clawing their way up my throat.

I swallow. I could stop all of this. Stand up, tell him thanks for the drink, and then take my nice little self to the nice little guesthouse for a nice little sleep.

But I don’t want to do that anymore.

So I take the metaphorical leap. “I realized that I’m tired of being nice.”

He nods, a subtle dip of his chin that encourages me to keep going.

“Like tonight.” I wave my hand around. “I went out with my friends, and when I came back, you were here. The nice girl in me—the girl I’ve been my entire life—she says it’s because you just want to be sure I got home safe.

That your nanny got home.” I swallow and glance away from him, needing a break from the intensity of his gaze.

Still, he says nothing, one hand loosely steadying his drink on his thick thigh while his other arm lies across the back of the couch.

Dark hair covers his forearm. There’s even some on his wrist. And if I tipped my head just right, I could know what it’s like to have his palm on my cheek.

Would I feel another burst of electricity like I felt when our fingers touched?

Do I want that?

Yes.

God , yes. So much yes.

I shift, trying and failing to relieve the pressure building between my legs.

Ansel’s gaze lowers, and I swear he’s looking right… there.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I continue, “But the other part of me thinks that maybe you waited for a—a different reason.”

His lashes lift, his gaze searing into mine once again, and my heart pounds so hard that I can scarcely believe it’s not beating right out of my ribcage like an old cartoon.

If this is what it feels like to be brave, I don’t know if I can survive it.

Ansel’s beautiful dark eyes roam over my face, seeming to catalog each part to tuck away and study later. His jaw clenches, barely noticeable in the dim light beneath the beard, but I see it all the same.

I shiver, unable to control my reaction to his attention.

“Elodie.” His voice is low, so low that I have to strain to hear it over the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears.

I wait. It’s my turn to let him have the space to talk.

I take another breath, forcing myself to do it slowly, but it’s hard to be quiet when it feels like I’ve sprinted up ten flights of stairs.

If I could even make it up that many. Twin bursts of adrenaline and panic flood my system, but underneath it all is this wild sense of need I’ve never felt in my life.

I blame that part—the needy part—for the way I’m behaving.

Nice Elodie would definitely not be in this situation.

Nice Elodie wouldn’t have stopped at the sound of Ansel’s voice in the first place.

In the famous words of Taylor Swift: I’m sorry, the old Elodie can’t come to the phone right now. Why? Cause she’s dead!

“Elodie,” he repeats. Only this time, it sounds like he’s asking a question.

He lifts his arm off the top of the couch, and the very fingers I’d studied are hovering beside my face, as though he isn’t quite sure.

I don’t know who moves first, but one moment his hand isn’t touching me, and in the next, it is.

The pads of his fingers, rough and calloused, trace along my hairline, down my temple, and over the shell of my ear.

Goosebumps fly across my body, betraying me once again, and Ansel palms my cheek in response.

He shifts closer, bringing his body so close to mine that I swear I feel the heat coming off him.

I breathe even faster. Is he going to…?

I might pass out.

“Sweet Elodie.” He chuckles, his eyes softening as he nears. He brings his other hand to my face, cradling me gently. It’s cool from holding his drink. “Will you let me kiss you?”

Oh, my God.

Am I dreaming? This is happening? He’s…he’s asking to kiss me?

“I need your words, Elle,” he says.

Elle . Why do I want to melt at that? “Y-yes,” I stammer.

His thumb caresses my temple. “Are you sure? That sounded?—”

“Yes.” I say it more forcefully this time, bringing my hands to his forearms, needing to touch him, scooting even closer. Our bent knees rest against each other on the cushion. His skin is so warm.

“Yes?” His eyes crinkle behind his glasses, and I might swoon.

“Definitely.”

With a smile, he closes the distance and brings his mouth to mine.

Everything stops.

Goes quiet.

His lips are soft and gentle against mine. As though he wants me to be absolutely certain.

And hoo boy , am I certain. A final tether falls away, and I increase the pressure, slanting my mouth and licking at the seam of his lips.

He opens with a groan, and the sound of it—needy, soft—it’s unholy, sexy and impossibly sensual. He pushes his hands into the curls at my nape, tugging me close.

It’s not enough.

I rise, and he instinctively knows what I’m going to do, bless those rugby skills.

In two seconds, we’ve shifted, him resting against the cushions and me straddling his hips.

His hands slide beneath my dress to the underside of my thighs, gripping the soft flesh and digging in. I whimper, deepening the kiss.

It’s everything. His tongue slides across mine before pulling back for a lighter touch, then deeper once again. He seems to know exactly what I want before I want it. His hips press up beneath me, and if I shifted just right, I could feel him. All of him.

Still kissing, I thread my fingers through his silky hair, then let myself touch his chest. It’s rock hard, the muscles flexing beneath my touch.

He keeps one hand on my thigh, but the other circles to the top of my leg, then out from beneath the dress to palm along my waist. I deepen our kiss once more, silently communicating that he can touch whatever he wants.

But he doesn’t go farther. Eventually, he eases up, nipping at my lower lip before meeting my eyes once more. We’re both breathing hard.

“Why’d you stop?” I ask.

“Who says I’m stopping?” he counters. His thumb moves back and forth on my upper waist, tantalizingly close to the side of my breast. Judging by the sly grin he wears, he knows precisely what he’s doing.

I’m still on my knees, hovering above his hips, half scared and half desperate to let myself relax onto his lap. I lick my lips. They’re already swollen.

He watches me, his irises as dark as I’ve ever seen them. “Is this okay?”

I lean in for another kiss in answer. As our mouths meet, he lets out another erotic groan.

It’s too much, and I surge against him. His arms band around me, holding me in place, my knees locked against his hips, my core pressed against his chest as he takes me deeper.

I’m in control of the kiss, but he’s in control of my body, and I swear it would only take one touch in the right place to send me soaring.

I don’t know how much time passes while we kiss.

I don’t know how many ways his hands move across me, never going where I’m desperate for them to go.

I don’t know how I manage to keep my own hands to his chest and arms when half of me legitimately wants to sink to my knees and bite his thighs.

He smells so good, soap and comfort and a hint of whiskey, and I don’t want any of this to end.

But eventually, my legs start to shake from holding me up, and Ansel notices.

“Gotta work on those muscles,” he teases softly, his eyes following my every move as he guides me off him, seeming to know I need to sit back on the couch.

“You’ve got enough for the both of us,” I toss back.

He chuckles. “Part of the job, that’s all.”

I let my gaze roam over him appreciatively. “And thank God for it.”

He gives a surprised laugh in answer, his lips stretched wide and his eyes alight behind the glasses. I drink him in. The deep rumble and sharp bark of sound, the way he holds his hand against his stomach, the way his head angles up for the briefest of moments.

Have mercy.

He stands and reaches out. “Come on.”

I take his hand, my stomach fluttering. I will literally follow him anywhere, but this admittedly seems…fast.

His eyes crinkle again. “Not to worry—I’m walking you to the guesthouse, Elodie.”

“I knew that,” I say as I join him.

He smirks. “You are a terrible liar.”

Heat stings my cheeks as I mumble, “Am not.”

He threads our hands together, the move as natural as if we’d done it a thousand times, and turns me so that we’re face-to-face. “Look at me.”

I tilt my head to meet his warm gaze.

“I like you, Elodie. But this…” He trails off.

I nod and look away, my stomach sinking.

Well, at least I had a great make-out sesh with him.

“Hey.” His voice is soft.

I drag my attention upward, stumbling a bit when he pulls me so close our chests touch.

“I was going to say that this is hard for me. Letting someone in. Rosalie?—”

“It’s okay,” I hurry to say, the words coming out in a rush. “It’s fine. Really. We’ll forget all about it.”

He frowns. “No.”

“No?” I blink, confused. “Then what?—”

“Will you let me finish?” he asks, a hint of amusement playing across his features.

“Sorry.” I bite my lower lip.

His eyes darken again as they flick to my lips, then he clears his throat and shakes his head. “My first priority is Rosalie.”

I nod. “Of course.”

“And you’re…Shit, Elle, you’re the nanny.” He runs a hand over his face. “A nanny who has consumed every spare moment of my thoughts.”

“Then I quit.”

He barks another laugh. “Please don’t. Just…be patient with me?”

I stare up at him. At this man who, mere moments ago, had his hands all over me. Who is hands down the best kisser I have ever known. Who has unknowingly set me loose into the world. And he wants patience?

“You can have anything you want, Ansel,” I tell him truthfully. “You want me to be your side piece? I’ll do it.”

He balks. “No, Jesus , that’s not?—”

I put a finger on his lips, hardly recognizing myself, but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is right. “Hide me or don’t. Tell Rosalie or don’t. Come see me in the guesthouse at night or don’t. I will give you whatever you want. Whatever you need.”

He kisses my finger, and I pull it away with a smile. Then cups my face, kissing me, once, twice, three times. “I do not want you to be a hidden side piece, Elodie. That’s not what I’m after. It’s never been anything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m certainly not starting now. But for now, Rosalie?—”

“Doesn’t have to know,” I finish for him. “I get it.”

He looks pained. “I’m sorry.”

I straighten. “There is absolutely nothing to be sorry for. She’s your daughter. She will always be the priority. I promise you, I understand.”

His features smooth, and he places the softest of kisses on my forehead. “Thank you.”

Doesn’t stop me from dreaming about biting those thighs, though.