Sin With Me

28

I wasn’t kidding when I told her they were the color of thunderclouds over the sea. I’ve never seen eyes like hers, flinty one moment, soft and playful the next, every possible shade of gray depending on the light, from pearl to iron to dove to steel. They’re fascinating.

She’s fascinating.

Fuck. I’m toast.

“Not a pretty picture,” she muses, straight-faced. She pauses for a moment, and then says, “If it makes you feel any better, this is our last date. We broke up yesterday.”

I keep my expression neutral, but inside my head there’s a stadium of fans who just leapt to their feet and started screaming because a batter hit a home run out of the park.

“Would you like to elaborate?”

She moistens her lips. My d**k takes that as some kind of Morse code for fellatio because he springs to life behind my zipper the way Cookie Monster springs to life when he catches the scent of chocolate chips.

She says, “It’s complicated.”

Without breaking eye contact, I ask, “As complicated as that dress you’re wearing?” She pulls her full lower lip between her teeth, and I swear to God my d**k almost explodes with the amount of blood that rushes into it.

This is ridiculous. Get a grip!

“Do you have any idea,” she says softly, “how difficult it is to find a red-and-green polka dot dress on short notice?”

I am all boner. I have zero brain cells left. There is no blood circulating anywhere else in my body. Someone stick a fork in me, because I am f*****g done.

Our eyes still glued together, I say, “You do realize there’s a big green polka dot right over your crotch, right?”

“Oh,” she answers, all Bambi-eyed innocence. “There is?”

We stare at each other. The moment stretches out. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore I whisper gruffly, “Grace.”

It’s like hearing me say her name does something to her, because her eyes flutter closed and she inhales a sharp breath. “Wait,” she says quickly. “Don’t say anything else yet.”

I stand there and watch her breathe with her eyes closed, fighting every instinct inside me that’s screaming touch her kiss her take her in your arms!

I have to do something. I reach out and, very softly, touch her cheek.

And she shudders.

She f*****g shudders.

I’ve never felt anything like the bolt of need and longing that crashes through me, hot as fire, dark as midnight. My hands shake with it. My heart pounds with it. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to crush my mouth against hers, yank up her dress, pull down her panties, and f**k her right here, bent over the kitchen counter, fast and hard.

Because I know she wants it just as badly as I do.

“Open your eyes,” I demand.

When I see what’s reflected in her eyes when her lashes slowly lift—the desire and ambivalence, the raw emotion—I groan. “I have to kiss you,” I whisper, stepping closer and taking her face in my hands.

“Brody. Please. Wait.”

She flattens her hands over my chest. I groan again, my lips inches from hers.

“I’m—I—I can’t . . .”

I look into her eyes. “You can. I know you want to.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t f*****g lie to me,” I growl, pressing up against her. When our bodies meet, she inhales the sexiest little gasp that manages to make me feel like a Viking warrior who just conquered a new continent. Thrilled by the sound of it, I put my lips next to her ear and say, “My c**k is so hard it hurts and your n*****s are so hard I can see them right through your clothes and I bet if I put my hand inside your panties right now it would come away soaking wet. Am I right?”

Her only answer is a shaky exhalation.

“Yes,” I growl. “I’m right. And you said you broke up with Marcus. So give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kiss you, Grace. Just one.”

Her whole body is trembling. Her breath comes in short, soft pants.

Fuck it. This is happening. Right. Now.

The moment my lips touch hers, Grace blurts, “Because I don’t want to hurt you!” I freeze, and open my eyes. She’s staring back at me with this wild look, like she might bolt at any second. I stay perfectly still.

“Do you have venomous saliva?”

It’s meant as a joke, something to lighten the moment, but it doesn’t work. She looks away, as if she’s ashamed.

“Talk to me.” When she doesn’t respond, I gently turn her face back to mine. We look into each other’s eyes.

I have the strangest sense of falling, like I’ve just stepped off a tall building and am headed at top speed for the ground.

She takes a breath, gathering her strength. “I have memory problems. Most people don’t know about it but . . .”

But I do, because Chloe told me.

It was the day Abby was born, before Chloe went into labor. We were sitting around the kitchen table at Nico’s house. I’ll never forget that moment, or Chloe’s words.

When she was eighteen, Grace was involved in a bad car accident. Her parents were killed . . . she lost her memory. She can’t recall anything from before the crash. She had to relearn who she was when she woke up; she didn’t recognize anyone, she didn’t remember anything about her life. So now she has this whole ‘live for the moment’ philosophy. Especially with relationships. If she thinks someone she’s dating is getting serious, that’s it. It’s over.