Page 49 of Saving Grace

I won’t—I refuse—to be someone else who hurts her in the long run.

“It—” I start. I run my hands through my damp hair before letting my head fall back on the padded headrest behind me. I close my eyes. How the hell do I confess what I want, when it’s unfair to her?

I don’t.

She moves beside me. My eyes are still closed. The vision of her walking away from me earlier hums to life. My chest tightens. A weight settles onto my lap, and I open my eyes.

Grace sits on my lap, her hands flat on my T-shirt over my pecs. Her focus is on her hands, her breaths fast and shallow. “Have you ever really wanted something, but things that happened before ruined it for you? Or at least, you thought they would?” she whispers.

My nostrils flare. My cock is at full mast, and I’m sure it’s digging into her ass. “Kind of,” I say, not sure where she’s going with this.

“I thought after Joel, romantic relationships would be out of the question for me. That love and sex and everything that goes with it could never appeal to me again.”

Hearing the word sex from her lips as she sits on my rigid-as-fuck cock steals the last of my air.

“Gracie,” I choke out.

“Mack, I know you would never hurt me. So, if you don’t want me, please tell me.”

She closes her eyes.

As if that will save her from what she doesn’t want to hear.

Chapter Thirteen

GRACE

Mack’s hard length underneath me has me breathless as I wait for him to tell me to hop up. Get off him. Because rejection and conditional love are the only two things I have felt from a man. Joel was only ever interested in his own release. The only way I have ever reached that point was a few times in the shower when he was not home. At least, I think I did? It wasn’t anything worth committing to memory.

Deep blue eyes study my face as Mack stands and shifts me onto his hips. It’s all I can do to hang on to his shoulders and wait for him to dump me on my bed. His gait is steady but slow. The extra workouts have paid off exponentially.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I need a shower.”

“And you need me, because . . .”

“You’re now also covered in sweat; ergo, you require one, too.”

“Mack. My room is the other way.”

“I know.”

“You need me to undress you and give you a sponge bath?”

“The only person who deserves pampering in this house is you.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right.”

He stops mid-stride. “I’m serious.”

I stare at him, heart flinging against my ribs. I let my hands wander up his neck, one into his hair, the other cupping his jaw as I search his gaze. “You do, too.”

Heat coils deep in my belly. I’m wet simply touching his face. It’s the first time I’ve held onto him that hasn’t been to help or platonic. It’s all-consuming. Overwhelming. If he doesn’t kiss me, I may implode from the intensity.

I want him to touch me. I want his warmth around me.

But even his free hand rests softly against my back as if he’s holding something fragile.

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