Page 133 of Mess With Me

He kisses me, soft and gentle.

“I love how your mind can’t rest until you’ve figured out the best way to help someone.” His thumb moves to my cheek. “I love how you somehow got my old coot of a neighbor to spill his life story to you the first day you met him, when it took him five years to tell me a single thing.”

He swallows. “Then there’s the fact that everyoneIlove has fallen in love with you, too, Sasha.”

My eyes are already wet, but at that, the tears spill over. I cup a hand over my mouth, because I’ve never had that before. Not even close.

“Your family loves you,” I whisper through my fingers. “They want you to be happy.”

“It’s not just that. They see what I see. They see a woman who’s more beautiful on the inside than outside, and that’s saying a fucking lot because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

I laugh, but it comes out a half sob. “Griffin…” But the words lodge in my throat. “I—”

He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“Sasha, don’t. Please.” His hands cup my jaw, his eyes meeting mine. “I don’t need you to do or say anything. I just couldn’t hold that inside anymore. That’s all. I don’t need anything back from you.”

I want to give him something back. So badly. But the last dregs of that old, hard-etched fear cling to me. But then Griffin kisses me, and I don’t need to push it away. A warmth spreads over me at his touch, one that flames to heat in the stroke of his tongue against mine.

I pull my face back, catching my breath.

“Griffin?”

“Yes, Angel.”

I lean in, my lips at his ear. “I think I want you to fuck me like this.”

I feel his muscles tense against me. “Like what?”

“Like a man who loves me.”

He pulls away from me, shaking his head slightly. “What do you think I’ve been doing, Angel?”

My stomach does a full barrel roll at that. Then again, when he slides our beer bottles off the counter and into the sink, where they crash and clunk and fizz. I don’t remember putting mine down.

“But for you?” he says, low and rumbly. “I’ll do it again.” In one easy move, he hoists me up on the counter, setting me down hard enough I gasp.

“Here?” We haven’t done it anywhere except the shower and the bed. Oh, and once on the back porch late at night in one of the Adirondacks. That wasn’t easy, but we figured it out.

Heat rips down my body as his hands slide my dress up my thighs. “You have a better suggestion?”

“No,” I say. “Actually, this is perfect. I want to dream about you railing me every time I make a sandwich.”

His laugh is a low chuckle, and while every nerve ending is focused on his fingers curling over the top of my underwear, I can’t help but think how much I love that I can make him laugh.

“You know, I had a boyfriend once,” I breathe into his ear as he tugs the elastic down.

He freezes, meeting my eye. “Sasha.”

I laugh. “I have an important point.” I curl my arms around his head, resting my elbows on his big shoulders, my eyes on his. But still, my hips inch forward on the counter toward him. “That guy, he didn’t think I should be funny.”

Griffin screws up his face. “What?”

“He said women are supposed to laugh at men’s jokes, not make them.”

“But not all of us are good at making jokes.”

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