Page 48 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I moan.
And the result is…fabulous.
He growls, the sound vibrating along his tongue, from his chest through mine, sensitizing my nipples, sending heat down in a bolt of sensation between my legs.
Pleasure.
Need.
Mine.
His lips release mine, dragging along my jaw, down my throat, burying his face there and inhaling deeply.
I shudder, my hands diving into his hair this time, holding him to me, loving the roughness of the stubble on his cheeks against my skin, the hot, sleek dart of his tongue on my flesh, the soft yet firm press of his lips on my neck.
Then really not loving when he stills, curses softly, and lifts his head.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes not meeting mine.
Then, worse, he backs away and I lose the heat and strength of his body, the spice of his scent, the feel of his lips.
I pick up my cookie—which thankfully landed on the counter and not the floor—and take a huge bite.
All the better to stifle the words bubbling in my throat.
The apology that wants to follow his.
The embarrassment that has me wanting to sprint out the front door.
But where will I go?
No car. No phone. No credit cards.
The loneliness washes through me and I bite the inside of my cheek, willing it away, blinking back the tears that burn my eyes.
I shove another bite of cookie in my mouth, chew and swallow, but I’m not tasting the delicious salted caramel or the melty milk chocolate, not enjoying the crumble, the gentle crunch, the soft, ooey, gooey center.
No.
It’s like I’m chewing sawdust.
“I’ll rest up tonight,” I manage to push out. “Get out of your hair tomorrow.”
That done, I exhale and lift the cookie, intending on forcing myself to finish each and every bite, but I don’t get the chance.
Because Gray snatches it from my hand, tosses it on the counter.
“No.”
I blink. “No, what?”
“No, you don’t get to think whatever it is that has your face looking like that.”
I blink again, still reeling from the kiss, from his withdrawal, from that damned apology, and feel the edges of my temper begin to fray. “Now you’re telling me what to think?”
“Yes,” he mutters, cupping my jaw and tilting my head up at the same time he bends and takes my lips in a searing kiss that has my knees wobbling again. “Because I was apologizing, not expecting you to.”
I frown, knowing I’m letting him take over, but unable to stop myself, especially when his hand shifts, thumb tracing over my jaw, my cheek, the sensitive spot behind my ear, and his voice goes gentle and teasing. “You’re tired and you need food and I shouldn’t be kissing you.” He grins. “Even if your lips are far too tempting.”
