Page 70 of Highball Rush
“I ain’t mad, Callie,” he said, his voice husky and low.
“Then what are you doing?” I whispered.
“I’m trying to keep my fucking hands off you.”
My breath caught in my throat. Was that why he’d been keeping his distance? Not because he only saw me as a friend, but because he’d been holding back?
“Maybe you should stop trying.”
He was so close. So big. Without a single inch of our bodies touching, he held me against the wall, immobilized. A low groan rumbled in his throat and I could almost feel the vibration in my chest, down my spine, between my legs. He smelled so good, I wanted to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in.
Gradually, as if he wasn’t aware he was doing it, he inched closer. I stayed pressed against the wall, my chin lifted.
“I’m no good for you,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet.
Our noses brushed and a hot rush of desire poured through me. My body lit up, nerve endings pinging. “You’ve always been good for me, Gibs.”
His head tilted and his lips touched mine. So soft. So tender. My eyes fluttered closed as he exerted gentle pressure.
He trembled, like he was struggling to hold himself in check, or afraid to move too fast. Gibson was rough and brusque. Who would have thought he’d kiss like a butterfly?
I draped my arms around his shoulders and he stepped in closer, slipping his hands around my waist. His beard was rough against my skin, pleasantly contrasting with the softness of his mouth. He pulled my lower lip between his and I felt the brush of his tongue.
That little taste made me shudder. His hands flexed, drawing me against him, and finally, finally, we sank into the kiss. Our lips parted and his tongue dragged against mine. I slid my fingers through his hair, angling my head to let him take the kiss deeper.
He kissed me slow, like warm maple syrup. Sweet and soft and a little messy. I melted against him, yielding to his gentle touch.
I wanted it all. I wanted him to devour me. But this wasn’t the unleashing of bottled up sexual tension. This was saturated with emotion, as if he was saying everything he couldn’t put into words with his kiss.
He pulled away slowly and rested his forehead against mine. “Shit.”
I kept my arms around his shoulders. “That bad?”
“No, too good. I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
“Too late.”
He nuzzled his nose against mine and I massaged his scalp with my fingertips. He seemed so much calmer. Like kissing me had drained all the stress and tension right out of him.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.
I nodded, enjoying the closeness. The feel of his hands on my waist, his face next to mine. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
“Me too, Callie. I’m so fucking glad.”
He drew me against him and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight.
How long had it been since I’d been held like this? Strong arms surrounding me, protective and comforting. An embrace filled with emotion, not as a means to getting my clothes off. Although my body whispered soft suggestions—and we were certainly alone—this moment wasn’t about sex. And I didn’t want it to be. I didn’t want to be another notch in his bedpost. And he was more than something to make me feel a little bit less alone for a night.
Truthfully, I didn’t know what this was. He turned his face into my hair and breathed in deeply, his arms still wrapped tightly around me.
I wasn’t the girl who stayed. I always moved on. There was always another project, another artist. Another tour.
But maybe Jenny had been right. Maybe I had been running.
And maybe I was ready to stop.
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