Page 71 of A False Start
I kicked him out because I was tripping out. The complicated feelings crashing through me after having sex with him were totally consuming and complicated, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I don’t want to be consumed by a boy. A man. Whatever. I don’t want to be that vulnerable to another person. Period.
And he gets that. Respects that.
But now I’m laying here in my tent wishing he were far less of a gentleman. A growly, rude, dirty-talking gentleman. Go figure.
He tried to fight me on staying out here rather than in his house. But I wasn’t having it. Staying in that house with him would be too tempting.
The way he claimed me last night. His gruff words, his sensual touches. God, his rough touches. I’d never had sex like that. Sex where it felt like the other person knew exactly where to put their hands. When. How hard. Knew to say something that would light me on fire. Followed by something sweet that would make me swoon.
Sex with Griffin Sinclaire was filthy and romantic all at once.
It was also addictive. I realized as I lie here, replaying it over and over again. His fingers in my mouth while he filled me up, the tenderness in his eyes, the reverence in his hands. The way his face had momentarily filled with disappointment when I all but told him to leave.
Usually guys were all for that, but Griffin had looked downright wounded. Like he would have stayed and held me all night long. And I hated that look on his face. I hate I want nothing more than to be lying in his arms.
I pull the sleeping bag up over my face and let a quiet, frustrated scream out. My plan was to stop having meaningless sex with meaningless men, and I figured I could break my rule for one night. I thought I could scratch that itch.
The problem is, Griffin is right. Nothing between us feels meaningless. And sitting here journaling until my vision blurs has brought me to that exact conclusion.
Catching feelings for a guy has always scared me. It ruined my mother’s life—almost ruined my life in the process—and keeping feelings and sex separate has been a sadly easy line for me to walk.
Until Griffin Fucking Sinclaire waltzed in with his growly moods and bristly fucking beard and ruined my streak. Never mind the shirtless lumberjack routine. That was just cruel temptation.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to have sex that meant something, but I went and fucking did it. And now I’m tripping balls.
My brother’s best friend. A man a good handful of years older than me. It’s bizarre that something so outwardly wrong can feel so damn right.
I flip the sleeping bag down and force a deep breath into my lungs, weighing my options. After a full day of working around this gorgeous goddamn oasis, I should be exhausted. But I’m jittery. Confused. Frustrated.
Horny.
So. Fucking. Horny.
I either need to be close to him or get as far away as possible from him. I know it in my bones. My options are: jump in my car and abandon Griffin up here, which would make me a huge dick, but might salvage the course my love life seems to be taking, or I walk up to that house, bang on the door, and tell him everything.
Lay it all on the line. Risk him treating me like I’m a tragic little girl who he got what he wanted from on the off chance that he wants to bang again.
He won’t. I know it.
Deep down, I know he won’t turn me away. I saw the shift. Ifeltit. And that’s the scariest part of it all. If I open myself up to him, will it ruin me? Will it make me want to quit school? Give up my dreams? Hide away in the mountains with him?
It almost sounds appealing, but I’d never forgive myself if I gave up on everything just to do that.
My heart rate jumps, and my breaths turn to anxious pants as my mind races through all the worst case-scenarios.
Only one way to find out.
I flip the sleeping bag off myself as I stand and burst through the tent flap. I don’t even bother with shoes. The damp grass tickles the bottoms of my feet as I jog up to the front door of Griffin’s beautiful little mountain house.
My knock is tentative. I glance over my shoulder briefly, wondering if I should have jogged to my car parked mere feet away from where I currently stand. Two options so close together, and yet so far apart.
The door swings open, and Griffin fills the space, an expanse of bare chest and bulging biceps covered in scrolling black patterns. His dark hair is loose and disheveled, and I can still feel it running between my fingers. All he’s wearing is a pair of simple gray shorts and a concerned scowl.
I love that scowl.
“What’s wrong?” He’s peering around behind me, like an axe murderer chased me up here.
“I’m scared,” I blurt out, squeezing the wrist cuffs of my oversized sweatshirt between my fists.
