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Yeah right. Ten years hadn’t been long enough to erase that particular fantasy, one night wasn’t going to do it.
Out of any more excuses to hide in Finn’s bedroom, Gretchen trudged to the door. She stopped when she spotted him by the window, staring out at the lights below, dressed in gray sweats with a drink in his hand. Her chest tightened as she watched him, all the love she’d had for him over the years converging in that moment and almost consuming her.
He turned, meeting her eyes, his hair still damp from his own shower. Disappointment swept through her at the thought of him trying to wash any trace of her off him.
A slow smile curved his lips. “Gretchen.”
Her breaths came faster, and she swallowed as her gaze followed his journey across the rug toward her.
“Would you like a drink?” He lifted his tumbler.
She shook her head. “No.” The word came out strangled and she stopped to clear her throat. “No thank you,” she tried again.
Finn sighed and finished the brown liquid before setting down the empty glass. He dropped onto the arm of his black leather couch and studied her with his hands clasped between his thighs. Music floated through the speakers around them and she tilted her head, trying to make out the tune. Suddenly Finn stood in front of her.
“Dance with me,” he directed.
She shook her head, earning a frown.
“Come on,” he urged. He took her hand lightly in his, tugging her forward. She stumbled as she went to him and her breathing stopped completely as his arms went around her waist. He pulled her against him and her breasts, bare but for the fabric of his shirt, were crushed against his naked chest.
“We’re good at this.” His breath on her neck was pure agony.
She tried to pull away, she couldn’t be this close to him. She couldn’t be reeled in just to have him toss her away again. “Finn, please.”
“What? I thought you wanted me to touch you, Gretchen, to hold you and fuck you.”
~ ~ ~
Gretchen flinched at the harshness of his words and tears filled her beautiful green eyes. They’d once reminded Finn of childhood meadows. Now they made him think of fertile Irish fields where a man could get ensnared.
“That’s not what you want?” He breathed in the scent of her, noticing, not for the first time, a faint hint of her arousal. “Because I know you want me.”
She trembled in his arms, and the hard pebbles of her nipples pressed against his chest. “Why do you have to make it sound so vulgar?”
He couldn’t answer that, because evenheknew as he’d driven into her earlier, he hadn’t been merely fucking her as he would another woman. The moment he’d realized Gretchen was wrapped around him, his desire had deepened, his need to please her had overridden every other desire within him. Afterward, he’d wanted to hold her, to tell her the things he suspected he could only ever tell her.
“I can’t love you,” he confessed, “not like you want me to.” She stopped, and he loosened his grip.
She glared at him. “Because I’m a child?”
“Jesus, Gretchen, you don’t let anything go, do you?” He pulled away from her, immediately cold without her touch. This was why he’d avoided her for the past decade. It had taken months to stop craving her before, and now, since Brock’s wedding, she’d become like a fucking drug. He constantly hungered for the taste of her, but with each taste the need only intensified, until he was sure the hunger would kill him.
Staring out the window, he fought to regain his control. He thought he had, until he turned back. There she stood in the soft light from the hallway, wearing only his shirt with her golden curls surrounding her. She was a sledgehammer to the careful facade of self-control he’d spent years perfecting. She’d done as he asked—she’d come back out as Gretchen, his Gretchen, and it was his kryptonite.
He tried to focus on anything but the way her hair would smell if he buried his face in it or how it would feel if he entwined his fingers in the blond curls. He didn’t want to think of how she would taste on his tongue or feel wrapped around the most sensitive part of him. Too late. Pandora’s box had been opened. He might as well enjoy the pleasure before the punishment.
“Sit down.” He inclined his head toward the couch.
“I’m not a child for you to—”
“Sit down,” he interrupted. “I promise I don’t plan to treat you like a child.”
A small tremble shook her body before she lowered herself to the couch.
“Tonight,” he vowed, “tonight I’ll try to be what you want, but tomorrow.” He gave a slow shake of his head.
Her breath hitched as she fought her tears. She wasn’t stupid. If he touched her the way she wanted him to, if he loved her the way she thought he could, one night would never be enough. But like him, she wouldn’t forfeit that pleasure to save herself from future pain.
