How to End a Love Story(46)

“You could have interviewed me,” he says, his voice rough.

She shakes her head slowly and he thinks it would take a miracle for her not to feel his pressing erection through the denim.

“You didn’t get back to me in time,” she sighs. “I was on a deadline.”

“Poor Helen,” he says, and his right hand has entirely given up the pretense of respectability and is now slowly running a rogue finger under her left bra strap. He stays on the path of the elastic, as if this proves something. “Always on a deadline.”

“Grant,” she says, with a whiny rasp to her voice that he suddenly discovers is the sexiest noise in the entire goddamn world.

“Hm?” He draws slow circles along the outside of her shoulder. Circle, circle, dot, dot.

She laughs. “Do the hair thing again,” she murmurs.

He slowly removes his right hand from the fabric of her sweater and pulls both of his hands through her scalp.

“That feels so good,” she whispers.

He doesn’t trust himself to respond and focuses instead on adding pressure as he runs his fingertips along her scalp again.

She drops the heavy yearbook on her chest, and one of her hands reaches up, her fingertips seeking out the side of his face.

He tilts his head and tries not to audibly groan at the feeling of her warm palm against his stubble. Her fingers drift innocently toward his lips, and he can’t help expelling a short, low laugh. He brushes a quick kiss against her index finger, then she drags the rest along his mouth just so, lingering long enough for him to kiss the tip of each finger.

He can’t resist pulling her pinkie into his mouth and running his tongue along its underside.

She taps an admonishing finger against his lips as soon as he releases it, as if he’s broken some unspoken rule.

He laughs and mutters, “Sorry.”

He takes the opportunity to kiss the inside of her palm, and she pulls her hand away. She grabs his own hands instead, and uses them to pull him down just enough so he’s hovering over her. Her eyes are closed, but he’s pretty sure by the rapid tattoo of her pulse that she’s just as awake as he is.

She takes a few slow, staggering inhales and exhales. The furious beat of blood in his veins slows down just enough to register her quiet sigh.

“Can I sleep here?” she asks, as his thumbs keep brushing against her skin. Back and forth, back and forth.

“If you want to,” he says, his voice a low gravel. He waits for a response, but none arrives. He feels her pulse again—it’s slow and steady; she might already be asleep. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

He tilts his head back against the wall for a second. Get a grip, Shepard. Then he slides her gently off his lap and stands. Down, boy. He downs a cup of cold decaf coffee, then walks down the hall to the upstairs bathroom. He finds a blanket in the closet and walks back to his room.

He frowns, confused, at the Helen-shaped indent on the couch. A thud downstairs brings his attention to the window, and his eyes adjust to the dark just in time to see her car pulling out of his driveway.

Well, fuck.

Grant shuts the door and drops the blankets on the couch. He notices a soft scrap of black velvet on the cushion—her scrunchie.

He leans over the couch and fumbles with his zipper until he releases himself. He shuts his eyes and strokes as he thinks of silky hair, Grant, do the hair thing again, that feels so good, soft trailing fingers, sorry, full lips and the barest hint of a tongue dragging against his thumb, that feels so good—

He comes with a quick, shuddering gasp, panting over the couch as his orgasm rocks through him.

. . . Fuck.





Fifteen




Helen drives home and concentrates doubly on the road instead of the insistent thump thump thump of her heart. The numbers on the clock tell her it’s just after one a.m.—she’s spent almost nine full hours in Grant Shepard’s company today, yet somehow it feels like everything has happened in the span of minutes, then heart-racing seconds.

She isn’t sure when their idle conversation about a yearbook turned into something more, something flirting dangerously close with seduction. She laughs as she stops at a red light. If that was flirting with seduction, I’m screwed.

Her cheeks flush with heat as she remembers the sensation of Grant’s fingers skating across her skin—slowly, innocently, just staying on this side of plausible deniability until . . . until you basically fellated his thumb.

If anyone escalated things, it was her and her brazen mouth.

Not fair, she protests to herself. He wanted it too.

She remembers the insistent press of his erection against the denim of his jeans, and tries to ignore the embarrassing answering dampness in her previously respectable cotton briefs.

Technically—technically!—nothing has happened that they can’t explain away.

She laughs at this train of thought. Remember when we held hands at the cemetery? This was just like that, but . . . more. He’d kissed her forehead then too. Kissing fingers and kissing foreheads is basically the same thing. Chaste gestures between friends.

She combs a hand through her hair, hoping it isn’t too much of an incriminating mess.

Can I sleep here?

The words had slipped out innocently enough, but she may as well have just said, Please will you fuck me so hard we both forget our names?