0986388661 (R) (16 page)

“Commack. The high school. Tenth grade.” Her tone changes. Seemingly overwhelmed by it all, she sounds distant and lost. “I don’t even know where that is.”

“Well, luckily for you, I do. It’s about half an hour east of me, but there’s no direct train near there,” I explain. “How about this? Why don’t you pack a bag and take a train to me. You can plan your lesson here.”

“Right,” she scoffs. “Because that’ll happen.”

“I was actually just studying. We can work through the night and then you can practice your lesson for me.” Images of Grace as a hot teacher asking me to see her after class, deter me for a minute.

“Keep saying things like that,” she cuts in, my offer to help obviously calming her a little.

“I don’t have work tomorrow and my parents don’t need me, so I can drive you to the school. You don’t have to worry about a train or anything. You won’t be late. You’ll be well-prepared and you’ll knock them dead.”

“Okay,” she agrees almost instantly. “I’ll call you when I’m on the train.”

“Sounds good.” I close my binder, folding over the page I was trying to read.

“Oh, but David. One thing,” she requests.

“Sure, whatever you need.”

“Please tell me you have more than frozen peas and stale toast.” Though she seems to have said her question mostly in jest, I can hear a touch of seriousness in her words.

I laugh. “Of course. That pizza is still sitting on the counter.” I wish I was joking, but sadly, I’m not.

“Really?”

“No, I’m kidding.” I lie, walking into the kitchen to toss away the evidence of my laziness. “But yes, I’ll make sure I have some actual food,” I promise.

“Good. And one more thing.”

“Yes, dear,” I mock playfully.

“Thank you.”

When she ends the call, I realize I’ve got to get my ass to the supermarket and clean up the mess I’ve managed to make in the few days since she’s been here.

Bachelorhood and me are clearly comfortable with one another and while I’m not entirely ready for throw pillows and all that frilly shit, a fridge full of food and clean floors wouldn’t be entirely terrible.

By the looks of it, I’ve got about five minutes before her train arrives at the station. At least that’s what the distorted voice blaring over the loudspeaker tells me. And as if right on cue, Grace texts me, letting me know she’ll be here any minute.

When she steps off the train, she looks harried, and completely overwhelmed. From where I’m standing, I count three bags, one of which is slipping off her shoulder.

Before she falls through the gap between the train and the platform, I walk over to her. When her eyes settle on me, she lets out a deep breath of relief. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she blurts out, relieved and out of breath. “I don’t think I would have made it down the stairs on my own.”

Holding out my hand, I tell her, “Give me those.” Hefting the weight of her books and an overnight bag, I take her garment bag from her hands and drape it over my arm. “You okay?” I ask as we descend the stairs. “You seem . . .” Pausing, I try to find the right word.

“All over the freaking place?” She fills in the blank for me, a nervous laugh accompanying her words. “That’s because I am. This is huge. And totally unexpected. I don’t even know what to plan. I was told I could do anything. Do you know how unnerving that is? What if they hate it?”

She rambles on and on, not even realizing we’ve stopped right next to my car. After dropping her bags into the back seat, I stand in front of her. Her back is pressed up against the door, and I cage her to the spot, dropping my hands to the hood behind her. “Grace,” I say calmly, pressing my body against hers. She quiets immediately, deep, shuddery breaths replacing her frantic and feverish words. Running my nose along the length of hers, her sweet breath bathes over my skin. Cupping her jaw in one hand, I smooth my thumb over her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed as her chest rises and falls on a deep breath. “Relax,” I say, my lips on her cheek. “Breathe,” I whisper, moving my lips closer to hers. “Breathe.” Then my lips are on hers, soft and sweet. She tastes like cinnamon and Heaven—what I would imagine a mixture of sin and salvation would taste like.

Wrapping her hands around my waist, she hooks her thumbs into the belt loops of my jeans. And then her fingers graze the skin on my lower back, making me press my body even harder against her. When a car honks as it passes us, I remember we’re still in the very public parking lot of the Seaford train station—not exactly the most romantic of locations.

Pulling back from her, I run my nose along hers once more. Her hand goes to my face, stroking over the day-old stubble on my jaw. “All better now?” I ask, though her body melted against mine gives me all the answer I need.

“Uh huh,” she mutters, breathless and seemingly satisfied.

“Good.” Smiling at her, I reach behind her to unlatch the door. “Now let’s get back to my place and get to work. I have a feeling you’re the type to feel better once they’re elbow deep in work.”

She smiles back, her eyes shy and her lips full. “How’d you know that?”

“Just a lucky guess, but I’m the same way.”

She slides into her seat and me into mine. For the ten minute ride back to my apartment, she talks about a few ideas she’s having for her lesson. I wouldn’t call myself uneducated, but English Lit is most definitely not my strong suit. But listening to her ideas, her passion about reading and writing becomes crystal clear.

She’s intelligent and articulate.

And ridiculously adorable as she weighs her options aloud.

Her rambling continues as we walk up the stairs to my apartment and it isn’t until she flops back on the couch that she even realizes where we are.

“So it’s three now. How about we both get two solid hours of work in before we take a break?” Handing her the bag with her books in it, I slide next to her on the couch. Moving my books to the other side of the table, I settle back against the cushions.

“What are you working on?” she asks, eying my binder. There’s more than a little surprise in the tone of her words.

“Nothing, really,” I deflect. Not one for attention, I close the binder and try to refocus the conversation back to her lesson. “So what are you–”

“Oh no.” Laughing, she waggles a finger in my face. “You told me you were studying. So what is it?”

“There’s a lieutenant’s test in a few months. I’ve been really busy with my parents, so I need to catch up.” Patting the top of my binder, I tip my chin at her bag. “So let’s get to it, huh?” With my glasses back on, I open the book and remove the cap on my highlighter.

“Hey?”

I look up. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” she coos. “I just needed to do a double take.”

“These?” I ask, sliding them off my face.

“Yeah those.” Her voice is thick with something.

“Hate them, but can’t read without them. I guess I have both of my parents to thank for that.” Laughing, I deflect the usual discomfort I feel over having to wear reading glasses. Having dealt with them since I was thirteen, they’re the one thing in my life over which I feel self-conscious. Genetics are a bitch like that.

“You can hate them all you want.” Her pink tongue slips out of her mouth, tracing along the plump line of her lower lip. “But I think they make you look hot.” After a brief pause, she says, “Hotter, actually.”

Well, then.

Score one for the glasses, finally.

“Music okay with you? Or do you need silence?” With the remote in her hand, she’s poised to turn on the television. “There’s a channel that plays classical music.” Crinkling her nose, she looks adorably beautiful, explaining, “I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it helps me think. There’s actual clinical research proving–”

“Grace,” I cut her off mid-sentence. “I don’t need a dissertation.” I laugh. “If you want to listen to some music, that’s fine. I don’t need it to be quiet.”

Her responding smile lights up her entire face, and the room for that matter. Once the piano notes fill the room, I’m glad for the background noise. Without it, the sounds of her breathing would be the only ones in the room. Then it would be impossible not to watch her inhale and exhale, loving the rise and fall of her luscious chest, wondering what her breasts would feel like in my hands.

Yep, Mozart has my appreciation right about now.

An hour later and neither of us have spoken a word, letting the music fill the space around us. Needing to stretch out my legs, I stand from the couch. “Beer?” I ask, walking past her into the kitchen.

Without even looking up from her paper, she says, “Yes, please.” Turning back to the living room, I stop and lean against the counter. Grace is hunched over her books on the coffee table. Rubbing her shoulder, she tries to stretch out her neck. Her hair is tossed into one of those impossibly messy buns that threaten to swallow up her entire head. There’s a pen sticking out of one side of it and one dangling from her mouth. With her body swaying to the rhythm of some soothing song playing from the television, she looks so at peace. It’s as if I’m seeing her for the first time—the real Grace.

That’s not to say the interaction we’ve had up to this point hasn’t been real. I’ve loved every minute of it, but there’s something pure about watching her like this. She’s unapologetically nerdy, painfully sarcastic, and naturally beautiful.

Mesmerizing.

When she arches her back, twisting it to each side, she catches me staring at her. Over her shoulder, she gives me a sweet, almost shy smile. “Hey.” Her voice is tired and I can only imagine the exhaustion she’s feeling from both the adrenaline of receiving that phone call and the dedication to her work.

“Here you go.” Staying behind the couch, I give her the beers from over her shoulder.

She laughs. “Trying to get me drunk,” she jokes, wiggling both beers.

“No,” I answer seriously. “I’d never take advantage of you.” When I drop my hands to her shoulders, she jumps slightly. “They’ll warm up in a second,” I explain away the coolness the beer left on my fingertips. Her shoulders are twisted, like the knotted roots of some ancient tree. But rather than easing into my touch, she stays tense. “Relax, Grace.” With the gentlest touch, I pull her back further to me. She sighs as my fingers knead into her neck and shoulders. My pride swells when I feel goose bumps dotting her skin. She actually shivers when I graze my short fingernails up the nape of her neck and along her scalp.

After no more than a few minutes of a massage, her body goes limp. “That feels so good,” she moans softly. Covering my hand with hers, she pulls me from the back of the couch to sit next to her.

To her surprise, I keep her facing away from me, running my hands over her shoulders and arms. Leaning back into me, she rests her head against my chest, pushing me back against the arm of the sofa. As carefully as I can, I unloop the elastic from her hair, letting it fall in waves of coconut scented dark red strands. Combing my fingers through her hair relaxes both of us. It takes a matter of seconds for our breathing to synchronize, our chests rising and falling to the same beat.

Trailing my finger along the shell of her ear, she shudders. The atmosphere changes as she presses her ass deeper into my lap. Tracing the same finger lower, it skims the neckline of her tank top. Her back arches, pushing her breasts into my touch. “Grace,” I growl, asking permission yet warning at the same time. “I don’t think–”

“Then don’t,” she says, spinning around impossibly fast. Straddling me, her warmth blankets over my body, making me vibrate with anticipation. She lifts her tank top over her head, letting it fall to the floor. The lacey cream bra leaves little to the imagination. Her skin—it’s perfect, every inch of it. “Don’t think at all,” she pleads, pushing a strap down one arm. “Let me think for both of us.” She pushes down the other strap, revealing what I could only call a work of art. Shivering out of what I hope is desire, she inhales a shaky breath.

Settling my hands on her waist, I’m frozen to the spot. Rubbing sensual circles on her sides, I slowly move my hands up. With my eyes trained on the deep blue depths of hers, I unhook her bra, letting it fall to my lap. With one hand holding steady at the nape of her neck, I use the other, still wrapped around her waist, to pull her down to me.

Our lips are so close, her exhales become my inhales. Her existence flows through my veins and it becomes a basic necessity to feel her lips against mine. Sweet and sin rolled into one, our soft kiss intensifies, pushing our passion to the limits.

The warmth of her mouth, the heated thrash of her tongue against mine, the gentle nips of her teeth tugging on my lower lip, it’s all almost too much for me to take. “Oh, God,” she calls out as she rolls her hips against my erection, lying hot and heavy between us. “David,” she groans.

Arching her back, she pulls her mouth away from mine affording me the chance to rain kisses long her jaw and neck. With just the tip of my tongue, I lick the upper curve of her breasts. Murmuring against her heated skin, I tell her how beautiful she is, how perfect. Though she offers no verbal reaction, her body tells me all I need. She stiffens slightly as she slows her hips. It’s only for the briefest of seconds, but it’s enough to clue me in on her insecurities. “Look at me,” I demand her attention, angling her head back to mine. “Grace, you don’t think I’d lie to you, do you?” Grazing my knuckles along her cheek, she closes her eyes, but says nothing. “Because I wouldn’t. Not about anything, and most definitely not about this.” Trailing my hand lower, I flatten it out just beneath the hollow of her neck. “Open your eyes, Grace.” Her eyes flutter open, the sapphire gems flickering to life.