Just Once More.... Mira Lyn Kelly
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contained strength, riding the peaks and valleys of a musculature she’d only believed existed in the land of airbrush and fiction. Begging with her body—bowed forward in an arch that was needy and shameless; with the same throaty whimper that had brought them to this point in the first place. The one that apparently did the trick, because in the next second she had what she wanted—Garrett’s tongue thrusting past her parted lips, rolling against her own, delivering a deeper, more potent version of the moan he’d been talking about in the process, ensuring they were in fact together in this desperation.
And that was the most intoxicating part of it all. They were together.
Another thrust and the hands gripping her hips tightened. And then she was sucking lightly over his tongue, gasping at the flick of it against her bottom lip, getting lost in all the places only this man had been able to take her—in the physical sensations unique to being with him, in the slide of his arms around her back so one hand came to rest across her bottom and thigh and the other wound into her hair and tightened there so she felt his hold against a thousand points of contact within her skin.
Oh, and she knew what he was going to do next—whimpered in anticipation of a repeat of the move that had haunted her nights so relentlessly.
Garrett’s lips curled against her own. “Say it.”
“Garrett.”
The tension at her scalp tightened incrementally as he used her hair to guide her head back, extending her neck further, opening her mouth to him so the kiss that came next was one he took. One he controlled. One he gave. One that made her groan and melt beneath it.
Made her ache through every point of contact yet to be made.
The hand across her bottom pulled her closer. Held her firm against the straining ridge of his erection.
Another whimper. Another reckless pant of his name.
Another thrust of his tongue into her waiting mouth.
All that mattered was this. More. Easing the almost painful clench of need so deep inside her.
And then the hand in her hair slipped free. Her head came up and in a daze she met the blue flame of Garrett’s eyes … tried to close the distance between them he had opened. She reached for his shoulder, his hair. Leaned in to his kiss, getting less than a taste before he broke away again.
Too much. She’d gone too far again. Gotten carried away—
Except he had her hand in his. The muscle in his jaw was jumping as he raked his other hand through the hair that was standing up in a guilty mess. “There’s got to be a back way out of here. Let’s go. I think I can make it to my car.”
The haze of arousal cleared further and Nichole looked around, stunned to find herself in this state of reckless abandon in the back hall of a coffee house. Oh, God. Mistake!
“Garrett, I can’t.”
He nodded, shoved his hand through his hair again and then grabbed her hips and lifted her up against him in a move so swift and deft she had her legs wrapped around his waist before she’d even realized what was happening.
No, this she had to stop—and fast. Because Garrett was carrying her up the last stairs, groaning some kind of agreement that neither could he. And then her back was against the wall and his hips were rocking against the needy spot between her legs that made her stupid in ways she could never have imagined prior to meeting him.
“Garrett,” she gasped when his mouth closed over her neck.
And that totally hadn’t come out the way it had been supposed to. But before she could even think about where she’d gone wrong with that one single critical word, the sensual, disorienting fog was descending again. Rolling in thicker with each flick of his tongue, every rock of his hips and brush of his thumb against the straining peak of her nipple.
Because, yes, this guy was plenty strong enough to hold her against the wall with one hand. And, God, wasn’t that the hottest thing? Next to all the other billion hot things about him. She was a little ashamed to admit his being so worked up enough to do her against the back wall of a public place was one of them.
But it had to stop.
She needed to check her libido and her ego and—
“Garrrrett …”
What … how … that was … would he do it again?
Then his mouth was back at her ear. His breath a hot rush against the tender tissue. His low growl a rough stroke against all the places where she ached for him. “Are you wet, Nichole?”
She opened her mouth, trying to form words—only her mind had blanked of coherent thought. And apparently Garrett didn’t need an answer anyway, because somewhere along the way he’d gotten her fly undone, loosened the denim enough to skim his hand down the back.
“Aww, baby, you’re so—”
“Stop.”
She didn’t know where she’d found the resolve to say it, or how Garrett had even heard, the word was so small. So not at all what she wanted. But there it was. And he had heard, because that marauding hand of his was working a steady retreat back to her hip, where he continued to hold her against him.
So maybe unlocking her ankles from the small of his back and letting go of his shirt and hair should be her next step.
Reluctantly, she did so. And, sure enough, Garrett eased her down to her feet from there. Let his forehead rest against hers and, with a pained groan, refastened her jeans. Because he was just that kind of guy.
Which made her want him all the more.
And that was a problem. Because Nichole wasn’t ready for this.
Thanks to her deadbeat dad’s underwhelming commitment to fatherhood she’d always been skittish about getting involved. The two guys she’d risked her heart with in the past had been more about building relationships than scoring bases. She’d known them for years, trusted them and made plans with them. With Paul … they’d been so young. When he’d ended things, she’d understood and recovered with only a few scars. But with Joel she’d been so hurt. So humiliated by what had happened it had taken her three years to brave up enough to dip just her toe back in.
Okay, fine. She’d done the full-on skinny-dip. But still … What she’d done she’d done believing it would be a one-time isolated incident with a guy who wouldn’t be around twenty-four-seven, tempting her to invest more of her heart than she should.
Garrett murmured, “Nichole, this thing between us isn’t going away.”
No, it wasn’t. “I’m not sure we’re giving it much of a chance to.”
“Maybe not.” Pulling back, Garrett looked around them, as if just realizing exactly where they were, and swore. “I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what I was—”
“Yeah, neither do I.” With a quiet laugh, Nichole added, “You are really going to get the wrong idea about what kind of girl I am.”
Garrett caught her chin with his finger and brought her gaze to his. “No, I won’t.”
Then, leading her down the flight, he stopped at the bottom stair and pulled her down to sit beside him. The guitarist had moved on to a new piece—something slow and soulful. Each pluck of the strings seemed weighted with a melancholy that resonated inside her.
Forearms resting over his widespread knees, Garrett scrubbed a palm over his face. “I know I’m the one who said this wouldn’t work. That I didn’t want it. But it sort of feels like we already have it, whether we meant to or not … Nichole, I can handle the part about Maeve.”
“But I’m not sure I can.” Maeve was her best friend. Her rock. The person she couldn’t live without. The person she’d need to turn to if her heart ever got trampled again. “Let’s just say you aren’t