Chapter Eleven
Grant barely remembered the trip back to the hotel.
One minute, he was carrying Amelie through the snow while she laughed and threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t put her down, and the next, they were stepping into the elevator with their fingers intertwined.
The reality of what was happening didn’t fully hit him until the doors slid shut and they were finally alone.
His gaze drifted toward her reflection in the mirrored wall. She was smiling—not the polite smile she gave strangers or the guarded one she had worn when they had first reunited, but the smile he remembered, the one he had fallen in love with and the one he had spent years missing.
The elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto their floor.
Amelie glanced up at him and quirked her manicured eyebrow at him.
“Don’t even think about throwing me over your shoulder again.”
Grant looked offended. “Again? You say that like it wasn’t an efficient mode of transportation.”
“It was caveman behavior.”
“It was romantic caveman behavior.”
Amelie laughed and shook her head. “There was nothing romantic about being hauled through a hotel like a sack of potatoes.”
“Good thing I learned from my mistakes then.”
Before she could ask what he meant, Grant bent down and swept her into his arms bridal style.
A surprised squeal escaped her lips as her arms immediately wrapped around his neck.
“Grant!”
“What?” he asked innocently, already carrying her toward the room. “You specifically said not to throw you over my shoulder.”
Her laughter echoed down the hallway. “You are impossible.”
“But technically, I’m following instructions.”
Amelie rolled her eyes, though the smile on her face gave away how much she was enjoying herself. “I can’t believe I’m letting you get away with this.”
“Sweetheart, after waiting almost thirteen years to hold you again, I’m taking advantage of every single time I get the chance to.”
When they reached his suite, his pulse had climbed noticeably higher than it should have.
He set her down on her feet before he unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting her enter first.
They both slipped out of their coats and tossed them onto the sofa.
Amelie walked over to the balcony glass doors, while Grant headed toward the small bar. He needed a drink to calm his nerves.
He had faced combat zones, billion-dollar negotiations, and rooms full of military brass without breaking a sweat. But somehow, standing alone with Amelie made him feel more nervous than any of them.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Sure.”
He poured them both a drink and then walked over to where she was standing.
He handed her the glass.
“Thank you,” she said and took a sip, before looking out the window again.
“I can’t ever get over this gorgeous view,” she said.
“Me either,” he replied, though he wasn’t looking at the mountains she was admiring. He was looking at her.
Amelie glanced over and caught him staring. A slow smile spread across her face.
“You’re not talking about the mountains.”
“Not even a little.”
Amelie set her glass down and slowly stepped closer, her eyes studying him. She took his glass and placed it next to hers.
She placed her hands on his chest, palms flat against his shirt, and Grant felt the heat of her through the fabric like a brand. Her fingers flexed, testing the muscle beneath, and he knew she could feel his heart hammering. She was touching him now. She was initiating the contact.
The last thread of his restraint frayed dangerously.
“What are you thinking right now?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Grant laughed softly. “You really want to know?”
“I asked.”
His gaze held hers. Then he stepped closer, his hand finding her waist under the hem of her sweater. His thumb traced the bare skin above her jeans.
“I’m thinking,” he said, his voice dropping to that rough register she used to shiver for, “that in about thirty seconds I’m going to have you naked in my bed.
I’m thinking about how I’m going to spread you out and take my time relearning every inch of you that I’ve missed.
And then I’m going to fuck you so slowly and so thoroughly that you’ll feel me for days.
Every time you move, every time you sit down, you’ll remember exactly who you belong to. ”
He watched her pupils blow wide, watched her lips part on a shaky exhale.
Her hands slid upward to his shoulders, her thumbs brushing his collarbone, and he felt himself teetering on the edge of something reckless.
Thirteen years of celibacy from her—of wanting no one else.
He wanted to rip her clothes off, but at the same time, he wanted to worship her for hours.
The contradiction was tearing him apart.
Test me, he thought, staring down at her flushed face. Test my patience, Amelie. See how long I last.
Amelie looked up at him, her eyes dark and trusting.
Her lips parted slightly, and Grant felt something inside him snap.
Thirteen years of wanting her, of dreaming about her, of convincing himself he would never have this again, and now she was here, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He meant to be gentle. He told himself to go slow, to honor what they had found again, and to treat her like something precious and fragile.
But he failed as his mouth crashed down on hers with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head as his fingers tangled in her hair.
He kissed her like a man drowning, like a man who had been starving and finally had been given permission to feast.
His teeth grazed her lower lip, then his tongue swept into her mouth. He felt her sway against him, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
“Grant…” she gasped.
He broke away and dragged his mouth down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin before moving back to her mouth.
“I can’t,” he breathed against her lips, kissing her again, deeper, his tongue sliding against hers with raw intent. “I can’t stand here and talk anymore. I need you. I need to feel you, I need—”
Amelie made a sound against his mouth, like surprise, then surrender, then an urgent need.
“Yes,” she whispered, and that single word undid him completely.
He kissed her once more, hard and claiming. His hands slid beneath Amelie’s thighs, and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist instantly, locking her ankles at the small of his back as her arms circled his neck.
He could feel the heat of her through their clothes, the press of her body against his chest, her breath warm against his ear.
“Bedroom,” she whispered, and he was already moving, carrying her through the doorway with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.
He set her down at the edge of his bed with deliberate care, his hands lingering at her hips as if reluctant to let go.
Amelie leaned back on her elbows, looking up at him, and the sight of her there, on his bed, hair mussed, and lips swollen, sent something sharp through his chest.
For nearly thirteen years, he had imagined and dreamed of this. And now the reality of her in front of him threatened to undo every intention he had of taking this slow.
“Grant,” she said, and he heard the question in it.
He answered by leaning down and kissing her, deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against hers with a hunger he had kept banked for too long. She arched up into him, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in her urgency.
“Slow,” he managed against her mouth, though his own hands were already at her waist, pulling her sweater free, his palms skimming the bare skin beneath. “I want to take this slow.”
“Liar,” she whispered, and he felt her smile against his lips.
He couldn’t deny it. His fingers were already at the clasp of her bra, his mouth trailing down her throat.
He had thought he could be patient, could savor this after wanting her for so long, but having Amelie laid out on his bed, willing, eager, and his again was killing him.
“Tell me if I’m rushing,” he said, even as he pushed her back onto the mattress and followed her down, his body covering hers.
“You’re not rushing,” she said, and lifted her hips to help him work her jeans down her legs. “But I want you to know that I don’t need slow. I just need you. I’ve needed you for nearly thirteen years, Grant. Don’t make me wait anymore.”
He groaned, resting his forehead against hers, his control slipping even more. “I want to do this right. I want to—”
“You’re doing it right, she interrupted, her hands at his belt now, pulling him free. “You’re here. I’m here. That’s what I want.”
He captured her wrists, holding them gently above her head as he studied her face, flushed, beautiful, impatient. “Then tell me what else you want,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me exactly, Amelie. I want to hear you say it.”
◆◆◆
Amelie wanted to touch him. Wanted it with a fierceness that surprised her, that made her strain against his gentle grip on her wrists.
She had waited thirteen years for this man, had convinced herself she would never feel his weight on her again, his mouth on her skin, his voice rough with need for her.
And now he was here, asking what she wanted, giving her permission to be as hungry as he was.
“Let me look at you first,” she said, and Grant released her wrists, sitting back on his heels.
He pulled his shirt the rest of the way, and Amelie’s breath caught.
The man before her was not the twenty-five-year-old she remembered.
His shoulders were broader, his chest defined with muscle that flexed as he moved, his stomach ridged with abs that she wanted to trace with her tongue.
A light dusting of hair led down from his navel, disappearing into his jeans, and she followed it with her eyes, already imagining what waited there.
“Like what you see?” Grant asked, a hint of that old arrogance in his voice, the one that had always made her wet.