Chapter 4
Chapter four
Brenna
Minutes later, we’re settled on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, the cards dealt between us. I’m stretched out on my stomach, my chin propped in my hands, calves bent up behind me. Graham’s gaze keeps drifting over my body.
“I used to play this for hours,” he says, arranging his cards. “But it’s been a while.”
“My grandmother taught me,” I admit, picking up my hand and doing my best interpretation of my prim and proper mother’s mother. “‘Ladies should know proper card games.’”
A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “And do you? Know proper card games?”
“I know this one. And Spades.” I study my cards, acutely aware of how close we are. “Though I suspect you played for higher stakes than cucumber sandwiches and gossip.”
That earns me a genuine laugh, deep and rumbling, and the sound makes me smile.
When was the last time I made a man laugh like that?
The boys in my circle treat me like either precious china or an acquisition.
But Graham looks at me as if I’m…interesting.
As if he’s curious to hear what I might say next.
We play in comfortable silence broken by occasional banter about our hands. But I’m distracted by the way the firelight catches the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, by the sure way his calloused hands hold the cards.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, without looking up from his cards.
Heat floods my cheeks. My heart hammers against the rug beneath me as I meet his gaze. “Maybe, I see something I like.”
The air crackles between us as Graham’s storm-gray eyes hold mine. The cards in my hand are forgotten as heat spreads through my body like warm honey.
“Gin,” he says quietly, laying down his hand.
I barely glance at his cards. “You won.”
“We didn’t say what we were playing for,” he says after a beat.
The observation, in a husky tone, sends fire racing through my veins. I look at him through my lashes and murmur, “What do you want?”
His jaw tightens as he draws back slightly.
“Brenna,” he growls.
“What?”
“You’re trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“You, looking at me like that…” His hands clench into fists, his fingers curling tight.
I swallow hard but lift a shoulder and play innocent. “Like what?”
“Like you want something you shouldn’t.”
God, yes. I want this man with an intensity that makes my knees weak. I want to know what those calloused hands feel like on my skin. What it would be like to lose my virginity to a real man who’s so unlike the fumbling boys at the club.
And there it is. The revelation hits me like lightning.
I’ve never been attracted to guys my age because they’ve never felt like men.
Not like this. Not weathered and experienced and utterly confident in their own skin.
Until this moment, I didn’t know how much I craved this.
Desired someone who’s lived, who’s survived, and who looks at me as if he knows exactly what to do with me.
It’s insane to want someone this much after knowing them for barely an hour.
But then again, this entire trip is about taking risks, isn’t it?
About finally going after what I want instead of what’s expected of me.
And I want Graham Hughes more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone. I want him to be my first.
I rise onto my hands and knees and crawl closer across the rug, emboldened by the way a muscle in his jaw works as he watches me move. Thunder crashes overhead, echoing the storm building between us. “Why shouldn’t I?”
He looks off, toward the window where rain lashes against the glass. “I’m thirty-nine, sweetheart. Old enough to know better.”
“Know better than what?” I lean close enough for my breasts to brush his arm, and he goes rigid.
A muscle ticks in his jaw as he fights to keep his hands at his sides. “This is a bad idea.”
No, it’s not. This man, all barely leashed power and the kind of raw masculinity that makes every nerve ending in my body sing, is the best idea I’ve had in a long time, if ever. The fact he’s got probably close to twenty years on me? Not a problem in my book.
Not that I can confess I’m a virgin.
If Graham knew that, he would shut this down immediately. He’d either turn all honorable on me or march me right back to the rental cabin, power or no power. I have to play this as if I know what I’m doing, even if my inexperience is probably written all over my face.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips as I erase the distance between us. My hands tremble slightly as I sit back on my calves and place my palm flat against his pec. The wild, unsteady beat of his heart races under my fingertips.
He cocks an eyebrow, but I plow ahead, unwilling to turn back now.
“You’re right,” I whisper, holding his storm-gray gaze. “This is a terrible idea.”
For a heartbeat that feels like eternity, his hands hover near my face, fingers almost touching my cheek. I watch him lose the battle with himself, see the moment restraint gives way to raw need. Something feral flashes behind his eyes before his control doesn’t just break; it shatters completely.
His hands fist in my hair, and his mouth crashes down on mine with a hunger that steals my breath. His lips are firm and demanding, moving against mine with a confidence that makes my pulse race. When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him.
The kiss deepens, becomes something wild and desperate.
His beard scrapes against my skin, while one large hand spans the back of my neck, his callused fingers rough against my skin as he holds me exactly where he wants me.
Lightning flashes outside the windows, illuminating us for a heartbeat before plunging us back into firelight.
I melt into him completely, letting him drag me onto his lap until I’m settled against the rigid evidence of his desire. He’s so much bigger than me. I feel deliciously trapped, completely at his mercy, and every inch of my skin burns with want.
When we finally break apart, I drag in a lungful of air and cling to him . His forehead rests against mine, and there’s a war raging in his eyes.
“You’re too sweet for the dirty things running through my head, Brenna Buchanan,” he growls, his hands still tangled in my hair.
Moisture floods my panties as I wiggle against his stiff length. He sucks in a sharp breath. My pulse thunders so hard I can barely think straight, but I manage to meet and hold his gaze. “I’m tired of being sweet.”