Chapter 9
JESS
The sky turns angry around four o'clock.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I grab my keys and head for the door. I’m already calculating the fastest route home. But when I pull out of the parking lot, traffic is gridlocked. Red brake lights stretch for miles in every direction and the first fat raindrops splatter against my windshield.
My phone buzzes again and when I see his name on my screen, it’s a shock to the system.
Griffin: Where are you?
I shouldn't answer. I've been keeping my distance since that moment in the treatment room. The one where I made the fatal mistake of grazing his red wood tree with my palm. I didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s impossible not to notice the way it swells up every single time I touch him.
The sight sends heat pooling low in my belly every single time.
I admit that I’ve thought about it, but I was never going to actually touch it. It was a Freudian slip, or whatever. But I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll just commit it to memory and secretly obsess over it like a proper adult.
I blow out a deep breath. Professional texts only. Clinical detachment. Pretending I don't think about his hands on me every single night.
Me: Stuck in traffic. Trying to get home.
Griffin: The bridges are already flooded. You won't make it.
He's right. I can see the water rising on the overpass ahead and cars turning around in defeat.
Griffin: I'm five minutes from the clinic. Just come here.
Me: No. That's not a good idea.
Griffin: It's a better idea than drowning in your car. Don't be stubborn, Jess.
Dr. Hartwell, I want to text back. But the wind is picking up. It’s rocking my little sedan, and a tree branch skitters across the road in front of me. Dammit.
Me: Fine. Send me your address.
Twenty minutes later, I'm sprinting through horizontal rain to Griffin's front porch. He opens the door before I can knock and pulls me inside. His eyes rake over my soaked scrubs.
"You're drenched."
"Excellent observation." I'm shivering, water pooling at my feet. "The sky is falling, in case you hadn't noticed."
He disappears down the hall and returns with a towel and a stack of dry clothes. "Bathroom's through there. Change before you catch pneumonia."
I don't argue. I'm too cold, too tired, and too aware of how small his house feels with both of us in it.
When I emerge in his oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt that smells like him, the man has lit candles throughout the living room. I’d take it as a gesture, but the power is already flickering. So clearly I’m going insane and reading way too much into everything.
"Hungry?" he asks.
“I’m starving."
We eat soup and sandwiches by candlelight while the storm rages outside. We talk about… nothing. The clinic, his recovery, Biscuit's latest vet visit, the fact that Biscuit is safe with neighbors waiting out the storm. We go around and around, carefully avoiding anything that actually matters.
It’s probably for the best. I don’t think I can handle anything that might crack open the tension simmering between us right now. Not when we’re trapped together. But all my effort doesn’t get me very far. I feel his eyes on me. I feel the weight of everything we're not saying.
The lights go out around nine. The wind howls like something wounded. And when a crack of thunder shakes the whole house, I jump hard enough that Griffin reaches for me instinctively.
His hand lands on my arm. It’s warm and steady. It threatens to break every wall I’ve built. I pull away too fast. No, he’s not going to do this to me. I’m an adult. I can be around him just like anyone else. I pull my shoulders back.
"We should sleep," I say. "Conserve the candles."
"Right, I can take the couch." His voice is careful.
"Don't be ridiculous. Your knee can't handle the couch." I force my voice to stay even. "We're adults. We can share a bed without it meaning anything."
Griffin nods slowly. The look he gives me says he doesn't believe that, but he should. I mean it. I can do this for myself. This is growth. Besides, I don’t feel like freezing to death tonight so I pretty much don’t have a choice.
We head to bed when the candles start burning low.
He gives me a t-shirt to sleep in. It’s one of his old practice jerseys. I change in the bathroom and try not to think about all the times I wore his clothes before. The fabric is soft and worn, and it smells like him. I press it to my nose and inhale deeply, feeling pathetic and not caring.
I’m not wearing anything underneath. I didn’t exactly pack an overnight bag for a hurricane. But that’s his problem, not mine. I’m fine.
Get a grip, Hartwell.
When I finally emerge, he’s already in bed, carefully positioned on the left side.
The sheets are pulled up to his waist, but his chest is bare.
Candlelight flickers across his skin. It casts shadows in the hollows of his muscles.
He looks like something carved from bronze.
Something I want to lick. No. Something I should definitely not want to lick.
His eyes track down my body. The jersey hits mid-thigh and my legs are bare. I watch his jaw clench and it serves him right. Then his gaze snags on my chest, where my nipples are already pebbled against the thin fabric. He notices. His hands curl into fists against the mattress.
“Get on your side,” I say firmly, pointing to his half of the mattress. My voice comes out breathier than I’d like.
“Yes ma’am.”
The bed dips with his weight. Even with two feet of mattress between us, I can feel him. The pull of him. The gravity of wanting.
I shoot him a look as I climb in and keep as much distance between us as the king-size bed allows. I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between us. I notice the rustle of sheets, the sound of his breathing, and the warmth radiating from his body like a furnace.
Sleep is impossible.
I stare at the ceiling. Count the cracks in the plaster. Try to recite the periodic table. Anything to keep from thinking about how easy it would be to roll over. To press my body against his. To feel his hands on me, his mouth on me, his length inside me—
Ugh, stop already Jessica. Get your shit together.
“Jess?” His voice is rough in the darkness. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
I am. I hadn’t noticed, but now that he’s mentioned it, I can feel the tremors running through me. The storm has turned the air cold and damp. The thin jersey isn’t doing much to keep it out.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
The mattress shifts. I feel him moving closer, his body heat bleeds across the space between us.
“Griffin.”
“Just warming you up.” His voice is careful. Controlled. “Nothing else. I promise.”
And he keeps his word. Griffin doesn’t touch me. He just… lies there, close enough that his warmth seeps into my shivering frame. Close enough that if I shifted back just a few inches, my ass would be pressed against his.
It takes everything in me to hold perfectly still, but I do. The storm rages outside and in me too.
Sometime after two, a tremendous crash shakes the house. I let out a yelp before I’m fully awake and my body jerks upright. Strong arms wrap around me and pull me against a solid chest.
“It’s okay.” Griffin’s voice rumbles through me. His lips brush my hair. “We’re okay. I’ve got you.”
I’m trembling against him. His arms tighten, one hand splaying across my lower back, and I realize the jersey has ridden up. His palm is on bare skin. His fingers are inches from the curve of my ass.
“What was that?” I gasp.
“Tree branch through the window.” His thumb traces absent circles on my hip. “We’re okay, I’ve got you.”
I relax into his embrace. I should pull away. I know I should. But his chest is warm against my cheek, and his heartbeat is steady under my ear.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper.
“I know,” he murmurs back.
But his hand slides lower. Cups the curve of my ass through the jersey. I feel him hard against my hip, thick and insistent. A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.
“Jess…” His voice is strained. It’s a plea and a warning.
There won’t be any coming back from this. We both know it, but right now I can’t think of a single reason not to give into him.
“Just for tonight,” I hear myself whisper. “Just until the storm passes.”
He groans. It’s a sound of pure surrender and then we’re tangled together. My head on his chest. His arm around my waist and our legs intertwine. His dick presses against my thigh. He’s hard and hot even through his sweatpants. My nipples are peaked against his chest.
Neither of us sleeps.
We just lie there for hours. Our bodies press together and we pretend this is innocent. Like I can’t feel him throbbing against me. Pretending I’m not soaking wet and aching for him to do something about it.
The storm rages on, and so do we.