Chapter 16
CLEMENTINE
At some point, I must have fallen asleep because I wake up with my body sprawled over Griffith’s. He’s fully reclined on the couch, but the piece of furniture is plenty big enough for me to have my own cushions, even with him laid out.
And yet I ended up here.
The worst part is, I have no inclination to move. Also, my fangs are descended again. I run my tongue over one of the sharp points, and in my half-sleep daze, I imagine what it would be like to bite into Griffith’s neck.
How would he react?
Probably with disgust.
Though, after how he acted last night, maybe I have that wrong. Plus, he let me sleep on him like a mattress pad. The guy had to notice me here at some point. Could have easily shaken me awake and demanded I keep my distance.
With every inhale, I suck in a lungful of musky pine that tempts me to fall back asleep.
But on the off chance Griffith doesn’t know I spent the night cuddling him like a teddy bear, I should really move. Put distance between us before he wakes up.
Ignoring the regret I suddenly feel at the thought of losing my cozy spot, I press my hands against the cushions and lever myself up.
I spread my knees and let them brace on either side of Griffith’s body, which turns out to be a more suggestive pose than I considered when I realize he has a morning hard-on that’s now pressing against my center.
Still, through all of this, he remains prone, breathing relaxed, eyes closed.
The devil in me wants to poke him, but I restrain the childish urge and shift to the side, toes of one foot finding the floor.
“You defusing a bomb?” The rough voice has me whipping my head in Griffith’s direction to find him watching me with half-hooded eyes. “Moving like you think I’ll explode.”
Ignoring any possible embarrassment, I scoff. “Trying to be nice and not wake you. Not sure why I bothered when you just used me for a blanket.” I swing my other leg off and manage to get both my feet on the floor.
When I stand upright, Griffith stays where he is, watching.
“You sure I was the one using you?”
I glare at him. “Of course.”
“Where are you going?”
Did he expect me to stay?
“Shower. Then, since Carl is working today, I assume I’m going wherever you’re going.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his cocky mouth. “I think I’ve got some brewing to do.”
After a bracing shower and a quick breakfast, Griffith drives Shrimp and me to Local Brew, and the three of us head toward the barn behind the bar.
Shrimp chooses to lie down for a nap under a shady tree rather than come inside, and I try to ignore the rising tension I feel, being alone with the guy I thought hated me, but now apparently doesn’t.
As I hang out on a stool by the window and pretend to distract myself with my phone, Griffith visits each one of his beers, typing notes or measurements or other mysterious brewer knowledge into a tablet.
I wonder what his first batches tasted like. Were they immediately delicious? Or did he have to fail and fail again before figuring out the right recipe? I suspect brewing is part science, part art form, which means Griffith is more creative than I ever gave him credit for.
“Try this.”
He comes to stand in front of me, holding out a small glass with only a sample’s worth of beer. The liquid has a red-ish hue with a soft head of foam.
“You going to tell me anything about it?”
Griffith simply crosses his arms and waits.
I sip, then hum a happy noise at the taste of the tart beer with floral and sweet notes.
“That’s tasty. A new brew?”
Griffith nods, a smile playing around his mouth. “Hibiscus and vanilla sour.”
“Interesting flavor combo.” I take another sip, savoring the slightly familiar flavor. “Where’d you come up with it?”
“You.”
I furrow my brow, trying to remember whatever he’s referencing. “When did we talk about flowers?”
Griffith tilts his head, the movement doglike, his entire focus on me.
“It’s your scent,” he explains. “This is what you smell like to me.”
Um, excuse me? What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
“And you wanted to drink me?”
I guess that works.
Griffith leans closer, his own pine scent filling my lungs on my next deep inhale.
“Can you blame me for wanting a taste?” His voice has sunk deeper, taken on a growly edge.
That settles it. Griffith is officially flirting with me.
More than flirting. The guy brewed an entire beer based off my scent.
He’s wooing me, just like Violetta said.
And from the flush rising under my skin and the sharpening of my teeth, it’s working.
With his face so close, I can see his blown-out pupils and the flare of his nostrils, and I’m certain he’s breathing in my scent now.
Can he read all the tangled emotions in my mind through my sweat glands?
The idea is too much to process, and the chaotic half of my heart steals control of my limbs, leaning me forward, seeking out a taste of my own.
Griffith’s lips part on a gasp of surprise, and I lick his lower lip. That earns me a grunt and a set of hands on my waist.
Pulling me closer.
Fisting my fingers in his shirt, I hold on, deepen the kiss, melding my mouth to his in a hungry, searching hunt for more of him.
Griffith makes muffled noises in the back of his throat, pleased growls that tighten my nipples and speed up my pulse.
I can hold my breath underwater for hours, but by the time we break apart, I’m panting.
Griffith stares down at me, his face flushed, eyes wide, lips plumped. All because of me.
Just when I think he’s going to dip down for another round, there’s the sound of Shrimp’s bark and the metal latch on the door disengaging.
I release Griffith’s shirt, and he steps back just as Rodney appears.
“Hey, boss.” The new arrival raises a hand. “Sorry I’m late.”
Griffith flicks his attention to me, then away. “Don’t worry about it.”
As they talk beer, I slip out the door, feeling Griffith’s attention on my back as I leave.
In the sunlight, I try to process what just happened. Shrimp sidles up to me, looking for ear scratches.
“Hey, buddy.” I sigh. “I think I just started something I’m not sure I’m ready for.”