He Will be My Ruin
Page 29
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“I did. She never noticed any men visiting. Ever.”
“Did Celine mention names or anything like that in the diaries you did find?”
“Nothing to clearly identify anyone.”
Grady heaves a sigh. “I don’t know, Maggie. That’s some theory.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” I need someone to believe me. I can’t be alone in this.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . . When my brother OD’d, it took me months to come to terms with it. I wasted so much time trying to prove that the drugs were laced with poison, even though no poison was found in the toxicology report. I even tracked down the guy who sold them to him and threatened to kill him if he didn’t confess. You can imagine how well that went over, threatening a drug dealer.” The sound of his chuckle reverberates against my ear, sending a tingle through my limbs.
“Finally, I just had to accept it: My brother was a drug user who mixed things he shouldn’t have mixed.” His deeply accented voice cracks with emotion.
“I guess Celine’s case must bring back some hard memories for you.”
“Yeah, kind of,” he says softly. “I hadn’t thought about it for a while, actually. After he died, I jumped on a plane for America. It was supposed to be a vacation, but I stayed.”
“So you’re an illegal,” I say to tease him, partly because I need to break up the cloud that’s formed over this happy little place, but also because I’m interested in learning more about Grady.
A brief smile flashes across his face. “Dual citizenship. My mum is from Seattle. She met my dad while on vacation in London and married him right away. The family business was over there—just outside of Ipswich—and so that’s where they stayed. And that’s where I grew up.”
“And what kind of business is your family in?”
“Sheep farming.”
“Sheep farming?”
He nods, chuckling. “Glamorous, right?”
“Almost as glamorous as fixing toilets and replacing screws.”
He smirks, but then his face grows serious. “It’s easy work and my rent is paid. I never have to worry about where I’m going to live. Plus, my interests lie elsewhere, besides sheep.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“At the moment, right here.” He’s watching me, his long dark lashes fluttering as his eyes drift over my features, settling on my mouth more than once.
I know what’s supposed to happen now, and I find myself wanting it to happen, and yet I hesitate. I haven’t made time for a guy in my life since my senior year of college. That guy was an environmental engineering major, like me. Three months into the relationship, I found him snooping through my desk drawer, flipping through my files. Apparently he had his sights set on my money. That’s usually the case, I’ve found. This enormous trust fund doesn’t come without a cost. Namely, a genuine love life. My choices are kind of simple: date privileged assholes who have plenty of their own money, or lay low.
I’ve chosen to lay low. It hasn’t been hard, letting my time be consumed by work as I hop from country to country, as I focus my attention and energy on people who need it.
But Grady’s actually the kind of man I would be attracted to. Aside from the obvious physical chemistry, he’s laid-back and easy to talk to; he clearly enjoys the outdoors and is good with his hands; he seems to be generous. Perhaps most importantly, he doesn’t seem to be money-hungry.
He doesn’t seem very ambitious, though, and I do appreciate some ambition.
It’s not that I want to date Grady—or anyone—right now. But after so long, it’s hard not to wonder what he would feel like, especially when we’re sandwiched together in this hammock, already sharing our body heat, with a fire nearby and the strings of twinkling Christmas lights above.
So when he leans in and skates soft, wet lips against mine tentatively, I make a firm commitment and press my mouth against his. He tastes like minty toothpaste. He must have stopped to brush his teeth on his way up to confront the trespasser.
He’s no longer hesitant, reaching up to cradle the back of my head and pull me closer into him, forcing my mouth wider as his tongue slides against mine in a long, sensual kiss.
I haven’t been kissed like this in forever.
I forget about our current predicament—being in a hammock, next to a fire, in December—until Grady’s leg nudges mine, working his way to fit his body in between my legs, and we start to swing. “Is this a good idea? I mean, aren’t we going to tumble out of here?”
He chuckles against my neck, where his mouth has now ventured, his short beard scratching against my skin. “Well, I’m not a pro with this exact situation, but I think we’ll be okay. Just no sudden movements.” His fingers begin weaving along the buttons of the flannel shirt I threw on, unfastening them slowly. I never bothered to put a bra on, something he discovers quickly enough. He pauses to stare at my naked breasts—I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious; I haven’t been intimate with a man in years—but when I shiver against the frigid air, he quickly smothers my body with his, and his mouth is back on mine.
No sudden movements is exactly the philosophy Grady’s operating under, pressing his erection into me with a painstakingly slow rhythm until my panties cling to my body from moisture; his fingers coiled within my hair, my lips growing plump and raw with his attention to them. The air is frigid, and yet within these blankets we’ve created a degree of heat that is actually making both of us sweat, my fingers against his hard body feeling how hot and damp his skin is.
“Do you want to move to your apartment? Or mine?” I ask, hoping that my question is clear enough to him.
He reaches down between us in response. “Straighten your legs,” he whispers, and I obey without question, allowing him to tug my sweatpants and panties down until they’re past my hips, my thighs, my knees. From there, the farther I stretch my legs apart, the lower they slide, until my feet are tangled up in material and two of Grady’s fingers are sliding into me, eliciting my moan, and his murmur of approval.
I guess this is happening here.
“Condom?” I whisper against his mouth.
“Left pocket.”
“Awfully presumptuous,” I joke, digging into his pocket to retrieve the foil packet. As soon as I have it within my grasp, I push his pajama bottoms down and wrap my fist around him, appreciating his size. Something else I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed.
“Did Celine mention names or anything like that in the diaries you did find?”
“Nothing to clearly identify anyone.”
Grady heaves a sigh. “I don’t know, Maggie. That’s some theory.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” I need someone to believe me. I can’t be alone in this.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . . When my brother OD’d, it took me months to come to terms with it. I wasted so much time trying to prove that the drugs were laced with poison, even though no poison was found in the toxicology report. I even tracked down the guy who sold them to him and threatened to kill him if he didn’t confess. You can imagine how well that went over, threatening a drug dealer.” The sound of his chuckle reverberates against my ear, sending a tingle through my limbs.
“Finally, I just had to accept it: My brother was a drug user who mixed things he shouldn’t have mixed.” His deeply accented voice cracks with emotion.
“I guess Celine’s case must bring back some hard memories for you.”
“Yeah, kind of,” he says softly. “I hadn’t thought about it for a while, actually. After he died, I jumped on a plane for America. It was supposed to be a vacation, but I stayed.”
“So you’re an illegal,” I say to tease him, partly because I need to break up the cloud that’s formed over this happy little place, but also because I’m interested in learning more about Grady.
A brief smile flashes across his face. “Dual citizenship. My mum is from Seattle. She met my dad while on vacation in London and married him right away. The family business was over there—just outside of Ipswich—and so that’s where they stayed. And that’s where I grew up.”
“And what kind of business is your family in?”
“Sheep farming.”
“Sheep farming?”
He nods, chuckling. “Glamorous, right?”
“Almost as glamorous as fixing toilets and replacing screws.”
He smirks, but then his face grows serious. “It’s easy work and my rent is paid. I never have to worry about where I’m going to live. Plus, my interests lie elsewhere, besides sheep.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“At the moment, right here.” He’s watching me, his long dark lashes fluttering as his eyes drift over my features, settling on my mouth more than once.
I know what’s supposed to happen now, and I find myself wanting it to happen, and yet I hesitate. I haven’t made time for a guy in my life since my senior year of college. That guy was an environmental engineering major, like me. Three months into the relationship, I found him snooping through my desk drawer, flipping through my files. Apparently he had his sights set on my money. That’s usually the case, I’ve found. This enormous trust fund doesn’t come without a cost. Namely, a genuine love life. My choices are kind of simple: date privileged assholes who have plenty of their own money, or lay low.
I’ve chosen to lay low. It hasn’t been hard, letting my time be consumed by work as I hop from country to country, as I focus my attention and energy on people who need it.
But Grady’s actually the kind of man I would be attracted to. Aside from the obvious physical chemistry, he’s laid-back and easy to talk to; he clearly enjoys the outdoors and is good with his hands; he seems to be generous. Perhaps most importantly, he doesn’t seem to be money-hungry.
He doesn’t seem very ambitious, though, and I do appreciate some ambition.
It’s not that I want to date Grady—or anyone—right now. But after so long, it’s hard not to wonder what he would feel like, especially when we’re sandwiched together in this hammock, already sharing our body heat, with a fire nearby and the strings of twinkling Christmas lights above.
So when he leans in and skates soft, wet lips against mine tentatively, I make a firm commitment and press my mouth against his. He tastes like minty toothpaste. He must have stopped to brush his teeth on his way up to confront the trespasser.
He’s no longer hesitant, reaching up to cradle the back of my head and pull me closer into him, forcing my mouth wider as his tongue slides against mine in a long, sensual kiss.
I haven’t been kissed like this in forever.
I forget about our current predicament—being in a hammock, next to a fire, in December—until Grady’s leg nudges mine, working his way to fit his body in between my legs, and we start to swing. “Is this a good idea? I mean, aren’t we going to tumble out of here?”
He chuckles against my neck, where his mouth has now ventured, his short beard scratching against my skin. “Well, I’m not a pro with this exact situation, but I think we’ll be okay. Just no sudden movements.” His fingers begin weaving along the buttons of the flannel shirt I threw on, unfastening them slowly. I never bothered to put a bra on, something he discovers quickly enough. He pauses to stare at my naked breasts—I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious; I haven’t been intimate with a man in years—but when I shiver against the frigid air, he quickly smothers my body with his, and his mouth is back on mine.
No sudden movements is exactly the philosophy Grady’s operating under, pressing his erection into me with a painstakingly slow rhythm until my panties cling to my body from moisture; his fingers coiled within my hair, my lips growing plump and raw with his attention to them. The air is frigid, and yet within these blankets we’ve created a degree of heat that is actually making both of us sweat, my fingers against his hard body feeling how hot and damp his skin is.
“Do you want to move to your apartment? Or mine?” I ask, hoping that my question is clear enough to him.
He reaches down between us in response. “Straighten your legs,” he whispers, and I obey without question, allowing him to tug my sweatpants and panties down until they’re past my hips, my thighs, my knees. From there, the farther I stretch my legs apart, the lower they slide, until my feet are tangled up in material and two of Grady’s fingers are sliding into me, eliciting my moan, and his murmur of approval.
I guess this is happening here.
“Condom?” I whisper against his mouth.
“Left pocket.”
“Awfully presumptuous,” I joke, digging into his pocket to retrieve the foil packet. As soon as I have it within my grasp, I push his pajama bottoms down and wrap my fist around him, appreciating his size. Something else I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed.
