More Than Want You
Page 78
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Now what do I do? I’m hardly in the mood to stand here and toast the bride.
Britta isn’t hard to find since she’s the only blonde among a sea of native Hawaiians in bright, tropical prints and sandals, clinking glasses and smiling.
From a distance, she’s wearing a pencil skirt in a sedate gray that clings to a curve in her hips she didn’t used to have. Her ass looks lusher, rounder. Her hair, though wrapped up in some classic twist, looks longer or thicker—something.
The lust that hits me is stronger.
She’s talking to a pretty brunette who’s about her age. The striking woman hugs her, joy evident in her huge smile. Britta replies. I can tell because she still talks with her hands. She’s graceful, as always. Not surprising. She entered college on a dance scholarship.
I remember watching her move on stage for the first time. The beauty of her dance stunned me, the way she was aware of her every muscle, the complete control she had over even her smallest movement. Pale tights and a flowing scrap of chiffon flirting with her thighs gave me a hard-on from hell. I was her boss at the time. She’d just begun to work for Maxon and me. I appreciated her smarts in the office and her talent on stage, sure. But more than anything, I wanted those slender thighs wrapped around me while I fucked her. I told myself to back down. She was so young. Everything about her screamed hands off. I didn’t listen. I corrupted every bit of her purity. Then I walked away, leaving her with a pregnancy she hadn’t planned for, and myself with a mountain of furious regret.
I wonder how much she’s changed. Is she bitter now? Withdrawn? Maxon told me that I broke something in her. Fuck. Is she angry? Does she hate me?
How many beds has she slept in since mine?
I swallow the question down. I have no right to ask.
Besides, do I really want to know?
I keep staring at her, watching her slender shoulders as she laughs gently. I hear the sound rising above the din of conversation. It’s good to hear her happy even though I’m so fucking sad.
No one else has noticed me. I need to approach her, think of something rational and non-confrontational to say. Or turn around and come back tomorrow, when she doesn’t have a whole bunch of company who will gawk at me the minute I demand to see my son. When she isn’t celebrating her pending union to another man.
But I can’t make myself leave. I just stare, willing her to look at me.
Suddenly, she stiffens. I see the moment she becomes aware of my presence. She tilts her head toward her right shoulder. I see the jut of her chin. She pauses for a sliver of a second, as if she’s not sure she truly wants to know if I’m just beyond her line of sight, making her senses flare.
“Britta,” I call out to her.
At the sound of my voice, she whips her head around, as if she’s heard a ghost and is eager to dispel the notion I could be standing ten feet behind her.
Our eyes meet. My breath stops. God, she’s still so fucking beautiful to me.
In that moment I know one thing: no matter what’s happened, how long it’s been, whatever Britta thinks—she’s still mine.
A gasp falls from her lips. She drops her drink, her face going pale in an instant.
The woman she was speaking to frowns in concern and grabs Britta’s shoulders, shooting me the evil eye.
Yeah, I’m the bad guy here. Everyone knows it, even me.
I take a step toward her, and that seems to pull her from her daze. She waves off her concerned friend and darts in my direction, bearing down on me with something between shock and fury.
Her eyes are still such a stunning shade of blue, almost turquoise, like the warmest ocean waters near the shore. They’re the first thing I noticed about her. Blue-eyed blondes aren’t terribly unusual, especially in Los Angeles, where I spent my childhood. But everything about Britta is different. Her eyes are slanted and slightly far apart, framed by heavy lashes. The effect is exotic, sexual. Her pillowy mouth sucks me in next, bent with an exaggerated bow on top and a puffy curve on the bottom. I still dream of that mouth. I remember every time I kissed it, every pleasure it ever made me feel. Tonight, she’s exaggerated her pouty lips with a soft gloss that makes me want to tell everyone else at this gathering to fuck off so I can eat it from her now.
No one else has lips as enticing or soft as Britta Stone. Believe me, I’ve looked. A lot. But when I really want to torture myself, I close my eyes and stroke my cock to a memory of her eyes flaring wide for me while her mouth opens to let loose the gasp of orgasm she can’t keep in anymore.
Any wonder I’m harder than hell?
Any wonder I want her back?
“What are you doing here?” she hisses in demand.
How did I find her house or why did I choose this moment to invade her life again? I’ll spare her the boring details of both. “Somewhere in the back of your head, you must have known this day would come. I want to see my son. Where’s Jamie?”
Her eyes flare wide with shock. Her chest caves in, as if my words are more of a battering ram than a question. She braces her left hand over her heart. She’s wearing a round diamond solitaire on a simple gold band. The sight of another man’s ring on her finger makes me homicidal. Someday, somehow, some way, I’m going to remove it and replace it with my own.
“Griff…”
When her face goes taut, I see she’s fighting worry and tears. I want to do something—hold her, reassure her I don’t mean to take Jamie away, wrap her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets about the world.
But when I reach for her, she jerks away. “Don’t. Why would I know this day would come? He’s two and a half, and before tonight you never showed any interest—”
“I found out he exists an hour ago. It took me three minutes to coax your address out of my brother and fifty-two minutes to drive here.”
She stares at me in blinking shock.
ABOUT SHAYLA BLACK
Shayla Black is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than fifty novels. For nearly twenty years, she’s written contemporary, erotic, paranormal, and historical romances via traditional, independent, foreign, and audio publishers. Her books have sold millions of copies and been published in a dozen languages. Raised an only child, Shayla occupied herself with lots of daydreaming, much to the chagrin of her teachers. In college, she found her love for reading and realized that she could have a career publishing the stories spinning in her imagination. Though she graduated with a degree in Marketing/Advertising and embarked on a stint in corporate America to pay the bills, her heart has always been with her characters. She’s thrilled that she’s been living her dream as a full-time author for the past eight years.
Britta isn’t hard to find since she’s the only blonde among a sea of native Hawaiians in bright, tropical prints and sandals, clinking glasses and smiling.
From a distance, she’s wearing a pencil skirt in a sedate gray that clings to a curve in her hips she didn’t used to have. Her ass looks lusher, rounder. Her hair, though wrapped up in some classic twist, looks longer or thicker—something.
The lust that hits me is stronger.
She’s talking to a pretty brunette who’s about her age. The striking woman hugs her, joy evident in her huge smile. Britta replies. I can tell because she still talks with her hands. She’s graceful, as always. Not surprising. She entered college on a dance scholarship.
I remember watching her move on stage for the first time. The beauty of her dance stunned me, the way she was aware of her every muscle, the complete control she had over even her smallest movement. Pale tights and a flowing scrap of chiffon flirting with her thighs gave me a hard-on from hell. I was her boss at the time. She’d just begun to work for Maxon and me. I appreciated her smarts in the office and her talent on stage, sure. But more than anything, I wanted those slender thighs wrapped around me while I fucked her. I told myself to back down. She was so young. Everything about her screamed hands off. I didn’t listen. I corrupted every bit of her purity. Then I walked away, leaving her with a pregnancy she hadn’t planned for, and myself with a mountain of furious regret.
I wonder how much she’s changed. Is she bitter now? Withdrawn? Maxon told me that I broke something in her. Fuck. Is she angry? Does she hate me?
How many beds has she slept in since mine?
I swallow the question down. I have no right to ask.
Besides, do I really want to know?
I keep staring at her, watching her slender shoulders as she laughs gently. I hear the sound rising above the din of conversation. It’s good to hear her happy even though I’m so fucking sad.
No one else has noticed me. I need to approach her, think of something rational and non-confrontational to say. Or turn around and come back tomorrow, when she doesn’t have a whole bunch of company who will gawk at me the minute I demand to see my son. When she isn’t celebrating her pending union to another man.
But I can’t make myself leave. I just stare, willing her to look at me.
Suddenly, she stiffens. I see the moment she becomes aware of my presence. She tilts her head toward her right shoulder. I see the jut of her chin. She pauses for a sliver of a second, as if she’s not sure she truly wants to know if I’m just beyond her line of sight, making her senses flare.
“Britta,” I call out to her.
At the sound of my voice, she whips her head around, as if she’s heard a ghost and is eager to dispel the notion I could be standing ten feet behind her.
Our eyes meet. My breath stops. God, she’s still so fucking beautiful to me.
In that moment I know one thing: no matter what’s happened, how long it’s been, whatever Britta thinks—she’s still mine.
A gasp falls from her lips. She drops her drink, her face going pale in an instant.
The woman she was speaking to frowns in concern and grabs Britta’s shoulders, shooting me the evil eye.
Yeah, I’m the bad guy here. Everyone knows it, even me.
I take a step toward her, and that seems to pull her from her daze. She waves off her concerned friend and darts in my direction, bearing down on me with something between shock and fury.
Her eyes are still such a stunning shade of blue, almost turquoise, like the warmest ocean waters near the shore. They’re the first thing I noticed about her. Blue-eyed blondes aren’t terribly unusual, especially in Los Angeles, where I spent my childhood. But everything about Britta is different. Her eyes are slanted and slightly far apart, framed by heavy lashes. The effect is exotic, sexual. Her pillowy mouth sucks me in next, bent with an exaggerated bow on top and a puffy curve on the bottom. I still dream of that mouth. I remember every time I kissed it, every pleasure it ever made me feel. Tonight, she’s exaggerated her pouty lips with a soft gloss that makes me want to tell everyone else at this gathering to fuck off so I can eat it from her now.
No one else has lips as enticing or soft as Britta Stone. Believe me, I’ve looked. A lot. But when I really want to torture myself, I close my eyes and stroke my cock to a memory of her eyes flaring wide for me while her mouth opens to let loose the gasp of orgasm she can’t keep in anymore.
Any wonder I’m harder than hell?
Any wonder I want her back?
“What are you doing here?” she hisses in demand.
How did I find her house or why did I choose this moment to invade her life again? I’ll spare her the boring details of both. “Somewhere in the back of your head, you must have known this day would come. I want to see my son. Where’s Jamie?”
Her eyes flare wide with shock. Her chest caves in, as if my words are more of a battering ram than a question. She braces her left hand over her heart. She’s wearing a round diamond solitaire on a simple gold band. The sight of another man’s ring on her finger makes me homicidal. Someday, somehow, some way, I’m going to remove it and replace it with my own.
“Griff…”
When her face goes taut, I see she’s fighting worry and tears. I want to do something—hold her, reassure her I don’t mean to take Jamie away, wrap her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets about the world.
But when I reach for her, she jerks away. “Don’t. Why would I know this day would come? He’s two and a half, and before tonight you never showed any interest—”
“I found out he exists an hour ago. It took me three minutes to coax your address out of my brother and fifty-two minutes to drive here.”
She stares at me in blinking shock.
ABOUT SHAYLA BLACK
Shayla Black is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than fifty novels. For nearly twenty years, she’s written contemporary, erotic, paranormal, and historical romances via traditional, independent, foreign, and audio publishers. Her books have sold millions of copies and been published in a dozen languages. Raised an only child, Shayla occupied herself with lots of daydreaming, much to the chagrin of her teachers. In college, she found her love for reading and realized that she could have a career publishing the stories spinning in her imagination. Though she graduated with a degree in Marketing/Advertising and embarked on a stint in corporate America to pay the bills, her heart has always been with her characters. She’s thrilled that she’s been living her dream as a full-time author for the past eight years.
