Page 87 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“Here. Run your hand under it,” I say, voice low but firm. She nods, obeying without a word, and I hate how good that feels.
I leave her there and head to the laundry room, grabbing the first aid kit like muscle memory. Gauze, antiseptic, bandages—my hands move on their own, but my brain is chaos. Tight. Loud. Screaming things I’ve tried for weeks to silence.
And this is where everything snaps.
This is where unbearable becomesfuck it.
Fuck the rules. Fuck the boundaries. Fuck pretending I don’t want her with every breath I take.
I return to the kitchen and set the supplies on the counter beside her. She looks up, confused and beautiful and flushed from the adrenaline.
“Eslin,” I say, voice sharp with everything I’ve been holding back, “I’m going to bandage you up. And then you need to leave.”
Her brows pull together. “What? I don’t understand.”
“I thought I could do this,” I say, trying to keep my hands steady. “I thought I could be near you. Be friends. Keep it clean. But this is—”
“Too close,” she finishes softly, not even pretending it’s a question. She knows.
She takes a step back, like her body understands the danger before her brain can catch up. “But you promised,” she breathes. “You promised you’d be on your best behavior.”
I shake my head, slow and sure. “That was a one-night-only special for you in Las Vegas, Eslin Saunders. I probably should have made that clear. You really shouldn’t be here. Probably shouldn’t have said yes to dinner.”
I take a step forward. She takes another back. Fuck, I love this dance—her breath hitching, her eyes wide, her body betraying every word she’s trying to hold on to.
“You can’t walk into my house, wearing that dress, and expect me to sit across from you like I’m made of stone. Like I don’t wantto tear it off with my teeth and have you right here, bent over this counter.”
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t run.
“Grant,” she breathes out. “My job. Marlow,” she says, the words rushing out like she’s trying to remind herself, to anchor herself to a vow.
“I know,” I say, steady now. “I respect you. You know I do.”
I take one last step closer. Close enough to feel her breath ghost across my mouth. “Which is why I’ve told you to leave. Because in about twenty seconds, it’s not going to feel like I respect you at all.”
“I think I understand,” she breathes. “But for clarity’s sake, what does disrespect from Grant Mills feel like?”
I reach for her hand, still slick from the water, and hold it steady. The cut between her thumb and forefinger is shallow but bleeding. Just enough to make her flinch. Just enough to make me lose my mind.
I bring her hand to my mouth. And I taste her.
I suck. Then lick. Then suck again—slow, deliberate, like I’m trying to identify the ingredients in the flavor of her skin. Apples. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Danger.
This is desire—pure and undiluted. This is every silent thought, every sleepless night, every boundary unraveling between us. It’s too much. It’s everything. And still, I make myself let go.
“Oh, the fucking disrespect I could rain down on your body, Eslin.” My voice drops, rough and edged with restraint. “But Ican’t give that part of me to you. It’s too dangerous. I wouldn’t know how to stop.”
I step closer, just enough for her to feel it—what I’m holding back.
“I’d never let you come up for air.”
“Air,” she breathes. “So overrated.”
I smile. “Who needs the stuff, right?”
She shakes her head, holding my gaze. “Not us.”
Fuck. My heart.
