Page 47 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Good, because I don’t think he was going to take no for an answer.”
Processing his comment is impossible because his lips are on mine and my faculties are temporarily and willingly drugged.
His lips meet mine with soft brushes asking for acceptance. I part my lips and grant him access to take more from me. Our tongues touch, intertwine, in a soft dance of greeting. His fingers frame my face, angling it, and my skin warms beneath his touch. The desirous groan from the back of his throat spurs me on, gives me a sense of confidence that whatever I’m doing is enough for him.
And God yes, it’s doing it for me. His kiss is gentle yet demanding. So soft it feels like a dream, but I definitely know it’s not with the heat of him standing between my legs and the taste of wine still on his tongue.
His hands move. Slide down my rib cage and cup my ass before pulling me closer toward the edge and into him.
My head is light. My heart is full. My nerves are slowly being taken over by the haze of everything about him: his cologne, the quiet murmur he makes, the pressure of his hands on my lower back, the softness of his lips, the finesse of his kiss.
My hands begin to move as our lips continue to taste and tantalize. Taunt and satisfy. I slide the palms of my hands over his back, where his muscles tense as his hands mirror mine. Both in unison. Me more hesitantly, him more sure in his touch.
I push away all thoughts of my life before: of Ethan and how after we were married, kissing was never allowed other than soft pecks outside the house for people to see how much he loved his doting wife. Of his crass comments about how mouths were good for only one thing and those apologies were not to be spoken but to be given.
I lose myself to the moment. To the here and now. To all of it. Lost in not thinking. To the feeling. To being wanted. To the simple sensuality of being kissed senseless.
My core burns with desire like I’ve never felt before. Molten liquid spreading from my center outward. The ache so intense it borders on painful. My lips tingle; my nipples tighten; my skin gets goose bumps.
Zander’s hands inch their way beneath the hem of my shirt. Roughened fingertips scrape ever so gently along that sensitive flesh just about the waistband of my pants. Shocks of sensation spiral up my spine and only add pressure to the need tingeing my reactions.
He gently slides them up my bare back at the same time he shifts his stance so that our bodies are perfectly pressed together with my body perched on the edge of the counter. And I’m not sure if it’s the flash of a thought in my mind that he might want to take my shirt off or the sudden sensation of the hardened bulge of his denim-clad dick pressing between the apex of my thighs, but I must hesitate somehow.
Because he reacts.
Zander breaks from the kiss instantly, a startled gasp falling from my mouth as his hands come to my face so I can’t look away. And before he can even say a thing, I’m instantly nervous: hands shaking, apology at the ready, rejection accepted, inadequacy verified.
His eyes search mine and I feel like such an idiot. What woman gets kissed senseless by a man and then hesitates when she can feel the evidence of her turning him on? It’s not like he was grinding against me or rushing the moment. He’s not guilty of anything other than being a virile man.
“Getty?” My name on his lips again. Concern etched in the lines of his face. My eyes desperately try to focus on anything other than his.
The fear takes over: of disappointing him, of my body turning him off, of not being enough, of scaring him away because of my lack of skill—take your pick.
“I’m sorry.” It’s a reflex. On my tongue and out of my mouth without thought.
And I get the reaction from him I wonder if I was subconsciously hoping for. “Sweet hell, Getty,” he says in frustration as he pushes away from me, one hand shoving through his hair, the other raking down the back of his neck as he turns and takes a couple of steps away from me. “Will you stop apologizing? You did absolutely nothing wrong.”
He turns back around, eyes begging and asking and searching, and I don’t know how to respond, since apologizing, being the one to blame, is all I’ve ever known for so long.
“I’m sor . . .” My voice fades off, the word—once again—dying on my tongue as his jaw sets in frustration.
How was it that seconds ago my blood was on fire from his touch and now it’s heating my cheeks in embarrassment? I can’t even be kissed without messing it up.
“I told you. She’s a disaster.” I can barely say it. I have to look away from him, focus on my clasped hands with my thumbs fiddling together. Can’t bring myself to watch his reaction to my shame. But the condescending laugh I’m so conditioned to expect doesn’t come.
Not in the least.
He comes into my field of vision, his hips, his chest, his chin, his eyes, as his hands tenderly guide my face up so that I can meet his eyes. “He doesn’t think she’s a disaster. In fact, she’s quite the opposite. She’s beautifully scarred, gorgeously flawed, irresistibly captivating.”
Tears well in my eyes—his words are probably the nicest ones anyone has said to me in so long. He’s not telling me it never happened. He’s not telling me I made it all up in my head. Rather he’s telling me that despite it all, there is still something redeemable in me.
The first tear slips down my cheek and yet he keeps his eyes unwavering on mine.
“I don’t know what he did to you, Getty. Don’t have a fucking clue. But I know he didn’t treat you right. He took every part of you that you gave him and mistreated it somehow and so badly that you fear the things that should make you feel good. Laughter. Yourself. Your art. Your confidence. A kiss. And who knows what else?”
His words hit too close to home. Make me struggle for air under the weight of their presence in this moment. Their implications making me feel so very stupid for letting Ethan steal all those things from me.
“Please, Zander. Don’t ruin tonight. I’m sor—didn’t mean to . . . Tonight was one of the best times I’ve had in as long as I can remember. Can we just leave it at that? Please?” My voice wavers. The tears I’m holding back burn in my throat. His thumbs brush back and forth on my cheeks, reminding me of how much I’ve let him in.
