Secrets & Lies (Roughshod Rollers MC 3)

He rounds the bar, putting his hand into his pocket to reach for his phone. I’m off my seat before I realize I’ve moved, wrapping my hands around his muscled arm. He smells exactly the same way I remember, and my heart pounds at being so close to him after such a long time.

“Jessica,” he says warningly, the first time all night that he’s spoken my name.

“We need to talk,” I say.

Grant suddenly glares. He leans back, away from me.

“I think we did all the talking we needed to do three years ago,” he says coldly.

I tighten my grip on him. I don’t like the bitterness in his voice. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, so cold and distant. It doesn’t fit with my memories; when he would smile at me and speak with fondness clear in his voice. Has he forgotten me?

I don’t like that idea, either.

I’ve missed Grant. I don’t like to admit it, but it’s true. For the last three years, I’ve missed Grant, wondering at what would have happened if I had just stuck around and spoken to him about my misgivings instead of just walking away.

Now he’s here. For now, I have the chance to be with him again.

Words aren’t going to work right now. The alcohol I’ve had has taken the edge off all my inhibitions, so I throw caution to the wind. I wrap my free hand around Grant’s neck, stand on my toes and kiss him on the lips.

I feel his entire body freeze. I step toward him, pressing the line of my body against his, my hand still gripping his arm in an iron grip. God, I’ve missed him. His skin on mine feels just as good as I remember. I scrape my teeth against his bottom lip, teasing his skin with my tongue.

Then, suddenly, his hands are wrapped around me, pressing against the small of my back to pull me in even closer, until we’re melded so closely together than I almost don’t know where we’re separate.

I don’t know why Grant is kissing me back. Maybe he missed me as desperately as I missed him. I don’t care. I’m just happy to have him here, in my arms, for now.

My back meets the bar counter, several stools falling over. Grant steps toward me and I can feel his growing interest straining in his pants. I pull back, gasping for breath, and lower my hand to cup his penis, making him inhale sharply.

“Still interested, after all these years,” I say in a low voice.

“Shut up,” he growls, pulling me into another kiss.

The sound of his voice sends tingles down my spine. I moan into the kiss, arching up toward him as his fingers grip my hips in an almost punishing vice. I wrap an ankle around his knee and tug him in even closer, spreading my legs so he can stand comfortably between them. I’m already wet and overheated; it’s been far too long.

But I haven’t been able to look at another man without seeing Grant everywhere, questions in his eyes and heartbreak on his sleeve. Then there was Owen to consider, too…

I pull back, logical thought r

eturning. Owen! This is stupid, I need to get back to my son.

Then Grant’s teeth graze against my throat and I moan, throwing my head back.

“Still so fucking sensitive there,” Grant says, his voice rough with need. “What else hasn’t changed?”

“Why don’t you find out,” I say, fumbling with the tie of his apron behind him.

The material drops to the floor, and Grant steps over it. There’s a burning look in his eyes. It isn’t the love that I remember. It’s desire and aching want, all rolled into one, desperate need that has driven him to allow this, despite the fact that he’s made it so clear, all night, that he no longer wants anything to do with me.

We should stop. I need to walk away. But everything in me is driving me to take advantage of this weakness for each other that we share, to have at least one more night to prove to myself that I did the right thing. Part of me knows that I’m just going to walk away with more regrets but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

“There’s a lounge,” Grant mutters, ducking his head to bite at my collar bone, making my entire body shudder.

“A lounge sounds great,” I reply, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it over his shoulders.

It falls as he shrugs it the rest of the way off before lifting the hem of my shirt, pushing it up over my stomach. I raise my hands and allow him to pull it all the way off before throwing it somewhere. It occurs to me that I’m going to have to search for my clothes later. But that doesn’t matter.

“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” I say, running my hands over his bare chest, drinking in the sight; he’s been working out since I last saw him.

“So are you,” he counters.