More Than Need You (More Than Words 2)

we’d save our girl and all that.” When she shudders, I can’t stop myself from kissing the top of her head. “Not every movie can be Love Actually.”

It’s one of her favorites.

“I wish it could.”

Twenty minutes later, the cop rescues his pretty damsel, who manages to run an awful lot in stilettos, and the bad guys all either died or went to prison. That’s the ending I expected, so I’m good. I look down to find that Britta has fallen asleep against me.

I smile at the trust she’s shown, the comfort she’s allowed me to give her. I would love this every night for the rest of our lives.

Balancing her upright with one hand, I rise, doing my best not to jostle her awake. As soon as I’m on my feet, I lift her into my arms.

Her lashes flutter open. “What? Where…”

“Shh. It’s late. You’re tired. I’m taking you to bed.”

She shifts in my embrace and tries to wriggle free. “I can walk.”

“You don’t have to.”

I don’t wait for any more conversation, just head for the dark wooden stairs that wind up to our bedroom. There’s no way I can’t not stare at her. She was always beautiful to me, but up close she’s a masterpiece. And right now she looks so soft and sleepy and happy nestled against me, I don’t want to put her down.

Inside the bedroom, I don’t have a choice, so I reluctantly set her on her feet. She’s blushing as she blinks up at me. “Thanks, Griff.”

“Being with you in any way is always my pleasure.”

She looks away with a bite of her lips, a flush to her cheeks. “I’m going to…um, take a soak in the giant tub.”

It’s just as well. If we climbed into bed together now, I don’t know how I’d stop myself from crawling all over her. “I’m going to make sure the house is locked up and the coffeepot is ready for the morning.”

I kiss her forehead again, then leave the room before the urge to slide my lips elsewhere on her skin overcomes me.

The next seven weeks are going to test the hell out of my restraint unless she ditches the banker fast.

After I make the rounds through the house, I return to hear the bathtub running behind closed doors. She’s in there naked, and I would love the right to walk in and ravish her. Hell, I’d settle for merely looking at her.

Since that’s not happening, I check on Jamie, who’s fast asleep on his side with his blanket curled up in his arms. He needs a bigger bed. I make a mental note to bring that up with Britta tomorrow. The playpen just isn’t cutting it anymore.

Clad only in my boxers, I pull the comforter down and slide between the sheets. The big bed feels empty. I’ve only been sleeping beside Britta for a few days, but I’m already used to her curling up beside me, to hearing her soft, even breathing. Sadly, she’s not one of those women who wants to cuddle in her sleep. She doesn’t need to seek me out for warmth in Maui. She doesn’t require consoling for nightmares she doesn’t have. And she’s certainly not looking for nookie in the middle of the night.

I distract myself by scanning my emails. I read some agent feedback about one of my listings and agree the kitchen needs updating, but the seller isn’t interested in sinking more money into the house. I have a web inquiry about another property and dash off a response that I’ll call first thing on Monday.

Then I launch into my social media to check the stats of my active ads. I hear the water turn off in the tub. Britta is playing soft music via the high-end speaker in the bathroom. The tune is something soft and instrumental. Sounds like she’s in for a long soak.

Over the music, I hear…panting? Must be background for the song. I grunt. I hardly need something more to work me up tonight.

But when I hear it again, I frown. Is Britta in distress?

I don’t know, but I cock my head, listening more closely. Water sloshes. In between more of those heavy breaths, I hear a whimper. Pain? Sadness? Melancholy? Something else? I need to know if she’s all right.

Slowly, I climb out of bed and head to the double doors on silent footfalls. I can’t hear much better. But the crack between the doors shows me a shimmering shadow of water movement. I hear another high-pitched cry.

“Britta?” I call softly.

A gasp. A trio of harder pants. A strangled moan. “Griff…”

That’s it. If she’s sobbing her heart out in the bathtub, naked or not, I’m not leaving her there to cry alone. I can control myself long enough to comfort her. I think. And if I have to blot out the memories of her in the buff…that’s one reason God invented Scotch.

I shove open the doors, expecting to see mascara running down her face and her eyes swollen with tears.

I don’t expect to see Britta lying in the tub, head tossed back, hand between her legs.

“Don’t”—she opens her blue eyes, which look heavy and sensual in pleasure—“come in.”

Too late.

I can’t move. I’m staring. Holy motherfucking hell. She looks amazing with her hair piled on her head, tendrils falling softly around her neck, trailing toward the bubbles clinging to the swells of her breasts. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are swollen.

She’s aroused. I swallow hard.

“Griff.” Britta shakes her head like I can’t stay here, like she’s denying me.

I don’t know if she’s embarrassed or worried or what, but I’m thrilled, turned on, and eager. Sure, I would have liked it a whole lot more if she’d come to me with her needs, but I can work with this.

“Don’t stop, angel. Keep going.” I lean against the counter a few feet away and lock gazes with her. “I’ll watch. Nothing else.”

“N-no. You can’t. I can’t.”

I hold up my hands where she can see them both. “I won’t touch you.”

“You shouldn’t be seeing me while I’m naked and…” She bites her lip like she doesn’t want to admit precisely what she was doing.

“Masturbating?” I smile.

She sighs. “Just leave. It’s humiliating.”

“No, it’s sexy as hell. Seriously. Do it, angel. Touch yourself.”

“I can’t do that with you in the room, staring at me.”

“I’ll bet you can. No reason to be shy. I’ve seen every inch of you. I’ve touched it, kissed it, worshipped it. Close your eyes and pretend…” I’m touching you now. “Whatever turns you on.”

Her eyes flutter shut. “This isn’t right.”

“This is just for you. If we’re going to act as if we’re really married, me watching you self-pleasure wouldn’t be any big deal. We’ve had a big day and a lot of important conversation. You need to feel good after all that. If I can’t touch you myself or make love to you for a long, luxurious time, then let me be here for you while you make yourself feel so good.”

She writhes, stretches. I see her pressing her thighs together. “Why do you do this to me? One look at you and I…want. It’s almost physical. It hurts. I don’t know how to stop it. I should. I try not to feel this way—”

“You don’t have to. I won’t do anything except talk to you. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Feel good. I want that for you so bad.”

“What about you?” Her eyes flit open and she casts a long glance at the erection behind the fly of my boxers.

“I’ll worry about me later.” I’m doing my best to hang on to my resolve that my next orgasm will be one she gives me. But as far as I’m concerned, if being near me turns her on, I’m not putting a stop to that. If she really objects, I’ll back off and give her privacy…but the way she’s looking at me now, like she’s eating me up with her stare, I don’t think she wants to be alone.

She begins squirming in the tub again.

“That’s it. Touch yourself where you need it. Are you wet, angel?”

She gives me a shaky nod.