No way.
Even if he tells me to, I really can't do it.
I keep my face turned away, staring at the faded flower pattern of the comforter. My pulse has spiked to the stratosphere, but I'm determined not to look at his face. If I do, I'll be lost, dropping so far into the sinful depths of hell, I don't think I'll ever be able to return.
I'm not ready.
"Grace." His voice drops to a silken murmur near my ear.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Don't."
But he doesn't listen. Instead, warm lips press against my cheek, the contact feather-light and devastatingly sweet. My breath catches as he traces a lazy path across my skin, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world to map every contour of my face.
"Look at me," he repeats, his breath hot against my temple.
I shake my head, the movement barely perceptible. His answering chuckle vibrates through my bones.
