“I’m not the poster child for commitment myself,” he pointed out softly.
“But you’re good at it! Hellfire, you’re practically living at my house. You took down my wallpaper. You bought me, like, thirty different shades of blue paint samples when I was being indecisive. You drive me everywhere I need to go. You cook me dinner. You hold my hand in public. And now you’rebuilding me bookshelves!?” My voice cracked, a ragged sound of pure panic. “It’s too much. You’re too much. You need to stop. Stop being so good to me. Because I’m going to get used to it. I’m going to start expecting it. And when it stops, I’m going to be totally, completely, screwed.”
Graham’s hands cupped my face, putting pressure on the hinge of my jaw so I had no choice but to meet his stare — which, I noticed, was deadly serious, no humor at all dancing in the green depths of his eyes.
“My turn to talk now,” he said firmly.
“But—”
“My turn.” He leaned forward, so his forehead was on mine. “Gwen, I know this scares you. I know you think you’re going to get hurt if it ends. I know, even as far as we’ve come, you’re still holding back, keeping me out of your heart because of some ingrained need for self-preservation. But you gotta know, baby… I meant it when I said I’m not going anywhere. I’m in this, just as deep as you are. So deep, I’m fucking drowning.”
My breath hitched.
“I know you’ve got issues with trust,” he continued. “I know you aren’t used to letting people be there for you. But I am not your garbage exes and I’m not your selfish mom and I’m sure as shit not whatever deadbeat losers she dragged home when you were a kid. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to fuck you over. I told you once before — you’re safe with me. I stand by that statement, babe. I’d stake my fucking life on it.”
Tears were pricking at the backs of my eyes. I blinked rapidly, afraid to let them fall, seeing as I’d only just gotten them to stop. His hands were still cradling my face, his thumbs circling my temples in soothing strokes.
“Babe…”
“It doesn’t come easy,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “The trust thing. It’s not natural for me. My first instinct is to run for cover. To protect myself from any possible threat.”
“To bolt,” he said softly.
I nodded, my head moving in the span of his strong hands. I sucked in a gulp of air, trying desperately not to fall apart. “From now on, I’ll… I’ll try to ignore those instincts. I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it. But… I’ll try.”
“All I can ask,” he murmured.
Then, his mouth came down to capture mine in a kiss so soft and so slow and so sweet, it stole my breath. It was a kiss like none I’d experienced before — a kiss that gave far more than it took, that shored me up inside until I no longer felt the waves of panic crashing through me, until the instinct to run screaming from the seriously scary things I was feeling for this man faded out into nothingness.
It was not explosively passionate — not an act of seduction, not foreplay used as a tool to get me into his bed for his own pleasure. This was a kiss entirely without intent. This kiss was a gift, just for me. And I took it. I took it all, everything he had to give me, all his strength and his solid warmth. I wound my hands up his body, twined them around his neck, pulled him closer, until we were pressed so tight together, I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.
“For the record,” he told me when we finally broke apart. “The only reason I’m good at the relationship shit is because I’m doing it with you. I was shit at it with everyone else — a fact my exes would happily confirm.”
“Graham…”
He’d barely let that emotional blow settle before he delivered another gut-punch. “And, babe, it will probably freak you out, seeing as you’re you, but on your next day off, we’re going shopping for furniture.”
“Furniture?”
“You need a table for your dining room and a bed for your guest room. Tired of sleeping on your floor.” He paused, glancing around. “You don’t want to buy new shit, we’ll bring my bed from here. I don’t care.”
I blinked in confusion. “But, if we take your bed from the loft, you won’t have anywhere to sleep.”
“Don’t foresee sleeping at the loft much.”
“Why?” I glanced around at the gorgeous space. “You love the loft. The loft is cool as hell. You have a vintage turntable. And a bar cart. Your shower is amazing. Your tub is even better. You have water views. You have cool art. You have a freaking Picasso print!”
“Not a print.”
“What?”
“The Picasso.” He shrugged. “Not a print.”
“WHAT?!” I was surely hallucinating. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me I have not been peeing in the presence of a real, actual Picasso painting.”
“Technically, it’s a sketch.”
I stared at him.