"WHAT IF I DON'T WANT BETTER?" she whispered, her words barely audible in the charged space between them. "What if I want you exactly as you are?"
The words hung between them like a bridge neither dared to cross, yet neither could abandon.
Grayson's thumb continued its reverent path across her cheekbone, his touch so gentle it made her ache with longing.
The moonlight streaming through the windows cast his face in stark relief—the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his eyes had darkened to storm clouds, the barely contained hunger that made his breathing uneven.
The hand holding hers tightened fractionally, as if he were anchoring himself to that small point of contact to keep from drowning in desire. "What I am... what I need... it's not gentle Sunday morning affection. It's consuming. Overwhelming. When I finally allow myself to have you—"
