Gentle fingers touched her chin, turned her face until she stared into navy eyes so dark they almost appeared black. He'd moved so quietly she hadn't noticed, but now his hip braced her outer thigh and his thumb brushed over her cheekbone.
"Go ahead," he urged. "Finish it."
"For some inane reason, I thought Dad might actually have my back. For one moment of blinding stupidity, I hoped he would rip Gavin a new one for betraying his little girl, for bruising her heart. Instead he blamed me. I can still see the disgust in his eyes when I walked into the house. I was nothing more than a business transaction to him-to both of them."
Her father's reaction had shredded her hope and relegated it back to the land of unicorns and fairies where it belonged. And days later when he'd ordered her out of his life and home permanently, he'd destroyed whatever remnants of familial connection might have still existed.
"Greer, they were the disappointments, not you. When your father brought you into this world, he assumed the God-given responsibility to care for you, to protect you, to be your first knight in shining armor. Being a father … " He paused, inhaled an audible breath, and his hold on her face tightened the slightest bit. "Being a father," he continued, his tone hoarse, "is more than bringing in money to the house or putting a roof over his family's head. It's being there to kiss scraped knees, to chase away monsters in the closet with a broom, to proudly post the honor roll awards on the refrigerator with magnets. To make his family feel safe. He is supposed to father, not dole out money like a bank account. Any ATM can do that."
He leaned forward, pressed his lips to her forehead, the bridge of her nose, and finally, her mouth. The kiss didn't resemble the tangle of lips and tongues from the night before. This delicate press contained none of the greed and heat from the night before. This kiss was soft, comforting, affirming.
"He failed, baby. Both him and your mother. He should've been the example of the man who would one day treasure and love you, treat you like the princess you are. And she should've exhibited what it looks like to demand respect, to love yourself, and to have higher esteem then your bra size and bank account. Instead, he left you wide open for a man just like him, and she didn't protect you. And still somehow you managed to become a beautiful, self-sufficient, strong, intelligent woman who doesn't just take people's shit. That doesn't make you unworthy or damaged. It makes you a survivor. And for the record?" He swept his thumb over her bottom lip, and a corner of his mouth curled. "Survivors are hot as hell."
The laughter caught her by surprise-especially since it burst free from her. And from the gleam in Raphael's gaze, she suspected that had been his intent.
"Thank you, Raphael." He'd removed his hand from her so she reached for him. Hesitated. Her fingers hovered over his tattooed arm, and his eyes narrowed on the slightly trembling digits before switching to her face. Slowly, she touched him. The muscles under his inked skin flexed, then relaxed, and her heart thumped hard. He was so incredibly beautiful. Walking art. Breathing passion. Living strength. She traced the bulge of his biceps, unyielding even in repose.
"Why do you call me ‘Raphael'?" he asked. "Why not Rafe?"
"I figured only people closest to you were allowed to." She followed the bold outline of an ornate Celtic symbol of a tree, keeping her attention focused on her fingers as if there would be a test later. "We're not exactly friends."
"No," he agreed. "I don't usually fuck my friends."
Her gaze jerked up to meet his. The faint, lazy half smile remained in place, but his hooded stare burned with the same fire setting her skin ablaze where they touched-his hip against her thigh, his arm underneath her fingers. A hot hunger that couldn't be satisfied by food simmered in her belly, pulsed in her sex. Everything tingled-her nipples, her palms, the dip at the base of her spine. Hell, even the soles of her bare feet.
"But I'm willing to make an exception in your case."
Chapter Nineteen
Greer blinked, momentarily speechless.
Did Rafe mean, no, they weren't friends but he would permit her to call him by his shortened name? Or was he hinting, yes, they were friends, a friend he had sex with? She parted her lips to ask … but then he grasped her hand, interlaced their fingers. All questions, explanations-hell, thoughts-were scattered as he straddled the long cushion, and drew her legs over his thighs. Pressing their locked hands to the back of the chair above their heads, he nabbed her other hand and repeated the movement. The position left her open, vulnerable, her spine slightly arched with her breasts pushing against the thin cotton robe. The lapels draped over either side of her spread thighs, and the cool air of the basement teased her skin, another caress added to the sensory overload.
He leaned forward, and the thick, long waves of his hair tickled her cheeks; his breath teased her lips as if taunting her with the kiss she needed … craved. Her chest rose and fell on her own soft pants. Just a little while ago she'd been prepared to return to her room in order to avoid just this. But now-now she longed for his tongue on her skin, his hands in her hair, his cock penetrating her, filling her. Completing her.
His head dipped. His mouth covered hers, taking but giving at the same time. He pushed his tongue between her lips, licking, sucking, inviting her to do the same. She'd noticed that about him first in his car and again last night. He enjoyed sex. Took delight in it. From the lazy thrust of his tongue to his deep rumble of pleasure, he seemed to savor every taste, every stroke, every sound. He didn't hurry or skip right to the intercourse. Didn't become impatient or frustrated.
He was a lover.
Her first.
He loosed her hands and tunneled his fingers through her hair, cradling her head and tilting it for a deeper penetration. He consumed her, lapping and tasting as if she were a heady treat, and he had an insatiable sweet tooth. She clutched his back, tugging him closer for more. Only he did this to her-made her toss all inhibition and restraint aside. With him, she became this earthly, sexual creature, one focused solely on pleasure. But only with him.
With a groan, he dragged his mouth over her jaw and down her neck. His fingers tightened in her hair, tugging her head back. She whimpered, the tiny bite to her scalp another erotic sensation in a landslide of them. He raked his teeth down the tendon in her throat, retracing the path with his tongue. Another soft cry escaped her, and she dug her fingernails into his skin through his T-shirt. Suddenly, she wanted the clothing off. Wanted to have his tight, golden skin under her hands. Wanted to be flesh to flesh.
Impatient, she grasped the hem of his shirt and jerked it up. He accommodated her by leaning back and, brushing her hands aside, reached behind him and grabbed the material. In seconds, the top was over his head and tossed to the floor.
"Oh, God," she breathed, awed, momentarily distracted by the seemingly endless stretch of painted skin. She didn't know whether to stare or touch. So she compromised and did both. Reverently, she slid her palms up his ridged abdomen, over his chest and shoulders, and down his sculpted arms. Stroking him possessed the illicit pleasure of touching a Rembrandt or Picasso. Naughty, doing something she shouldn't, but irresistible. "You're beautiful," she murmured.
Leaning forward, she opened her mouth over his left pectoral muscle, tracing the claw of the highly stylized dragon that started at his hip, unfurled over his stomach and chest, and ended over his shoulder. She sank her teeth into the dense muscle, and his growl of approval vibrated against her. His fingers fisted in her hair, pressing her harder to him, encouraging her with his tight grip to do it again. Harder.
She complied.
As she soothed her tongue over the shallow dents, he tugged on her hair once more, arching her neck back, tilting her head up for the kiss he crushed to her mouth. He plundered, possessed, owned. And she accepted, submitted, surrendered.
She parted her lips wider, demanding more of him. Desperate to be even closer, she scooted forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and joined them chest to chest, hip to hip.
"Rafe," she whispered, dropping her head back on her shoulders. The thick rigid length of his cock ground against her folds and clit, and she moaned deep and long. Pleasure pulsed through her in waves, eddying in her belly, spilling from her core to dampen her cleft. The thin material of her pajama shorts offered no resistance or barrier to the hard erection rocking against her in short, subtle thrusts.