“Sure,” I whisper hesitantly.

“It’s just…” He goes quiet and blinks several times, but continues to still hold my gaze. “I just feel like I need to stop thinking right now. Period. About work. About my personal life. About everything that troubles or stresses me out. Moments like this,” he breathes as he looks around the rainy city of San Diego, “moments like this should be cherished, don’t you think? They should be respected and captivated.” Taking a step towards me, he asks, “Don’t you think we should be enjoying this?”

My confusion is clear, but when he takes another step forward, shutting out the distance between us, I drop my gaze and pull my lip in, biting into it.

“Yes,” I murmur. “I think moments like these—nights like this—should be absorbed to the fullest.”

“Right,” he whispers. “Right.” He studies my face, his expression hard like stone, eyes hooded. His brown stare pierces right through me, and when he licks his lips I feel a drop in my stomach. It’s not bad, especially since that drop leads straight to the bunch in my panties. “She has no more love for me,” he breathes.

I look up, realizing he’s talking bout his wife. “I don’t believe that.” Really I do, but I’ll say whatever it takes to make him feel better.

He doesn’t fall for my line of bullshit.

“No, Angelina.” He groans. “No, I know for sure that she doesn’t. She can hardly even look at me now. When we first got married, I could never get her to leave me alone. To stop calling me back-to-back just to ask me how I was feeling or what I was doing. Now? Well, now, I see clearly that she wants nothing to do with me. If she calls, it’s because she wants me to get something or to get under my skin.”

I watch his throat work hard to swallow the cold, hard truth. I’m not sure what to tell him, so I keep quiet.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he is spilling his truths to me, but at the same time, I don’t have much advice. I don’t know his wife.

There could be a valid reason she feels such malice towards her husband. Griffin could also be verbally abusive and I don’t know it.

“Everyday I think about what she really feels inside… what she thinks. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell she thinks anymore.”

Finally pulling away, Griffin turns and places a hand on his hip, jaw locked. His features are strong and solid, his profile sharp but handsome. He’s looking towards the skyline again. I’m sure it’s bringing him some amount of comfort.

Carefully, I place a hand on his back and give a compassionate rub. I don’t speak, though, because I can’t speak much on this. He has tried over and over again with her. He wants to give up, but he’s no quitter.

Maybe that’s what she wants—for him to give up. To quit on her so she can make it seem like he’s to blame for their failed marriage. There are always two sides to a story, and something tells me people would fall much harder for her side than his. Griffin works hard and all the time. He’s barely home, and when he is God knows what goes on in his house.

Due to my compassion, my small back rub, Griffin looks over his shoulder and showcases a smile. It’s boyish and soft. Then, in a matter of seconds, his eyes harden on mine and he turns completely, leaving me no choice but to pull away.

“The one thing I can’t figure out about you is how you are still single,” he says. “How are you not taken by someone?” He asks this as if he really can’t figure it or me out.

“Well,” I say, surprised by his question. “The major factor is my job. I won’t allow much of a relationship if I know it won’t work out.”

“Is that so?”

“Rightfully so. The thing is, I never allow myself to be completely owned.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is it because you can’t be, or because that chance has never presented itself?” He’s breathing deeper now, closing in on me like a lion around steak.

“Maybe a mix of both,” I say carefully.

“Is that so, Angelina?” His voice is deep and husky, slurring a bit in speech.

“Yes,” I murmur. Moving forward, leaving no space between us, he takes my glass out of my hand and I allow it. Lifting my glass to his parted lips, he takes a swallow, and when he lowers it back down, he dips his fingers into the cool liquid.

Bringing his hand towards me, he runs the whiskey-wet finger across my bottom lip and I let out a moan that has been collecting in my throat ever since he sealed the gap between us.

He watches as I shut my eyes and absorb the feel of his smooth finger running across my mouth. His breath comes to a slight hitch, and I open my eyes again when he asks, “We shouldn’t, right?” He continues watching my mouth, slowly dropping his hand.

“No,” I breathe. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know. Fuck, I know.” He drops his head with a sigh, mentally debating with himself. Then he lifts his head again, staring into my eyes. “But… the thing is, Angelina… I just don’t give a fuck anymore.”

I’m stunned by his audacity, his statement. It doesn’t seem a man like him would say something so harsh, so blatant.

Griffin isn’t thinking much when he makes his next move. He just… does.

His chest presses on mine, and between his fingers he clasps my jawline, leaving me no choice but to cave with him. I cave because this touch is too real, too assertive, making my knees wobble and my sex clench.

He tosses the glass that’s in his other hand, and it flies over the balcony. I don’t know where it ends up but I hear the shatter as it lands, and just like him I don’t care what or even whom it may have struck. His lips are so close to mine I can practically feel them.

He’s right. We shouldn’t. But there is no one here to stop us and that includes me.

Knowing that, I lean in and as our lips touch, so feathery and tender, Griffin loses all sense of self-control.

He crushes my mouth, breathing thickly and raggedly with my face still clutched in his hand. His other comes up to cup my breast, and my back hits the wall as his groin pushes into mine.

It doesn’t take much for him to pick me up. He releases my face and my breast, hands at my hips, gathering the bottom of my dress in his hands and swooping me up, allowing my legs to ease around his waist.

We breathe hard, panting deep, the rain pouring down behind us—swallowing our sounds of pleasure whole with its deluge. The rain drowns out each heavy moan, each tight, raw groan.

Griffin pulls back, but not too far.

I cling to him, my fingers curling into the back of his black T-shirt, my body refusing withdrawal. “Will you help me stop caring so much? For now?” he pants, lips wet.

“For now?”

He grins, lazily. Childishly. “Well, whenever, really.”

I fight a grin and before I can react, his mouth has claimed mine again. I don’t fight it—I could, but I don’t.

Our bodies have longed for this moment for days. The pull has been strong, the connection all twisted up and robust.

So, no, I don’t hesitate like I did at Swede’s. I don’t stop him because I don’t have much to lose, and he deserves pleasure.

I have wanted this man since the first moment I laid eyes on him. When I saw it was Griffin Boyd holding the elevator for me, I couldn’t not feel some sort of satisfaction.

He looked even better in person. I’d heard about him, but all I saw were black and white headshots of him in papers or online, but in person… my God, in person he is a god.

Chiseled everywhere. Cut jawline and cheekbones—built like an athlete with the mind of a genius and eyes as brown as expensive whiskey.

My pussy actually clenched when he spoke to me and gridlocked me with those sharp eyes in the elevator.

I can’t fight this… this lust.

It was inevitable from the start.

I wanted a taste just as much as he did. I could read him like a book. I could have used his thirst for me to my advantage, but I remained the good woman, respecting him as much as possible, pretending this was only business.