Chapter 9 #2
I hate this. I hate crying, I hate feeling out of control, and I especially hate that I’m doing both while sitting alone in a treehouse built by a man who was my father… but never wanted me to know it.
“We love you so much, Griffin,” Mama Tish says through her tears.
“I know,” I assure them, because I can see how much this is hurting them, and they don’t deserve that. They’ve been nothing but loving and supportive my entire life. “I get that you were doing your best. And I love you both too. I just… need some time to process this, okay?”
“Of course,” Mama Laine says immediately. “Whatever you need. Would it be okay if we called to check on you? Could we plan to come visit?”
We end the call with promises to talk soon, with reassurances that I’m not angry (though I’m not entirely sure that’s true), and with my agreement that they were welcome to come visit, though the treehouse would be way too small for all three of us.
When the screen goes dark, I set my phone aside and just sit there, staring silently into space as the sun sets through the stained glass windows, throwing rainbow patterns across the floor.
My biological father designed those windows, I think, trying out the words. But it feels strange and disconnected. Like it should matter—should be this huge, seismic thing—but isn’t. Like it’s happening to some other Griffin, and I’m standing several feet away, thinking, Bad luck, buddy.
I spent my whole life thinking I had the full picture of who I am. I didn’t really care to know anything more. Now, it’s like someone tilted the frame and showed me something I didn’t know was there.
And I really don’t know how I feel about that.
As the last slivers of sunlight disappear, the silence starts to feel heavy. Like the numbness blanketing me has a weight to it. And I realize that for once, I don’t want to sit and think and think and overthink this. I don’t want to ask why.
My gaze darts to the kitchen. It’s totally dark, and I can’t see the fridge from this spot anyway, but I know exactly where Jim’s wood-cut-shaped magnet with Beckett’s number lives. And I think maybe I need a bodyguard after all.
“Hey. Is Vermont after you again?” Beckett answers on the first ring. His tone is teasing, but I can hear the worry beneath it, and… fuck, I like that. I shouldn’t. I don’t want to. But I do.
“Let me guess,” he goes on. “You tried to fix your porch steps with a blowtorch. Local idiot dies by…”
I let out a laugh, but it’s high and thin. “No. Definitely not. I just…” I swallow. “I talked to my moms, and I didn’t want… It’s just that Milo’s not here, and I…” Jesus, what am I doing? “You know what? Never mind. This is stupid—”
“Yeah it is. Spit it out, Mercer,” he insists. “You need food? Whiskey? For me to give your mothers a stern talking-to?”
Fuck. It’s weirdly comforting thinking he’d read my mothers the riot act for me. That feels wrong, but I decide I don’t care.
I take a deep breath and say maybe the hardest words I’ve ever spoken. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Then you won’t be,” he says like it’s just that easy.
When he disconnects, a kind of panic grips me. Like I’ve whispered some kind of incantation, set something in motion I can’t take back.
This is a terrible idea. The terriblest.
If I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s that relying on anyone but myself—and Milo and my moms… until today—is a losing proposition. Once you have nothing to offer the people in your life, you’re a liability, and they can disappear without warning.
I’m still standing in the kitchen, regretting this, when work boots echo against my porch steps.
I open the door, and as soon as Beckett sees my face, his expression darkens, and he steps inside. “Okay, what the fuck? Have you been crying? Because I was kidding before, about giving your moms hell, but…”
His hands come up like he’s going to touch my face, but he rethinks it at the last minute, and they hang there awkwardly before he drops them into fists at his side. “What’d they say? I take it they knew about The Whispers?”
I nod once. “I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I’d actually prefer not to think about it if I could.”
“Yeah?” Beckett leans back, and those blue eyes assess me. I can’t imagine what they see, but I know any mask of okay-ness burned away a while ago. “What do you want, then?”
His eyes glitter like sapphires, and I can tell from his deliberately teasing tone and the smirk playing on his lips that he knows exactly what I want; the asshole just wants to hear me say it.
“Kiss me,” I grit out. “Just kiss me and let me forget for a whi—”
I don’t even get the words out before Beckett’s hand’s wrapped around the back of my neck, his mouth is slanting hot over mine, and the cedar smell of him is in my nose.
It’s overwhelming, all-consuming. I can’t think of a single thing but Beckett’s big body and his tongue sliding against mine, which is exactly what I want.
Every place our bodies touch—his hands on my neck and back, his chest against mine—is so warm, so hot, my toes curl.
It feels like I’ve been cold forever, and now all those frozen bits of me are thawing.
Coming back to life with pins-and-needles prickles.
This time, there’s no fear of being caught. We take our time, learning the shape of each other, the sounds we make, the places that make us gasp and arch and beg for more. When he slides his hand inside my shirt, I think I might actually die from how good it feels.
“Good?” he whispers against my throat.
“So good,” I manage, then prove it by tugging his henley over his head and running my hands over the solid muscles of his chest and shoulders.
It’s just so damn easy with him. In this one area, anyway. We fight and tease and bicker about everything else, but in this… there’s no pretending. No hiding. The second we give in and let this fire kindle, everything else melts away.
Beckett’s skin is feverish under my palms, scattered with dark hair that I want to explore with my mouth. When I brush my thumbs over his nipples, remembering what it did to him yesterday, he makes a guttural sound that goes straight to my cock.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands working at my shirt. “You make it impossible to think straight.”
“Good,” I say. “Not-thinking is exactly the plan. I prefer you not-thinking.”
He huffs out a laugh that’s more like a groan. “You would.”
We somehow end up on the brothel sofa—the scene of my earlier silent freak-out—and I only realize this when Beckett’s hands roam down my back and pull me onto his lap. But unlike before, when I didn’t know what to think or how to feel, now I’m nothing but feeling. All in on sensation.
Am I distracting myself with this purely physical encounter? Oh yeah.
Do I care? Not one tiny bit.
I straddle him, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against mine through our jeans, and the friction makes us both groan. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me still as he rocks up, grinding against me.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Beckett’s calloused palms slide up my sides, and I arch into the touch. He leans in, lips trailing down my throat, then lower, his breath warm and humid against my collarbone. I can feel his heart pounding, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
“Griffin,” he murmurs, his voice rough, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a jolt straight to my cock.
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in my haste, and he chuckles, low and dark, before helping me push his jeans down his hips.
His cock springs free, hard and just as huge as I remembered. I wrap my hand around it, stroking him slowly. He hisses, his head tipping back, and the sight of him like this—undone—makes my own cock ache.
“Clothes off,” he growls, his hands going to my waistband. I lift my hips just enough for him to drag my jeans and boxers down, and then we’re both naked, our cocks brushing against each other, slick with precum.
Beckett’s big hand closes around us both, stroking us together just like yesterday, and the sensation is almost too much. I moan, tangling my fingers in his dark hair as I pull him into another kiss.
But I want more. I want to taste him.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve done this, so my tongue is almost tingling with anticipation as I slide off his lap and kneel between his legs.
Beckett sinks down into the velvet, and the incongruity of it—the plush, velvet sofa, the acres and miles of hard, naked man—is like something pulled out of my deepest fantasies.
A want so deep I’ve never articulated it to myself.
I take him in my hand again. His breath hitches, and—fuck. I’m swamped with that same feeling as the last time we did this. Knowing he wants me. Knowing he wants me this much…
I lean in, my tongue flicking out to taste the salty bead of precum at his tip. He groans, and his fingers grasp my hair, my head, the back of my neck as his head tilts back into the sofa cushion.
Then I take him into my mouth, savoring the weight of him, the way he fills me. My tongue wraps around him, tasting and teasing, as I try to figure out what lights him up.
“Yeah. Oh, fuck. Just like that,” he gasps, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Shit, you’re good at this, city boy.”
The unexpected praise makes me work harder, taking him deeper, until he’s cursing under his breath and his hips are moving in small, helpless thrusts.
I love the way he tastes, the way his breath catches when I hollow my cheeks, the way his thighs tense beneath my hands. All that power, undone for me. It’s addictive.
When he tugs at my hair, trying to pull me up, I resist at first. But then he says, “Griffin, stop, or I’m gonna—” and I let him guide me back up his body.
I’m just not ready for this terrible idea to be over…
And that’s another thing I’m not gonna think about right now.
“Your turn,” he says against my mouth.
I want to protest that he doesn’t have to, like someone somewhere is keeping score, but then he’s pushing me back against the couch cushions until our heads are at opposite ends. As soon as I realize what he has in mind, all rational thought leaves my brain.
“Beckett,” I gasp when he takes me in his mouth. The wet heat is almost too much, and I have to grip the couch cushions to keep from bucking up into his throat.
“Beckett,” I whine again, for once not caring how needy I sound. “Beckett, Beckett, Beckett.”
He’s relentless, using his tongue and lips and just enough teeth to make me see stars. He takes me deep—because he’s competitive like that—and when he hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, I cry out, my whole body arcing toward him.
I quickly reach for him and take his cock in my mouth again, my hands moving greedily up and down the curved muscles of his thighs and ass.
We move together, our mouths working in tempo, each of us driving the other closer to the edge. The sofa creaks beneath us, and the air’s filled with the sounds of our ragged breaths, the wet slide of lips and tongue.
“Fuck, Griffin,” Beckett groans, breaking off. His hips shift restlessly in tiny motions like he wants so badly to thrust but doesn’t want to hurt me.
I wrap my hands around his ass and pull him closer, showing him exactly how I want him to use me.
“Fuck,” he says again. “You’re gonna make me—”
I hum out my wholehearted agreement, and then he’s coming down my throat.
As soon as his orgasm has rolled through him, Beckett dives for my cock like a starving man, pinning my thighs against the cushion and swallowing me down.
I swear, that’s all it takes. My body tenses, my cock pulsing as I spill into his mouth.
For a long moment, we just lie there, breathing heavily, our bodies pressed together. I’m still trembling with aftershocks. Then Beckett levers himself off me and sits on the edge of the sofa.
“That was…” he begins, then stops like he’s not sure what to say.
…fucking amazing and earth-shattering?
…a simple biological reaction to a really messed-up, emotional day?
…a huge mistake?
…another thing we won’t discuss?
“Yeah,” I agree softly. Because, honestly? All of those things might be true. Are true.
But when Beckett leans down to press a swift kiss to my lips, I decide for this moment that the weight of all the shit in my life—my job, my inheritance, my father, my future, whatever the fuck Beckett and I are doing—can hold itself for a little while.
Because life is short, and Beckett is gorgeous, and while it feels like the whole world is conspiring to make me doubt who I am… when I’m with him, I feel more like Griffin than I have in a long damn time.
And that realization is scary as fuck.