Chapter 6
Griffin
The water isn’t cold enough to liven me up as I scrub a towel over my face and flip the faucet to warm. Running my razor under the water, I try not to steal a glance over at the closed bedroom door. Is she still asleep? Should I make her breakfast?
The questions keep coming, and I swallow down a groan.
I already slept like shit, wondering if Sage was comfortable, cold, or needed me. For any reason.
Like to finish what she’d started.
Or a proper kiss goodnight.
Or just… me.
No matter how many times I tell myself to get a grip, that she’s open and friendly, that I shouldn’t read too much into her behavior…
I can’t stop thinking about how soft her lips felt on my face.
How fucking hard it was not to slide my hands up her thighs, haul her close, and kiss her the way I wanted to since I first laid eyes on her.
My dick thickens in my jeans, and I let out a small curse when I accidentally nick myself on the upward stroke.
It’s going to be a long ass week with her in my house. Everywhere I turn, I catch surprising traces of her soft jasmine scent floating in the air. I see her bent over my furniture or hear her musical laugh.
It’s making me fucking insane.
So, when I find her in the kitchen standing over a sizzling pan of bacon and eggs, I stop dead in my tracks. She looks so at home here, wearing a tiny green-and-buttercup yellow apron tied around her waist, humming to herself, and reading a fistful of papers while cooking.
Wife material flashes in my brain when she looks up and beams at me.
“Morning, sunshine. Thought I’d return the favor for last night’s meal and treat you to breakfast.”
“Uh. Thanks.”
“Do you like butter or jam on your toast?”
“Both.”
“Together?” she asks, “Or half and half?”
“I can butter my own toast.”
“Never said you weren’t capable, big guy. Take a seat.”
I pull out a chair and drop into it, frowning at her back and rubbing my chest. My heart’s gone funny, blood pumping hard through my body and heading—no, not this shit again.
“Got a question for you,” she says, flicking a look at me over her shoulder.
It’s not quite a come hither look, but whatever it is, it makes me want to go to her. Makes me want to wrap her in my arms, haul her into my lap, and peel away every thread of cotton clinging to her body.
Fuck, I’m in trouble.
This is Andy’s daughter, I remind myself savagely. Hands off.
I need to get away. Put distance between me and the twenty-eight-year-old temptation taking up all the air in this place.
“I’m working today,” I announce suddenly. “Not in the workshop. Out, I mean. Making deliveries.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Perfect, really. Gives me a chance to, ah, rehearse.” She flaps the papers in her hand at me before placing it face-down on the countertop.
“Is that for your class?”
She shakes her head. “It’s for something else. Something I need to record later. Anyway, my question is, why do you only have like two of everything? Two mugs, two plates, two sets of utensils. Don’t you ever have company? More than one person over, I mean?”
Oh.
“It’s all I need.” I shift in my seat, glancing around the kitchen and trying to see my space through her eyes. Does it seem empty to her? “I like my life simple. Quiet. Sol—”
Solitary. That’s the word I would ordinarily say, but it feels wrong somehow. Like a label that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
So I clear my throat and try again. “Sustainable.”
Her head tilts to one side as she carefully lays bacon on a paper towel and dabs the excess fat from it. “Has it always been that way?”
“For the most part.”
She’s quiet for a moment as she plates up her meal and slides it over. Our fingertips brush when she hands me a knife and fork, then she plops into the seat next to me.
I shovel eggs into my mouth and watch as she picks her bacon up with her fingers, takes a bite, and waves the remainder in the air.
“You ever think about, I don’t know, getting married? Having kids?”
I swallow wrong and wind up coughing into my hand. Wheezing, I feel my eyes water as I hold a napkin to my lips and try to regain control while she wallops my back.
“God, I hope that’s not because my cooking’s bad.”
“No, it’s fine,” I choke out, reaching across for a sip of water when the coughing subsides. “Food’s good.”
Her eyes sparkle and her hand lingers, rubbing in gentle circles before she leans back in her seat.
“Of course, I’ve thought about it. But it was a dream that passed me by, I guess. Wasn’t meant for me. Timing, or the person, wasn’t right.”
She nods. “Like my auditions. Didn’t quite fit.”
I try hard not to think about fitting anything with Sage, or into Sage, so I just nod and keep eating.
“You ever get close?”
Swallowing hard, I hold up a finger. “Once. But it didn’t work.”
“How come?”
Old, painful memories dance in my mind, but I shrug. “She chose someone else.”
“And you didn’t fight for her?”
“More like she didn’t fight for me.”
Her mouth forms a little ‘o’ as I stand to clear up my dishes, wish her a good work day, and hightail it out of there as fast as I can.
It wasn’t until I was three blocks down the street that I realized I hadn’t brought any of the furniture I meant to deliver.
I’m gone for hours, dropping in at the furniture showroom that showcases my stuff and following up with clients who’ve ordered something bespoke.
By the time I work up the nerve to head home, I’m feeling more in control of myself. More resistant to the stupid impulses that keep making me imagine Sage as a permanent part of my life, a steady presence in my home.
But the second I unlock the door and push it open an inch, a strange sound catches my ear.
A moan. A gasp.
Something not unlike a breathy, feminine whine that has my cock turning to steel beneath my denim.
Fucking hell. I step fully into the house and hear her loud and clear. That full-bodied throaty voice is coming from my library.
“Harder, baby. Deeper. I need your cock inside me right here, right now.”
My hands curl into fists as my vision tunnels. Blood races in my veins as I move silently down the hallway. How fucking dare she? In my own goddamn house!
I’m fuming by the time I round the corner and peer into the library.
But the picture that greets me isn’t the one I expect.
Instead of entertaining any kind of guests, Sage is perched atop a barstool and sat in front of my bookcase.
A stack of books lies on the floor at her feet where she’d cleared space to tuck her laptop into the shelf.
A clamped microphone hangs off another shelf and an enormous set of earphones around her head.
She moans again. “Give it to me, Griffin. Give it to me good.”
My brain short circuits.
Griffin? Did she say Griffin?
In two seconds flat, every filthy fantasy I’d been holding at bay comes rip roaring to life in my head. That sweet, curvy body naked inside my shower. Those wide hips bent over the back of a chair with my fingers plowing deep—
“Shit!” She straightens, jabs at her keyboard, and yanks off her headphones. “Oh my god, girl, get it together! The character’s name is Grayson. Not Griff—”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
She jumps, a startled scream pealing out of her as she leaps off the seat.
I cross the room with slow, purposeful steps. I shouldn’t do this. I should turn around and leave her to do… whatever the fuck this is.
“Um, working? I was working. I, um, narrate sexy fantasies—?”
My cock jumps, presses insistently against my zipper, and I move even closer.
“Are you asking me, sweetheart, or are you telling me?”
She sets her headset down and gestures to her equipment. Rolling her shoulders back, she takes a deep breath. “I’m telling you. I narrate sexy fantasies. It’s work.”
She said Griffin. Give it to me, Griffin. Give it to me good.
I cross my arms. If I touch her, I’m done-for. “Are they your fantasies? Or someone else’s?”
“Well, this one is someone else’s—"
“I thought you were a drama instructor.”
“I am, but I only teach twice a week. This is my side hustle.” She takes a step closer to me and lays a hand over my forearm. Leaning in close, she pleads, “Please don’t tell my dad. He doesn’t need to know.”
“I’m not going to fucking tell your dad.”
She relaxes, breaking into a relieved smile. “Okay, good.”
“One condition,” I say, grabbing hold of her and drawing her closer. There’s no resistance to my touch, no withdrawal. Instead, she feels warm, pliable, willing, and it’s just about killing me. “Tell me why you were moaning my name.”
My heart pounds in my chest as her gaze searches mine. Her tongue dashes out and flicks across that full lower lip of hers and I can’t resist the urge to cup her cheek and slide my thumb against her impossibly soft skin.
“Have you been thinking about me, sweetheart? Imagining me touching you?”
She takes a step closer and tilts her chin up defiantly. “So what if I have? What are you going to do about it?”
I spin and back her up against the shelves of my library.
The books rattle when I pin her against them, and the gasp she makes is one of exhilaration, not fear.
Her eyes are dark with arousal, her chest heaves with every breath and I can clearly see the outline of her erect nipples pressing against the thin cotton of her tank top.
“Watch out, little one. I might make you moan my name for real.”
Her smile is wicked. “Do it, Griffin. I dare you.”
A growl tears out of my throat as I bend my head and capture her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss. It’s all tongues and teeth, nips and licks. I swallow every moan she makes, devour her sweetness, and lose my fucking mind.
“Fuck it, I tried,” I murmur against her cheek, trailing kisses down her neck. “Tried to be a gentleman. Tried to stay away.”
“Don’t. I don’t want you to be.” She clasps my face between her hands and waits for me to meet her gaze. With our eyes locked, she rasps, “I want you to touch me. Taste me. Fuck me.”