Chapter Five Grant
Chapter Five
Grant
In my apartment, I threw the frozen chicken nuggets into the air fryer and cracked open two packs of ramen, then tossed them into steaming hot water.
Layla set the coffee table, popped open a couple of Summer Shandies, then turned on Netflix.
We’d been watching Virgin River together.
Slowly. We averaged two episodes a month.
Partially because we didn’t get together more than once every four to five weeks.
But mostly because the show had a major problem—it was boring as hell.
Neither of us was too invested, but it was something to do together. It felt pathetically good, knowing she’d never TV-cheat on me and continue without me. Even if she was probably screwing other people on the reg while not-watching it.
My phone pinged with a message.
Jessica: Hi! Just wanted to make sure your friend is okay. You looked a little distracted when you left the restaurant earlier x.
I brushed my knuckles along my stubble. I felt kind of bad, leaving her high and dry.
Even though I’d been very clear with Jessica that I wasn’t looking for a relationship.
In all truth, the only reason I’d gone on that date was because Chase had pressured me to “put myself out there.” He said Layla was as emotionally available as an overly cooked Thanksgiving turkey, and I needed to remind myself that I was single.
Grant: She’s good. A little upset, so we are grabbing dinner together.
I put my phone down and poured the nuggets and ramen into two bowls. I also put some kimchi on top and sprinkled on some prechopped scallions. I tore two sachets of ketchup and squeezed them into her bowl. Then I stepped back and watched my handiwork.
Take that, Gordon Ramsay.
I tucked chopsticks into each to be fancy and padded back to the living room.
Layla was waiting on my couch, barefoot, reading Gloss, a fashion magazine she was obsessed with and I always kept around.
“Dear Desiree again?” I put the bowls on the coffee table and sank into the sofa next to her.
She smelled amazing. Like winter books and summer rain and fresh laundry.
Her cleavage looked criminally delectable in that dress.
I was in awe of myself for managing to hold on to a conversation thread with her and breathing simultaneously.
Who said men weren’t good at multitasking? Look at me fucking go.
“That’s presumptuous. What if I’m reading about quantum electrodynamics?”
“You are?” I asked wryly. “Did you know scientists are now hunting for a never-seen-before tauonium? We’re closer than ever to—”
“Yeah, okay, I’m not fluent in nerd. You win.
” She angled the magazine so I could see Desiree D’Arcy smirking back at me from her column.
“What else am I going to read this magazine for? I sure can’t afford any of the high couture fashion.
But Desiree? I read her every week. Never missed a column since I was fifteen. ”
Desiree, by the picture on her page, was at least six times that age.
“What’s the fascination?”
She shrugged. “There’s something depressingly comforting, reading about other people’s problems and reminding yourself you’re not the only screwup in this world.
See here.” Layla tapped a shell-hued fingernail to the page.
“One reader told her that her husband of five years asked her about her body count before they were married and was horrified by the total. Now he wants a divorce.”
“Are we talking people she slept with, or actual bodies?” I leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, catching a tendril of her leafy-green hair and twirling it over my index finger. So. Soft. “I mean, neither is a deal-breaker, but I want to know what we’re talking about.”
Layla giggled. “Sex, of course.”
“Well, what was the number?” I was more occupied with her velvety hair than the advice column.
“Thirty. Do you think that’s a lot?”
I hitched a shoulder up. “Don’t think it matters, as long as they’re faithful right now. Why? What’s your body count?”
“I never actually counted. I think it’s pretty weird to, you know?” She took a pull of her drink. “Like it’s a competition or something. I don’t keep track. But I also don’t think it was more than twenty. Probably close to fifteen.”
I nodded thoughtfully. At some point Layla and I had stopped showing each other clean health bills. There was trust there. I knew she’d never compromise my health, or vice versa.
But we also always, always used condoms.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Thirteen women, you included.”
“That’s a great number. Not too much. Not too little.”
She grabbed our bowls, handing mine to me. We clicked them like they were wineglasses, and she took a large bite, groaning. “Hmm. Heaven.”
We put our show on, neither of us really paying it any attention.
“So, remind me why you have a subscription to Gloss again?” Layla elevated an eyebrow, the magazine still in her lap.
“My mom loves their coupons and freebies. She uses almost all of them. If you calculate all the discounts and samples, it is actually worth more than the annual subscription.”
“This speaks to my thrifty heart.” She laughed. “Also, you are an amazing son.”
“I know.”
“And lover.”
I bowed my head in fake modesty.
“Remind me why you’re single?”
“I’m too busy finding the cure to cancer to have a life.” I tossed a nugget into my mouth, pointing at her with my chopsticks. “Add altruistic to my list of flawless traits. And my dick. Twelve inches. Put that down.”
“Ten on a good day.” She laughed, shoving me playfully. “But hey, I’ll take it. All puns intended.”
We finished our food, and Layla washed the dishes while I cleaned the table. I didn’t want to initiate sex, because she already knew I’d dropped everything to run to her, and there was a difference between being a good friend and being plain pathetic.
Plus, I didn’t want to pressure her into anything. Maybe she wasn’t in a headspace to ride a dick when she’d just come face to face with one.
“Do you want to watch another episode?” I called out to the kitchen as I grabbed the remote.
“I actually have a better idea how to spend the rest of the night.” Dainty arms circled me from behind.
My dang heart nearly ripped out of its arteries, bursting from my chest. I smirked, feigning nonchalance. “Wrestling? I can take you.”
“Don’t be so sure. What I lack in size I make up for in pure female rage.” Layla proceeded to try to drag my six-one former professional rower’s ass to my bedroom, all five feet of her, and I nearly doubled over laughing.
“Is this an invitation?” I turned around and hooked my finger into the spaghetti strap of her satin pale-pink dress. Her nipples strained against the flimsy fabric. I couldn’t wait to have them in my mouth. To lick every single inch of her.
“No, Grant, it’s a plea.” She grabbed me by the collar, tugging me down.
I pried her phone out of her fingers. “All right. Which spicy book scenes do you want to reenact?”
That’s what we did. We went through the books on her phone, the ones she read for her book club, and reenacted the spicy scenes to see if they made sense. Forty percent of the time, they didn’t, but we still had fun trying. It was like playing Twister in bed.
“No, not this time.” She tossed her phone to the couch.
“Not this time?”
“This time, I want it to feel real.” She fingered the collar of my shirt. “Even if it’s a lie. I want to feel . . . I don’t know, loved.”
And it should have alarmed the heck out of me. How easily I knew what she needed, and what to do to her. I buried my fingers in her hair, digging the pads into her skull, and brought her to me.
Our lips crashed, our tongues finding one another, and she was always a good kisser, but now there was a note of desperation in the kiss. Something hungry and unsure from a woman who was always collected and self-assured.
I walked her backward, toward my bedroom, crowding over her, trying to rein in my desire to erase this Connor prick from her mind.
I was glad there wouldn’t be any props or special positions this time.
No lollipops or ice or whipped cream or straddle splits or masks.
Jesus, the fucking masks. I was never going to look my delivery guy in the eye again.
He’d probably put me on an FBI watch list or something.
There was just us. And for the first time, that was enough for her.
She kicked her heels off, threading her fingers into my hair, scraping my skull with her fingernails.
Goose bumps pebbled my skin. I roamed my hands along her dress, trying to find the elusive zipper.
Was it a Madison Goldbloom design? Probably.
She wore her best friend’s dresses all the time.
Madison always put the zipper on the side, because my savage, psychotic best friend—her husband—always managed to rip the zipper off when it was located at the back.
I found the zipper. Tugged it down while undoing my belt without breaking the kiss. Layla laughed into my mouth, stumbling backward, pulling me with her.
Once we got in my bed, I kissed her everywhere. Face. Neck. Chest. Belly. Pretended to love every inch of her. We’d never done this before. Took our time to explore. There was always something impersonal in our hookups. An invisible wall that didn’t allow time to linger and cherish.
I nibbled on her sensitive spots. Wrapped her legs over my neck and ate her out like she was my favorite meal until she writhed and panted and tugged me up by the hair. “My turn.”
“You don’t have to do that just because I—” I started, but the rest of the chivalrous sentence died in my throat when she slithered down my body and fastened her hot mouth over my erection.
This, too, felt different.
Layla was always a generous, confident lover in bed. It was one of the reasons our arrangement had worked for so long. But she never held my gaze when she went down on me.
She did now.
I didn’t know what about it undid the very fabric of my soul. I just knew something about the way she slid her mouth over my dick in a pumping motion, again and again, while her eyes communicated every sad moment she’d ever experienced, made me defenseless.
And horny.
Definitely horny.
I didn’t want to come in her mouth this time. Wanted to prolong this moment as much as I could. This spell. And with the base of my spine tingling in warning, I knew I was reaching the point of no return.
“I don’t wanna come.” I reached for my nightstand drawer for the condoms, but she pushed back up, kissing me desperately, the taste of my flesh in her mouth. “I want to feel you. I’m on the pill and haven’t been with anyone else since our last time. Is that . . . okay?”
Normally, it wasn’t okay.
I’d never done it without a condom, apart from my college days with my extremely steady girlfriend, and even then, she had an IUD.
But there was something in this moment between me and Layla that made the decision an easy one, even if I couldn’t fully rationalize it to myself. I answered her by sliding into her, finding her hot and wet and ready for me.
We’d always been sexually compatible, but this time, there was something more to it.
Not just carnal impatience and lust. That invisible wall between us was gone.
We maintained eye contact as I entered her.
As she clawed my back, her nails dug into my skin.
Her teeth scraped my lips, and I had a feeling she was hungry for something no food or orgasm could satisfy.
And still, I tried.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop . . .” she kept chanting.
I didn’t.
Not even when I felt her hot, salty tears sliding between our lips when I dipped my head down to kiss her.
Not when she buried her face in my neck as I slid inside her again and again, deeper and faster, matching her desperation with my own.
And not when she cried my name with her eyes squeezed shut, clenching everywhere, milking my own orgasm out of me.
We went three rounds before we crashed, naked, limbs tangled together.
When I woke up at 5:25 a.m. for my morning run, I was alone.
One thing hadn’t changed.
Layla never stayed the night.
And this time was no different.