Chapter 15 Penny
Penny
I do not know what is going on.
One second, Griffin is teasing me for being a skeptic about the flashy, trashy fence we were talking about, and the next, he’s cursing and bodily moving me again. He’s really got to stop doing that. Despite my small stature, I’m not a kid he can just pick up and put wherever he wants me to be.
And then, my demand for answers has his eyes darting all over the place, from my face to the sidewalk behind him.
How in the hell does this end up with Griffin Mahoney kissing me?
Seriously, universe, what is going on? Is Mercury in retrograde, or did my pheromones kick in at the most inopportune time with the least likely person? Maybe Johnny K put a love spell on Griffin? I don’t believe in magic potions, but that’s as logical as what’s happening right now.
But it’s not really a kiss.
Oh, his mouth is on mine, and his body is pressed against me so tightly that I can feel the bulge in his jeans, but this is no kiss. It’s a mashing of his lips to mine to shut me up. Hard, unyielding, forceful power against my frozen shock.
Fighting for oxygen because I’ve stopped breathing, I push him away, and this time he relents and gives me the smallest amount of space. He seems to be breathing just fine, though a little fast for an athlete. He should really up his cardio before the playoffs.
“Sorry, you need to be quiet,” he whispers into the air between us.
I rear back and slap his cheek . . . hard.
“What the ever-loving actual fuck, Griffin?” I spit out.
He had no right to do that. It’s a complete violation of the tenuous friendship I thought we were building with this whole fiasco.
It also lit a fire inside me that I do not like or appreciate in any way.
Except . . .
I reach up, grabbing his face and pulling him back down toward me, kissing him again.
This time, I make sure to move my lips against his, feeling the unexpected softness of his mouth as he submits to me so much better than I did to him.
It makes me feel powerful, even though I know it’s a false sense of control when he’s so much larger than I am.
The kiss turns into something more, his hand snaking between us to gently caress my throat.
He doesn’t squeeze, but the feeling of his large palm over my tripping pulse has me opening my mouth for him.
The heat of our shared breath mixes, and I don’t know whose oxygen I’m taking in any longer.
It doesn’t matter, my entire brain is just shouting more, more, more like a greedy bitch who hasn’t been kissed in way too long, which is exactly what I am.
I lift to my toes to get closer to him, very nearly climbing him like a tree, and then wrap my arms around his neck, teasing at his nape with my nails.
He groans against me, and the vibration is sexy as hell.
I think I smile, but I definitely clench my thighs together, feeling the aching thud of my heartbeat in my clit.
Something is happening in my chest. A heart attack maybe?
But no, that’s not it. Nor is it the flutter of butterfly wings, nothing so poetic and pretty as that for a girl like me.
Instead, my heart is thudding against my rib cage like a herd of flightless penguins flapping their wings around wildly like they’ve forgotten evolution did them dirty.
Griffin’s hands land on the brick wall on either side of my head with a resounding slap, breaking the spell woven around us.
I dip my chin, ducking out of the kiss that just entirely reset everything I thought I knew about Griffin Mahoney. Cold and robotic? Two minutes ago, I would’ve said yes. Now that I’ve felt the heat and need churning right below his stoic surface? Absolutely not.
“What was that for?” he says, his voice husky and rough.
I lick my lips, feeling the slickness there from the kiss. “I didn’t want you to think I’m a shitty kisser who just stands there with frozen, tight lips. Now, it’s my turn . . . Why did you kiss me?”
I want him to say that he couldn’t withstand my charms any longer. That he’s been holding himself back from me for ages and finally succumbed. That I’m sexy as hell and he needed to taste me. Because that’d be hot as fuck.
Except it’s Griffin and me, and none of that is true.
“It’s a long story.”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking exhausted, and I remember that he played an intense, tough game barely more than twelve hours ago and is likely still feeling the effects.
I should be kind and let him off the hook, but how can I after that?
I need answers, pronto. I roll my hand at the wrist expectantly, like get on with it, then, and Griffin lifts his face to the sky like he might find answers there, or a way to delay my inevitable demand for his body, or hell, maybe he’s hoping aliens will beam him up. None of that happens, obviously.
“Can we . . . I don’t know . . . go somewhere and talk?” he finally says.
I blink in surprise, reconsidering my earlier quick dismissal of aliens. “Did you get body snatched this morning or something?” I poke at his chest with a finger. “If you’re really Griffin, let me hear the special growl you make when I piss you off?”
“Penny,” he rumbles.
“Pretty close,” I say with a twitch of my lips, and he steps farther away from me, obviously irritated.
That’s something I’m used to dealing with.
“Can you blame me for doubting that you’re you?
Griffin Mahoney—textbook silent, broody sort—wants to talk, like with actual syllabic words, not grunts and grumbles, to me, Penelope Lee, in private?
” Not a bit of that makes sense—because of the sentiment, not the words themselves.
I’m a master speaker, so it’s not that, for sure.
“I don’t want to,” he corrects. “If you’re fine pretending that never happened, I am too.” His gaze drops to my lips like I might need a reminder of what he wants me to forget about.
As if that’s a remote possibility.
Forget that Griffin kissed me? Forget that the hands that cause so much damage to others were gentle on my throat in a way that made the constant noise in my brain disappear for a moment?
Forget that he tastes like sinful sex and bad decisions?
Forget that my clit is pouting at not receiving the much-needed attention she thought she was going to get?
Unlikely. I’m going to be replaying that kiss over in my mind for masturbatory sessions to come for a very long time. Not that I’m going to tell Griffin that. With that type of ammunition, he’d gloat every time we see each other for the rest of our lives.
“Talking, it is. Your place or mine? Talia’s at work today, so it’d just be the two of us.” I wiggle my brows, teasing him mercilessly, because I know exactly what it sounds like I’m proposing. Not that I am. But also, I’m not not-proposing that either. I mean, either way is fine, just fine by me.
Ah shit. I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’ve turned into one of the puck bunnies, so starved for affection and attention that after a couple of days of kindness and one knock-my-socks-off kiss, I’m forgetting—or willfully choosing to ignore—all the asshole behavior and insults he’s hurled at me over the years.
Slut, party of one? Me, right here, I think, mentally raising my hand.
I don’t feel bad about it, though. There’s no reason to.
I’m a woman with needs, ones I’ve been ignoring for too long.
And Griffin’s a man, a sexy one who wears cologne that drives me mad, helps when the shit hits the fan, and makes one of his rare smiles feel like the ultimate reward for my weirdness.
“Mine,” he finally says.
Ready to get this show on the road, I instantly jump up and down, clapping my hands in triumph.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepped for that reaction—which he really should’ve been, and is absolutely in my way—that’s his fault, too, and that’s how I end up clocking him in the chin with the top of my head.
Totally his oopsie-doopsie, not mine. At all.
“Motherfucker!” he grunts, reflexively jerking back and pressing his palm to his chin to ease the sharp pain.
Eyes squinched shut, he glowers at me through one tiny crack in his lids, but when he sees me rubbing my head, he immediately forgets his own pain and replaces my hand with his, caressing the sore spot. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry! I was just excited because I’ve never been to your place.
Is it like Bruce Wayne’s lair or an empty, personality-less Airbnb?
” Griffin looks pained by my suggestions, and I wince.
“It’s a bachelor pad, isn’t it? With a black leather couch you can wipe the jizz off of and a movie-theater-size television?
” He flinches when I say the word jizz, which makes me laugh.
“I can’t wait to see what Home de la Honey looks like,” I summarize, rubbing my hands together in eager anticipation.
“It’s . . .” He looks confused at the concept of describing his home as if adjectives aren’t specifically designed for just this type of situation. “A place to crash,” he settles on, not giving me a single clue.
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Let’s go.” I grab his hand, pulling him back toward the sidewalk, but he wraps his big hand around my wrist and stops me.
At the edge of the alley, I’m struck by déjà vu when he peeks out like he’s looking for something, or someone. It’s what he did after throwing me over his shoulder, and how he looked up and down my street after dropping me off. Like he was worried Dom might see us together.
But Dominic has no reason to be here.
It’s a postgame day. He usually sleeps in late, watches television, and does recovery yoga, though I’m not supposed to tell anyone that. I don’t know why.
Point being, Dom’s nowhere to be found, so why is Griffin acting like he might be?