22. Andi
Chapter 22
Andi
I ’m curled up in the living room, staring at the screen saver of Beyoncé in her Cowboy Carter glory on my laptop, when the back door opens. Shoes thump on the floor, keys land in the bowl, bag is placed on the counter, and then Griffin is behind me, wrapping his hands around my face, tipping my jaw so he can kiss me upside down.
“It’s so quiet in here.” He lets go of me to round the couch and sit next to me. “It’s never this quiet.”
I turn to face him, and he frowns.
“What’s wrong?”
I feel so foolish to still be sulking all these hours later, but I can’t seem to make sense of any of my emotions. I’ve pretty much been sitting here since I dropped the kids off this morning.
“What happened?” he asks. “When you texted last night, I figured everything was fine. You were sorting photos or something.”
Wordlessly, I stand to retrieve the gift bag and handful of frames and pictures I put together and hand them to him. Then I slump right next to him, leaning against his side with my feet under my butt. He lifts his arm so I can snuggle even closer as he sets the photos down on his lap, lifting each one up at a time.
The first is a picture of Griffin with Logan and Grace as toddlers, both of them holding on to each of his pinkies, all of them walking toward whoever was taking the picture. It’s adorable.
The next one is Griffin and his siblings at some kind of picnic when they were younger. I point to the little boy. “That’s Roman, I assume.”
He grunts an affirmative and moves to the next one, him in a cap and gown, an unsmiling high school graduate. So serious even then.
He sets down the photos then opens the gift bag, pulling out the four frames of a photo I reprinted. It took a bit of research to find a place that would restore the picture and blow it up from a 4x6 to the 10x12s I got made for Griffin and his siblings. I thought it was too beautiful for them not to have.
Griffin releases a gruff sound from the back of his throat when he sees his mother, a bright smile on her face. She must have been in her twenties, leaning her chin in her hand, a book open in front of her, and almost out of frame with the window directly behind her, the sunshine backlighting her.
And the only reason I knew it was his mother is because of what her children look like when they smile. Though a rarity, they have the same exact smile as Violet Stone.
“I hope it’s okay that I framed this. I thought you’d like it. You and your brothers and sister. I made one for each of you. I don’t know how much they have of your mom, but…” It seems silly now, maybe even stepping over the boundary. Assuming. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” He sniffs and clears his throat. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” He slants his watery gaze to me. “Where did you even find it?”
“They were all thrown together in a box in the hall closet upstairs. You probably forgot you even had them since they were behind a bucket of cleaning supplies.”
“Definitely forgot,” he says, and I drag my fingertip over his mother’s smile. From the snippets of his family I’ve gleaned, I know his father is not in his or his siblings’ lives and that their mother passed away from a stroke a long time ago…fifteen years or so. I also know Griffin well enough to recognize that these stuffed-away photos represent how he stuffs away his feelings. He doesn’t want to face what he feels. What he lost.
His beloved mother.
“She was beautiful.”
“She was.” He inhales audibly and raises his chin toward the ceiling, his voice like gravel when he quotes, “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.’”
“Shakespeare?”
“Hamlet.” He lowers his gaze to mine, his eyes rimmed red. “That line was her favorite. When she’d write letters to me, she’d sign them, never doubt I love.”
I gasp, making the connection of the ink I’ve noticed on his ribs, a long line in delicate cursive, almost like someone wrote it on his skin. “That’s your tattoo.”
He nods. “In her handwriting.”
Below it are the kids’ initials with their birthdate, and I shift away to lift his T-shirt, finding the quote, tracing the letters with my fingertips, my eyes burning with his shared lingering grief. I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t know what it feels like to lose a parent, but I know what it feels like to mourn the loss of what could have been. I also know how I’ve come to feel about Logan and Grace in such a short amount of time, and if it is one-third of what Violet felt about her children, I can understand the sentiment. There is nothing more true. No doubt about my love.
“We all have them,” he tells me quietly. “Me, Taryn, Roman, and Ian. We all have tattoos for her. It was one of the few things we did all together after.”
I don’t know what else to say besides, “She loved you so much. Still does.” Then I cup the back of his head and kiss him, comforting him as best I can. He sets down the photos next to him and hauls me into his lap, skating his hands under my T-shirt, warming my skin. I mold my hands to his jaw, licking into his mouth. His tongue tastes faintly of coffee, reminding me that I haven’t had anything to eat yet today. My stomach growls, and so does Griffin. “You didn’t eat today?”
I shrug. “Forgot.”
“Let’s get some protein in you.” He stands with me in his arms—I’ll never not love that—and sets my feet on the floor, tugging me to the kitchen, where he gets busy building chicken and hummus wraps, setting them on plates with my favorite salt-and-vinegar chips and some mixed berries. I accept the plate he offers me and settle across the island from him. We stand, eating in silence, watching each other, and it should probably be awkward, his dark gaze on me while I stuff my face, but it’s not. I don’t mind.
Especially because it seems to make him happy I finish everything. Once we’re both done, he asks, “What’s got you so upset you forgot to eat?”
I pick at the edge of the plate, trying to gather my thoughts. “Dahlia called me yesterday.”
Griffin furrows his brow. “Okay?”
“She got a record deal.” I say it quietly, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I am happy for her, truly, but it’s hard not to feel a pang of envy.
“And you’re upset about it.”
I force a smile as my eyes sting with tears. “I’m happy for her. So happy.”
“But…?”
“But I feel like I missed my shot, you know? I went to LA for a purpose. To be a songwriter. To have a career with Grammys and money, and now…” I stare down at the striations in the marble top, unable to meet his gaze. “I never did it. I’m not going to do it. I’m just a nanny.”
“Come here.” He pulls on my hand, towing me around the island and into his body. I go willingly, burying my face in his chest, wrapping my arms around him. His heart beats steadily against my ear, a comforting rhythm. “You’re not just a nanny. You’re so much more than that. To me, to the kids.”
“I know. And that’s what makes it so confusing. I’m devastated about my career, but at the same time, I love being here and taking care of the kids. I love living in this town, and I can see myself being here long-term.” I lean my chin on his breastbone, looking up at him. “Last night, the kids told me they love me, and I…” I bite my lip as my eyes sting. “It felt better than anything else in life.”
He blinks slowly, though he doesn’t seem as surprised that his kids told me they loved me. The worried crease between his eyebrows eases, and he sweeps his hands up to my face, holding my cheeks between his palms, burying his fingertips in my hair. Then he simply stares at me. For a long time.
His eyes drift between mine then down to my lips, where he glides his thumbs over my mouth. He studies me like one might study a painting, perhaps looking for imperfections or elements that make it unique. But he is the one with enigmatic features, near impossible to understand how he’s feeling.
His mysterious smile flattens when I place my hands on his wrists, nudging his hands away from me. “Tell me about their mom.”
Griffin’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods and takes a step back, busying himself with cleaning up our plates as he starts. “Her name was Beth. We met at a bar while I was on leave and in a really dark place.” He shuts the dishwasher then pivots to lean against it, his arms crossed, gaze cast down. “My team had been on a mission, and one of my best friends died.”
I don’t dare reach for him, even though I want to. I don’t want him to stop talking to me, explaining his past. It’s good for him and for us.
“I got caught up and wanted to forget, I guess.” He stops to clear his throat. “We found out she was pregnant right before I was deployed again, and we decided to get married before I left. We weren’t even together four months, but I wanted to do right by her. I promised myself I wasn’t going to be like my dad. I wouldn’t leave or let her or my children down. I couldn’t do that to her or them.”
He clears his throat again, this proud man visibly uncomfortable at whatever he perceives he did wrong, and I hate that for him, but I wait for him to finish his story. “She went into labor while I was away. By the time I got there, she was already gone. Complications of eclampsia.” He swipes his hand over his mouth. “I had two babies and no idea what to do. So, I left the service and came home.”
After a minute, I move to him, placing my hands on his shoulders, squeezing until he loosens his crossed arms to hold on to my waist. “I’m sorry for your losses—for your mom and Beth. It’s a lot to carry.”
I stand up on my toes to place a chaste kiss on his mouth, but he doesn’t let me back away. He keeps me close, one hand twisting the fabric of my T-shirt at my waist and the other around my neck. His exhale is shuddering, and I know he must feel wrung out, how much it takes for him to open up like that. It’s not natural for him, and I couldn’t love him more for offering it up to me. Letting me inside his heart to all the shadowy places.
“I could use a shower,” I say, with a nod toward the staircase. “And I’d like to see just how big yours is.”
I take his hand, leading the way upstairs to his bedroom and through to the en suite, where I start the shower then strip off my T-shirt and shorts. Griffin’s gaze is hot on my skin, blazing a trail over my shoulders, breasts, and stomach before settling between my thighs. I squeeze my legs together, impatient for him to take off his clothes, although he’s in no rush as the steam begins to swirl around us.
So, I do it for him.
Griffin fights a smile, his mouth pressing into a line that reluctantly twists up when I push his arms toward the ceiling, only to struggle lifting his T-shirt up his long torso and over his head. He’s over a full foot taller than I am, and I have to shove him down to get it off, earning a quiet snicker. When he stands up straight again, he pulls his shoulders back like a soldier, allowing me to fully take in the planes of his muscles and the tattoos decorating them. I trace the lines on his left arm, up to his bicep with a pyramid and other Egyptian symbols—because he apparently used to be obsessed with ancient Egypt as a kid, a self-proclaimed nerd when he was younger—then over to the tiger—“I thought I was a tough guy and wanted people to know it” on his pec—where I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. In response, he grips my hip hard but otherwise stays still, his liquid gaze on me as I explore the thick ropes of his arms and the lines of his abdomen.
Hooking my fingers around the elastic of his athletic shorts, I pull them down and sink to the bath mat, kneeling between his feet. From this position, I tilt my head up, finding him breathing hard. Every exhale sounds pained, but I keep going, peeling his boxer briefs down his thick legs and tossing them to the side before curling my hands around the backs of his thighs.
His cock is hard and heavy, leaning out toward me, and while Griffin has never made me feel like I owed him anything, I do want to show him how I can make him feel as good as he makes me feel. I want to taste him, see him come undone because of me.
“Andi,” he rasps, and I slide my hands up to his butt, squeezing lightly as I shuffle forward on my knees, close enough that the tip of his length touches my mouth, and his jaw goes tight, his words barely audible. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” I tentatively wrap my hand around him, the soft skin over hard steel, and look up at him. His eyes are so dark they appear black, and he’s watching me with an intensity that makes me shiver. I experimentally drag my fist up and down, from root to tip, thinking about the last time I tried to do this, and it took so long, the guy actually sighed, like he was bored. Not great for my self-esteem.
“You’re gonna have to tell me what to do,” I say and press a kiss to the head, right over the slit, then lick my lips, sampling the salt pearling there again already. I flatten my tongue and lick that up as well before growing a bit bolder to take more of him in my mouth.
Above me, Griffin groans, his fingers digging into my hair. “Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart.”
I do, shifting so I can stare up at him even as my eyes water when I take him a little too deep. He’s gentle when he curves his palm over my jaw and throat, even as he tells me, “Do that again.”
I inhale through my nose and draw him to the back of my throat, more prepared this time, but it’s not like it helps. I haven’t been with a lot of guys, and Griffin’s big, long and thick, and I have trouble being as ladylike as I want to be. When spit slips out of the side of my mouth, he nods, color rising high in his cheeks.
He likes it.
He likes me being messy.
And the idea is as freeing as it is empowering.
I think merely having my mouth on him would make him happy, but me letting go is what makes him feral. The gagging sounds and slippery mess are what makes him breathe faster and harder. It makes his grip tighten on me. It makes him thrust his hips ever so slightly, like he just can’t not move.
“I dreamed about this,” he grits out, muscles tense. “I imagined your puffy lips around my cock, exactly like this, and fuck, baby, it feels so goddamn good.”
I preen under his praise, goose bumps racing along my skin in the humid air as desire pools in my core. Keeping one hand around him, I slip the other between my legs, dragging my fingertips over my aching clit, and Griffin tosses his head back to the ceiling, “Fuck yes. Touch yourself. Come with me.”
I didn’t realize how wet I was, how turned on, and it doesn’t take me long to get there, tipping over the edge with fast circles of my fingers. I groan around his cock, bringing his eyes back to mine. “You gonna let me come in your mouth?” When I nod my answer, he clenches his jaw. “Atta-fucking-girl.”
He orgasms, hot spurts coating the back of my throat and tongue, and I have to close my eyes, reminding myself to breathe as I gag again, but when he finishes and I open my eyes to him, swallowing his orgasm, he wastes no time hauling me up off the floor. Brushing his thumbs over my cheeks to wipe away the wetness, he laughs, genuinely. “Jesus, Andi, you need to come with a warning label. Fucking break my heart and my dick.”
I laugh too, a little dazed as he unclasps my bra and pushes down my underwear before scooping me up to take me into the shower. While his shower is bigger than my little stand-in downstairs, it’s not as big as the one in my fantasies. But Griffin is even better.
We take turns soaping each other up, and he’s careful not to get my hair wet when I tell him it’s not my hair-wash day, which I then have to explain. His eyes crinkle with amusement as he shakes his head in exasperation.
“You’ll have to get used to it,” I say, meaning he’ll have a teenage girl living in the house soon, but he doesn’t take it that way.
Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist, lifting my feet up off the tub’s floor to kiss his understanding into my mouth. “I’m ready when you are.”
Like he’s only waiting for me to say the words.
I love you .