CHAPTER 13
Grizz
Iget home faster than I should. I’m not speeding, but every yellow light registers as a suggestion not a requirement, so I race through them. By the time I step into my apartment, I’m wired, restless, standing in the entryway, having halfway forgotten what I came here to do.
Daisy.
That’s right. She’s what I came to do.
Even though I have no regrets at telling her to come over, I’m pissed off at myself for needing to. Because I feel like I might explode if I don’t expend some of this energy, I make myself move. I don’t want to impress her—hell no—but I’m crawling out of my skin.
I kick off my shoes, straighten the stack of mail I’ve been ignoring, and wipe down the kitchen island even though there’s nothing on it. I fix the throw blanket on the couch, move the remote so it’s perfectly aligned, open a window for fresh air, then worry that it’s too cold and close it again.
I don’t do this. I don’t straighten things. I don’t fuss or overprepare. I sure as hell don’t lose my mind over a woman.
I’ve never done any of this for anyone. Hell, I’ve never had anyone in this apartment at all.
And tonight, Daisy’s coming here because I told her to. I’m not even sure why, but the demand went straight from my brain to a text before I had time to think what it meant. I hit send before I could stop myself.
I glance at the time. She should be here—
A knock.
My heart jumps. I roll my shoulders, trying to look casual, like I didn’t just reorganize my entire life out of sheer frustration, and then I open the door.
She’s standing there in the hallway, her hair loose, cheeks pink from the cold, wrapped in a dark coat that makes her eyes stand out even more than usual.
“Hi,” she says, lifting her hand in a small wave.
We stare at each other a long moment, then my hands are on her waist, pulling her into me hard.
My mouth slams onto hers and the kiss is instant, hungry, burning up every inch of space between us.
She gasps into my mouth, fingers already curling into the front of my shirt, pulling me closer as if we’re picking up exactly where we left off in her apartment. And maybe we are.
I drag her inside, slam the door, and back her into it.
I press my body into hers and she responds by anchoring my hips to her hips.
Christ… zero to sixty in two seconds flat.
My mind whirls… do I fuck her here against the door or on the couch, which is only slightly farther, or haul her up over my shoulder and carry her to my room?
“Wait!” she gasps against my mouth and I go perfectly still. I raise my head, peer down at her. “We need to talk.”
Four words that no man wants to hear. “Talk about what?”
“About rules,” she says, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“Rules?” I echo.
“We need to talk about us… what we’re doing,” she says, eyes boring into mine. “About this. About… you and me.”
She doesn’t look nervous. Instead, she looks ready, which somehow makes me the one who feels a little unsteady.
“The only way this works,” she continues, “is if we agree it’s zero strings attached, no expectations beyond the moment.”
This doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, this sounds like the conversation I should be instigating. But I’m on board. “Nothing complicated. Just… casual.”
Her expression doesn’t change right away, but there’s a tiny change in her posture—her shoulders loosening, her breath easing—like she’s been waiting for the parameters too.
“Casual,” she repeats. “No strings. That’s the only way we can make this work.”
The relief that moves through me is instant, almost dizzying.
“Good,” I say, fingers digging into her hips and making her eyes go dark. “I’m glad.”
“Same.”
“Now, where were we?”
My hands move up to her face, framing it almost tenderly, which is funny.
I don’t have a tender bone in my body. She tips her head back, eyes dropping to my mouth.
Now that the rules are set, the invitation to operate within those boundaries is there.
I lower my head, brush my lips over hers.
Daisy sighs and goes up to her tiptoes, deepening the kiss.
It’s fucking nirvana and I take every bit she offers.
All I care about is the way her body presses into mine, the soft sound she makes when my hand slides up the back of her neck, the way her mouth opens for me like she’s been waiting on this forever.
I spin her, maneuver her back four steps, around the edge of the couch. No strings. Yeah, right. It’s on.
I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it all day, and she kisses me back like she’s been starving longer.
The second her tongue slides against mine, every half-assed promise about “casual” evaporates.
There’s nothing casual about the way she drags me down on top of her, or the way I groan into her mouth when her hips roll up to meet mine.
We crash together onto the couch and the kiss never breaks. My hands are under her sweater in seconds, palms maneuvering over warm skin, thumbs brushing the lace edge of her bra until she arches hard and gasps my name against my lips.
“Grizz—”
I answer by dragging the sweater over her head and tossing it somewhere behind us.
Her bra is black, simple, devastating. I mouth my way down her throat, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the pulse hammering under my tongue.
When I close my teeth gently over the swell above the lace, she makes a broken little sound that goes straight to my dick.
She yanks at my shirt next, impatient, and I pull back only long enough to rip it off. The second my chest is bare, her hands are everywhere—nails scraping down my stomach, tracing the waistband of my jeans like she’s deciding how fast she wants this. I decide for both of us.
I haul her up, spin her, and press her back to my front, mouth at her ear. “Been thinking about all the dirty things to do to you and I have quite a list.”
Her laugh is breathless. “Prove it.”
Challenge accepted.
I flick her bra open with one hand, let it fall, and cup her breasts from behind, full, perfect, nipples already swollen. She drops her head back against my shoulder, moaning softly as I roll them between my fingers, until her hips are grinding against me in silent demand.
My other hand slides down her stomach, pops the button on her jeans, slips inside. She’s soaked through her panties, and the sound she makes when I stroke her over the fabric is filthy and desperate and mine.
“Jesus, Daisy.”
“Inside,” she whispers. “Now.”
I push the lace aside and sink two fingers into her, curling just right. Her knees buckle. I hold her up with an arm banded across her chest, working her slow and deep while my thumb finds her clit. She comes fast and hard, clenching around my fingers, my name a broken chant against my throat.
And I’m not even close to done.
She’s still trembling from the first orgasm, making it incredibly easy to strip her naked.
I push her back down on the couch, spread her thighs, and hook her leg over my shoulder to lick into her.
She tastes like everything I’m not supposed to need.
I don’t stop until she’s yanking at my hair, thighs shaking, coming again with a cry that echoes off the high ceilings.
When I stand, she attacks my belt with shaking hands. I help, kicking jeans and boxer-briefs away. Her eyes drop to where I’m hard and aching for her, and she licks her lips, her beautiful, sumptuous lips.
“Condom?” she asks, voice wrecked.
“Wallet. Coffee table.”
She finds it in two seconds, rips it open with her teeth, rolls it down me with her supple hands. Then she pushes me back onto the couch and straddles me without hesitation.
We both groan when she sinks down, taking every inch until she’s seated fully and we’re nose to nose, breathing the same air. Her hands frame my face, and for one suspended second, we just stare.
Then she starts to move.
Slow at first, rolling her hips in a rhythm that makes my vision blur.
I grip her waist, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her ass, guiding her harder, faster.
The couch creaks beneath us. Her head falls back, breasts bouncing with every thrust, and I can’t resist. I lean forward, suck a nipple into my mouth, bite just hard enough to make her gasp and grind down harder.
“Grizz—fuck—right there—”
I slide a hand between us, circle her clit with my thumb, and she shatters again, clenching so tight around me I see stars. Two more thrusts and I follow, burying myself deep and coming with her name ripped out of my chest.
She collapses forward, forehead against mine, both of us slick with sweat and breathing heavily. I wrap my arms around her back and hold her there, feeling her heartbeat hammer against my ribs.
After a minute (or five), she lifts her head, hair wild, lips swollen, eyes soft enough to steal my breath.
She smiles, then carefully climbs off me, disposes of the condom with impressive efficiency, and curls back into my side. I tug a throw blanket over us both.
Casual, I remind myself. In fact, after my brain starts working again, I’ll gently try to get her out of here. That’s how casual this will be.
But then she shifts closer, one knee brushing mine, and every part of me that pretended to want simple and uncomplicated feels anything but.
I ignore that—for now. I look at her like I didn’t spend all day trying not to want exactly this.
Daisy shifts on the couch, turning so she’s angled toward me. We bask in the afterglow, spent and delirious. It’s times like these I understand why people smoke after sex.
“You seemed… distracted today,” she says. “During the game.”
The words are soft and observational, not accusatory.
“I wasn’t distracted,” I lie.
She arches a brow. “Come on, Grizz. I watched the whole game. You were off.” Her voice gentles. “And that cross-check from the Cougars defenseman? You just stood there. Didn’t throw a punch, didn’t even chirp at the guy. You gave him absolutely nothing.”
I tense visibly. I can’t tell her why. I can’t tell her she was in my head for sixty straight minutes, that every time I tried to lean into instinct or anger or the familiar violence that keeps me effective, her face—her laugh, her mouth, the way she looked at me when I told her about my father—kept replacing it.
So I deflect and tell her not quite an untruth, but a semi-lie I know she can latch onto so she doesn’t poke into my feelings about her.
“My dad’s not doing well.” That part’s truth but not why I was distracted during the game.
Daisy’s eyes flare with surprise that I’d bring up a topic so personal, but it’s doing as intended because she presses a hand to my chest. “What happened?”
“He wandered away from his home and got lost. He’s okay, but my sister, Eliza, thinks it’s time for him to go to an assisted living facility for his safety, and I agree.”
The regret for sharing hits instantly, like touching a burning stove before realizing the danger. I wish I could pull the words back, shove them into the vault where they belong. But they’re out now.
Daisy goes completely still.
I exhale. “He’s… deteriorating. Fast.” I stop there, keep it surface level. “Eliza’s carrying most of it, but she doesn’t have the ability to watch him full time with her job. She’s feeling guilty and I feel bad that the only way I can help is to pay for everything.”
Daisy’s face contorts like she actually sees the knot in my chest instead of the mask I’m wearing over it.
“That must be incredibly hard,” she says quietly. “For both of you.”
I nod once, curt. More than I meant to reveal already. I can feel the emotional cliff beneath my feet, and I’m not going over it. Not tonight. Not with her this close. So, I stand and head for the kitchen.
The motion is abrupt enough that she notices, but she doesn’t call me on it.
I open the cabinet, grab the bottle of Cabernet I stole from the Bartiz shoot. Slipped two bottles into my backpack while the chef was arguing with a PA about lighting. I grab two glasses and return to the living room.
“I snagged a few of these from the shoot,” I say, twisting out the cork. “Figured the chef owed me for making me say ‘luxurious notes of plum’ on camera.”
That earns a real smile from her—soft, amused, dancing across her mouth before she can hide it.
I pour her a glass, then myself one.
We drink, slow at first. Her foot brushes against mine.
We both finish our first glass faster than planned. The bottle’s still open. Pouring another feels natural, easy.
Daisy swirls her second glass absently, eyes on me rather than the wine. “So… casual, right?” she teases lightly.
“Right,” I echo, and it sounds far more strained than I want it to.
“I probably should get going,” she says, setting the half-full glass on the table.
“Don’t.” The word is out before I even realize I spoke. Daisy freezes, stares at me with apprehension. I can’t tell her that I don’t want her to go. That I’m not ready for her to go. But I can’t act as if I want this to be anything more than casual. “I’m going to fuck you again.”
Her eyes flash with heat and that’s good enough for me. That means she’s distracted by the sex and has no clue that I like her curled up next to me just a little too much.
What is she doing to me? This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.