Chapter 17 #2
I lean forward and prop my chin on my fist. We’re at angles to each other, but I try to catch his eye. “Yeah? What is it that’s driving you?”
He sits back and rubs his hands along his thighs. “I thought it was just being a surgeon. Enjoying life, like we talked about.” He swallows before he looks at me. “Hearing you talk about your passions makes me want to do something noble. To be something better.”
My heart twists. “It’s okay to just be an orthopedic surgeon.”
“Yeah, I know. But I want to make some kind of impact.”
“I understand that.” I trace my finger along the seam of the chair. “Even when I wanted to be a famous singer, I still hoped to do some good in the world.”
Grant smiles. “It’s too bad you let go of that dream.”
“Nah.” I grin back at him. “I can have the same aesthetic and be in medicine instead. Big boobs, big voice, big heart.”
He laughs.
“I know what you mean about impact,” I say. “But that might be easier than you think. You’ve got lots of opportunity there.” I stand up so I can move next to him on the couch. He startles when I sit next to him, but then he lets his hand brush my leg.
He turns his head toward me, his face only a few inches from mine. “I like hearing you talk about it. The way you get into maternal health, for example.”
“It’s hard not to. Women living in poverty have higher risks of complications during pregnancy. And Black women are much more likely to have problems. It’s fucking shameful.” I lift my hand. “Not that I’m some hero. Making sure people have access to good care is the lowest of low bars.”
He takes my hand and runs his thumb over the back of it. Despite how much we’ve already touched, this feels more intimate than anything we’ve done. My pulse roars, drowning out the sound of the icemaker and the rumble of a car out on the street.
“I wasn’t going to call you a hero,” Grant says. “I know that’s not why you care.” He keeps stroking my hand. “Sounds like you saw a lot when you were doing labor and delivery.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, I had to take some time to decide if that’s what I want to do or not. It’s given me some pause about pregnancy, I’ll tell you that.”
“I understand.” He links his fingers with mine, and I let him. “Tell me what you meant when you said you had a lot of help escaping poverty. That’s something you said a while back.”
“Gosh, lots of things. You remember Ms. Morgan? Our English teacher senior year?”
He nods again.
“She found some different scholarships for me to apply for. She helped me with getting fees waived for applications. She even straight up paid for one of them out of her pocket.”
“Wow,” Grant says.
“I know. I sent her a check later, but she never cashed it. I had other people who helped me out—college professors, and family friends. I had a job in college, and sometimes I had to bum rides when my car broke down, but that’s just little stuff.
” I swallow. “I took advantage of lots of campus programs. I was always on the lookout for free and used stuff. I had food stamps. That kind of thing.”
He nods. “I’m glad you had the help.”
“You can’t do it alone,” I say. “That’s a bullshit myth.” I stare out his front window. The dusky sky doesn’t allow for much view other than our own reflections. “Even though I have a lot of pride. Too much. Sometimes it feels like it’s been me against the world.”
“I’m proud of you too.” He tilts his chin toward the coffee table, where our work is piled. “We going to finish that up?”
I gulp. “That’s what I came over here to do.”
“And now? What do you want to do now?”
“We can’t get physical again, right?”
His thumb caresses the back of my hand. That point of contact shoots a line of warmth all the way up my arm, and down into my pelvis. “I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want you.”
“Grant . . .”
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s up to you.”
I want him. So much. This is madness.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Kiss me, Grant.”
He leans in and cups one side of my face with his hands.
Then he captures my lips with his own. The way we melt together is so delicious, I can’t decide whether I want to savor this or rush to the next part.
He breaks away to trail kisses over my jaw and down my throat.
His urgency makes itself clear in the frantic pace of his movements.
He cups my head, slides his hands along my waist, puts his lips on my mouth again with enough fervor to make my breath catch.
I slide one leg over his lap and straddle him. We kiss and I roll my hips against his, eliciting a long moan from him. Without warning, he cups his hands under my ass and stands with me, so that my legs are gripping his waist and he’s walking us toward what I assume is his bedroom.
I tear my face away from his. “Grant! You can’t carry me. I’m not some tiny little woman.”
“I’m strong,” he says, though his voice is a little breathy and the tendons in his neck stand out.
I bounce along with him until we reach his bedroom door. “Congrats on the testosterone, I guess,” I say.
He chuckles before letting me fall back into his bed.
I look around. His bedroom is also cozier than I expected. He’s got a little painting above his bed that snags my eye, a Louisville cityscape done in bright blues, purples, and oranges with a little autograph in the corner.
“Where’d you get that?” I nod at the picture, and he looks up from where he’s started dotting kisses along my collarbone.
A touch of pink colors his cheekbones. “My, uh, ex painted it. I really like it so I kept it.”
“Ah.” If he’s worried about me being jealous, that’s not really my style. Though now I’ve interrupted us and introduced a little snag in the fabric of our intimacy, so I feel the need to say something. “I like it too.”
He smiles and continues his path down my chest, pulling aside my shirt so he can kiss the tops of my breasts. “I’ve been thinking about these since you sent that damn picture.”
“Yeah?” I nudge him off me. He’s acting like he might be in control, but I’ve really enjoyed bossing him around. I like teasing him. “Roll to your back.”
He complies, but not without a raised brow. I shift up to stand in front of him, and he puts his hands behind his head, watching me like he’s settling in for a show. His teeth snag on his bottom lip.
My movements slow a little. Despite all my bluster about my confidence, there’s a tiny part of me that doesn’t feel like I’m good enough.
I’ve changed, but not without scars. I have some stretch marks decorating my thighs.
My breasts are perky with the support of my bra, but not so much without it.
I’m toned in some places, yes, but soft and loose in others.
I have this fleeting feeling I shouldn’t make myself vulnerable here.
I shake that notion off.
“Can we play around with me taking the lead some more?” I toy with the hem of my shirt.
“Looks like we already are.” He quirks his eyebrow again.
“Tell me again if you aren’t okay.”
He props himself up on his elbows. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s fucking killing me that I haven’t gotten off in over two weeks.” He squirms on the bed as though punctuating his point. A rush of arousal floods my body. “But I’m more into it than I thought I would be. Denying myself.”
“You’re being so good.” I touch the button on my jeans. “You deserve a treat for listening.”
I unbutton my jeans slowly, making a show of peeling them off my body while he watches.
Then I slide my shirt up and over my head.
I’m standing in a lacy, black underwear set that cost more than a fancy dinner, but it’s worth it to see the way he rakes his hand down his face, followed by a softly exhaled, “Fuck.”
I saunter toward him. When my legs are almost touching his where they hang off his bed, I reach behind me to unhook my bra, and lean forward to shimmy out of it. I put one thigh on either side of his, almost touching him but not quite. His mouth drops open.
I take another mental picture of this, of Grant at my mercy. Because this is my favorite thing now.