17. Brynn
Chapter seventeen
Brynn
T he sound Griffin makes when he fills me is primal—this deep, guttural groan that sends a shiver coasting down my spine. I fixate on that noise, add it to the list in my memory bank of all the other male utterances he’s made tonight. The dirty words flowing from his mouth like the most sinful promises. The compliments and praise he’s lavished on me so freely.
It comes as no surprise that Racy Lacey is a loquacious lover. And I love it; each grunt or husky command turns me on as much as his touches. Sex with Jack was a subdued, quiet obligation. But with Griffin? It’s a hot, unrestrained necessity.
I’m wanton and needy and desperate to please him.
“Fuck, baby. You feel so good.” Above me, those blue-gray eyes are focused, full of desire as he levers his hips and pulls out a few inches, only to glide back in to the hilt. Testing, holding back. He’s big, but my body was more than ready to take all of him.
I love the way he stretches me. The intensity of his gaze as he thrusts, slow, shallow to start, makes my nerves tingle and increases the slickness that eases his motion. He kisses me, tender and unhurried, his lips coaxing mine open. And when his tongue mimics the lazy movement of his hips, a spike of pleasure consumes me, making me clench my inner muscles around his hardness .
He tears his lips away with a growl. “You keep that up, and I’ll finish before we even get started.”
When I give him an unbridled smile, he stills, ceasing the motion of his hips, and regards me.
“You are so goddamn beautiful.”
“Griff.”
“When you smile at me like that, it robs the fucking air from my lungs.”
Unbidden, tears line my eyes, but I blink them away.
Griffin doesn’t miss them, though. “All right?”
I nod and press my lips to his.
“There’s no rush, professor. If you need a break or to stop…”
Another thing missing from sex with Jack? A deep connection. The comfort that comes with knowing that my partner is fully present, in the moment, with me.
I shake my head. “I want this. I want you.” The same words I gave him when he asked me to be his in the middle of an empty football field.
“Baby, you’ve got me. All of me.” He accentuates that statement by grinding his hips against me. Then he pins me with more of his weight.
I grip his waist, digging my fingers in as he rocks his pelvis in a rhythmic pattern. The additional elevation from the pillow provides the perfect angle for my clit to be rubbed with every thrust. As he works me over, I roam every bit of his sweat-slicked skin, touching every inch my fingers can reach: straining biceps and sharp shoulder blades and tight butt.
When I squeeze his round backside, he swears. “You’re taking me so well, baby. My fucking dream girl, made just for me.”
He increases his tempo, and I can’t hold back the moans and whimpers. The rasp of my nipples against his chest hair and the puffs of heat he grunts into my ear trigger the telltale tightening of my core, that delicious throb like a heartbeat between my thighs .
“That’s it, Brynn. Give it to me.”
His gruff words are my undoing. As my climax crashes through me, I’m hit with wave after wave of pure bliss. The undulations are intense and drawn out, every cell awash in euphoria. Griffin’s pace becomes frenzied, and he hitches my knee up to his thigh so he can thrust deeper and harder, chasing his release. After a few more erratic plunges, he stills, his face contorting, and he lets out a groan. He’s magnificent when he pulses inside me.
Watching him come undone above me is a sight I want on repeat.
Spent, he slumps over me, burying his face in my neck.
I wrap my arms around him as our heartbeats slow and our bodies cool. “How do you feel?” I make lazy passes up and down his back, reveling in the feel of his weight pinning me to the mattress.
His words are muffled against my skin. “I came so hard I might’ve blacked out for a second.”
I huff a laugh and hug him tighter, contentment blooming in my chest.
He nuzzles closer and kisses my neck. “How was it for you?”
Words flit in and out of my mind like a shuffled deck of cards. They run the gamut from rapturous to terrifying . Rapturous, for obvious reasons. Terrifying because this relationship has the potential to wreck me if it goes south.
In the end, I land on three simple but honest words: “It was perfect.”
He raises his head and studies me, his mouth kicked up on one side. “Yeah. It was. Because you are perfect.” He presses his lips to mine.
After several minutes where we bask in the afterglow, kissing and snuggling, he rolls off me, and with a groan, rises from the bed. He offers me a hand and pulls me up. Then he swipes the used pillow from the bed and tosses it on the floor. “Pillow trick for the win. Make sure you tell Celeste.” His mouth twists in a proud smirk.
I scoff. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
He pokes out his bottom lip, a tease on the tip of his tongue, but then his attention flits to my chest, and instantly, he’s distracted. Stepping closer, he caresses my breast. He makes one pass of his thumb over my nipple, sending a jolt straight to my pelvis. I squeeze my legs together, where the evidence of our lovemaking trickles out.
Griffin hauls me up and tosses me over his shoulder, and when he smacks my butt, I let out a cackle. “C’mon. Let’s get a shower so I can dirty you up again.”
As we pass the sign welcoming us to Griffin’s hometown, the one that proudly boasts Home of Super Bowl Champ Griffin Lacey , I relax against the headrest and let my head loll to the side so I can take him in. “I thought a hollow was a small valley. I’ve seen nothing but flat land since we got off the highway.”
With a laugh, he gives our loosely intertwined fingers a shake. “Don’t mention that to anyone while you’re here, professor.” When I lift a brow, he sighs. “Trust me on this. There are two highly improbable versions of that history, each with supporters who will defend their preferred tale with blows, if necessary. At the very least, they’ll launch into a heated debate, and before you know it, you’ve lost hours of your life that you’ll never get back.”
“Wow, it’s that contentious, huh?”
He pops a shoulder. “Small town, USA, baby.”
“Is that why the name’s been changed?” The white wooden letters on the sign we passed read Welcome to Holly Hollow , but the o and w in the last word were crossed out, and an er have been stenciled above them in green paint .
“Officially, it’s Holly Hollow. But, since its founding, folks have called it Holly Holler. It has a better ring to it. That’s one of the few things everyone around here agrees on.”
Giddy, but also a little nervous, I give his fingers a squeeze. “I can’t wait to see where you came from.”
He brings our joined hands to his lips. “And I’m excited to show you.”
There’s no mistaking the pride in his voice as he points out his hometown’s highlights. First, we do a slow pass by his high school, eyeing the bold Home of the Hornets motto painted on the wall of the gym in huge, yellow letters. He idles at the fence surrounding the football field, his eyes growing misty as he takes in the metal stands and the field’s freshly cut grass.
“I couldn’t even drive by here a few months ago—when I moved home to recover after surgery. Hurt too fucking much to come back to where I fell in love with football, thinking I’d played my last game.”
I study the scoreboard, the fierce cartoon hornet that lords over the center, and the huge wooden numbers posted to the fence below it: a 9 with Griffin’s name and class of 2009 painted on it, and a 55 that reads Tucker Lacey, class of 2013.
“You wore number nine in high school?”
“I did. I played QB back then.” He nods at the numbers. “Tuck played center when he was a Hornet.”
“You switched to tight end in college?”
“Yep.” A single nod. “Which meant I had to give up my beloved number nine.”
Head tilted, I regard him. “Did you pick 89?”
“I did.” He stares off into the distance. “Tight ends traditionally get numbers in the eighties, so I chose 89 as a tribute to Shaw. That’s the year he was born.”
My heart melts at his devotion to his family. “Griff, that’s the sweetest. ”
He gives me a smirk. “That’s the last word he’d use to describe it.”
Lips pressed together, I give him a slow, unamused blink. “What?” He chuckles. “You’ve met him. Am I wrong?”
“He was rather…” I trail off, racking my brain for a fitting descriptor.
“Assholey?”
“Aloof,” I correct. “But it’s nice to know that’s his default, and it wasn’t because of me.”
“Baby, you’re perfect.” Angling over the center console, he plants a quick kiss on my lips. Then, with a sigh, he rubs a hand over his hair. “Adult Shaw is…complicated. But we were like this as kids.” He crosses two fingers and holds them up between us. “We’re only seventeen months apart. For years, most people who didn’t know us assumed we were twins.”
He shares more about his relationships with his brothers as he drives. How Tucker, being four years younger than Griff, often felt left out by his older brothers, which is how Camden made his way into the mix. The honorary fourth Lacey was around so much that Donna set an extra place for him at dinner every night.
As we get closer to the center of town, we pass an L-shaped strip mall that houses a dog groomer, a dentist office, and a couple other small businesses, along with a larger business, one that spans several units, with Club Lacey Fitness emblazoned across the awning.
“That’s Tuck’s gym. He opened it in January after he scaled back on fights.”
The youngest Lacey stepped out of his older brother’s shadow by making a name for himself on the MMA circuit after college.
“I did most of my rehab there. Hell, Tucker’s annoying ass is what got me out of bed most days, even if it wasn’t until after ten. That kid made sure I stayed in decent shape.” Despite the tease, his tone is full of gratitude. He clears his throat and dips his chin as he makes a right turn. “And now, prepare for Holly Holler’s crown jewel.”
The sight before me makes my mouth drop open. It’s the most quaint, welcoming small-town square, complete with a park and gazebo in the center. It’s like a scene from a Hallmark movie. Tall oak trees line all four sides of the park, and along each surrounding street is a row of cute shops full of southern charm and nostalgia. One such business occupies most of an entire block. From the looks of the display window, the Dusty Britches Mercantile appears to sell everything from clothing to housewares. On the corner next to it sits a little ice cream shop with an adorable pink and sherbert striped awning. There are too many adorable details to take them all in as we slowly roll by.
“We’ll come back down here tomorrow, and I’ll show you around.” Griffin makes a turn, passing a building with a tin-roof awning held up by thick, dark-stained wooden posts. The lettering on the sign matches the old-timey western vibes: The Hoot ’N’ Holler Saloon. “We’ll stop in there at some point, too. That’s Aunt Dottie’s place. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t bring you by.”
My grin is so wide it makes my cheeks ache. As we continue on, I store up every detail this man shares, saving each nugget like a treasure-hoarding dragon. Witnessing the place where his story began brings me such joy, it’s like my insides have been coated in rich, warm honey.
“The farm is about twenty minutes away. Mom invited everyone for dinner. Hope that’s okay.”
Despite my nerves, I’m excited to spend time with the Lacey crew. “Of course.”
On our way out of the downtown area, we pass several residential streets and the elementary school where his cousin Trixie teaches. The farther we go, the farther the distance between buildings and houses. Still, the land is flat as a pancake; not a hollow— or holler—in sight.
He turns down a paved two-lane road that bisects huge empty fields. The nutrient-rich soil is dormant in November, waiting for next spring’s planting. Though a few fields still hold rows of brown, stalky plants with withered, crunchy leaves. The plants appear to be dead at first glance, but closer inspection reveals clusters of brown pods nestled among the branches.
“Shaw’s almost through with the harvest,” Griffin muses, gesturing with a hand. “These are all ours.”
Ah. The fields on either side of the road are part of his family’s farm.
“What are they?”
“Soybeans.”
That makes sense. Like the logo on the cap he sometimes wears.
“Lacey Farms is one of the top soybean producers in the state.”
Humming, I take another look at the vast fields. “Impressive.”
“It’s that fertile delta soil. River’s that way.” He points to my window.
A couple of miles later, the road curves a bit, and the flat fields morph into more woodsy areas. We cross over a creek, and wind a little farther north, until he slows at a turnoff that cuts between two grassy fields bordered by white picket fences. A handful of horses graze in the field to our right, and in the distance stand a quintessential red barn and a cluster of chicken coops. We pass under a metal sign that stretches across the width of the road, the round Lacey Farms logo prominent.
“Lacey farms is part working farm, but part hobby farm, too. We’ve got chickens, goats, a few horses. Local schools come out for field trips, and Dad gives them tours, lets the kids hold baby chicks and feed the goats. Mom sells eggs to neighbors and stuff.”
“My own real-life farm boy.” Laughing, I squeeze his bicep. “Explains how you got these strapping muscles.”
The heated look he gives me makes me squirm. “You know I love when you call me strapping , professor.” As twilight takes hold of the day, he pulls the truck up to a picturesque two-story white farmhouse, and parks in front of steps that lead up to a wide front porch. When he cuts the engine, he exhales, a content sound passing his lips, and surveys the scenery. “This is home.”
I’m gearing up to thank him again for bringing me here, for showing me the place that formed him into the man I adore, when the front door swings open and Trixie stomps onto the porch. “Quit making out in that truck and get in here, already!”
“Jesus,” he whispers. “I apologize in advance for every single member of my family.” His warning is laced with fondness. “They will be obnoxious as fuck about us.”
“Oh, you’ve told them?” My cheeks flame, but satisfaction courses through me.
“Like I’d keep you a secret. I want every fucking person on God’s green earth to know you’re mine.”
Holy hell, when he says things like that, my heart swells and my knees turn to jelly. Good thing I’m not standing up.
Griffin exits the truck and grabs our bags, refusing to let me help, and as soon as we step into the house, we’re swarmed with hugs and kisses from enthusiastic Laceys. Except for Shaw, of course. He stands apart until the frenzy calms, then he welcomes his brother with a slap on the back and me with a clipped nod.
The inside of the Lacey farmhouse is cozy and inviting. Overstuffed plaid couches and comfy leather recliners form the perimeter of the living area, and a fire blazes in the hearth to ward off the evening chill.
I step up to the mantle to get a closer look at a framed picture on the end. Three miniature versions of the brothers cheese at the camera, each wearing a different Memphis Blues T-shirt. Griffin wasn’t kidding when he said that he and Shaw looked like twins when they were young. And baby Tucker’s pudgy cheeks and dark curls have aged to perfection. I glance over my shoulder at where Fred and Donna are talking to their sons, resisting the urge to comment on their remarkable genes.
Trixie sidles up beside me and tips her chin. “That was at the Blues’ first home game. I was supposed to be there, too, but I had a fever that Sunday, so we had to miss it. Which Mom brings up every time she needs a favor.”
“Your mom’s not coming tonight?”
“She’s working at the Hoot tonight.”
“Griff pointed it out when we drove through town. Said we’d have to stop by while we’re here.”
We’re both quiet as I study the other pictures. On the opposite end of the rough-hewn mantel, in an ornate brass frame, is a shot of Griffin’s parents on their wedding day. Donna’s puffy white sleeves and Fred’s skinny tie and thick mustache make me smile. A large rock, roughly the size of a hand, sits beside it.
“What’s with the rock?” I whisper to Trixie.
She barks a laugh. “Aunt Donna, Brynn wants to know about your lying rock.”
All three brothers groan.
“Not the lying rock,” Tucker whines.
Donna swats his arm. “I’ll tell it over dinner. Y’all come on before these pork chops get cold.”
In a matter of minutes, we’re all seated around an oblong farmhouse table laden with steaming dishes of smothered pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans, and succotash.
Beside me, Griffin squeezes my thigh. “Mom, this smells amazing.”
She beams at her middle son. “I’m so happy to have all my babies at my table again.”
Across from me, Shaw rolls his eyes, but his lips lift in a small smile as he swipes his mouth with a napkin.
When Tucker taps at the screen of his phone under the table, Donna clears her throat. “No phones at dinner, Tucker Myles. ”
In unison, Griffin and Shaw blurt, “Lacey family rules.”
“Sorry, Mom. Cam texted that he’s running late, but he’ll be here.”
Trixie huffs a breath from Griffin’s other side.
The family launches into story after story about the boys’ childhoods, and I soak it all in, marveling at the chaos of dinner with a big family. When I was growing up, our family mealtimes were substantially more mellow, though Mom could be gregarious enough for two people.
Mistaking my silence for discomfort, Griffin leans in, his shoulder nudging mine. “You okay?”
“Perfect.” I press against him and scoop up a bite of potatoes.
Fred passes a basket of rolls to Tucker and lifts his chin. “Don,” he says to his wife, who’s seated at the other end of the table, “tell Brynn about the rock.”
More groans from the boys as Trixie and Fred laugh.
“That there,” she points her fork toward the living room, “is my lying rock. And let me tell you, it was a sanity-saver with these three.” She eyes each of her boys with fondness. “Any time one of them got into trouble, they’d be quick to blame each other. And oh, the arguing . ‘Shaw did it’ and ‘No, it was Griff’ or ‘It’s Tucker’s fault.’ It was constant. And they were so convincing, all three. We had the hardest time discerning the truth.” She smirks at her husband. “One summer day, one of them broke a window playing with a ball in the house, even though they’d been told a million times to keep all balls outdoors—”
All three brothers pipe up. “Lacey family rules.”
“No one would confess, so I marched outside and found the biggest rock I could hold in one hand. I lined them up and told them that when I threw my rock, it would only hit the boy who was lying. So I wound up,” she raises her arm to throw an imaginary rock, “and pretended to throw the rock at them. The guilty party automatically ducked, telling me exactly who the culprit was. ”
The three Lacey boys are unamused while the rest of us laugh. Griffin scrubs a hand down his face and points to Shaw. “That was your fucking fault. You dared me to throw that baseball.”
Shaw holds up both hands. “I wasn’t the one who ducked, fucker.”
“Boys, no swear words at the table.” Fred leans back and crosses his arms.
Even Donna joins in on the next “Lacey family rules.”
I scrunch my nose at the six-five man beside me, imagining a little Griffin dodging his mother’s lying rock. “You ducked, huh?”
Donna answers for him. “That time, yes. But they all had turns ducking through the years. That rock was a lifesaver before they became wise to my tricks.”
The stories continue, and when Cam eventually arrives, we spend the remainder of dinner listening to him, Tucker, and Griffin reminisce about their high school football glory days. Shaw pipes in with a comment here or there, and nothing could wipe the proud, joyful smiles from Fred and Donna’s faces.
Trixie was right. The Lacey love is fierce. And I’m happy—and privileged—to be surrounded by it tonight.