Chapter Five
Grant
My jaw clenched as Layla kept talking about her life and her stupid ass Corgi that she claimed I’d have to meet, despite me expressing several times that I didn’t like dogs.
When Buzzard died, I grew an aversion to dogs—pets in general.
I received a call from Kiyah the day after I moved into my dorm freshman year, informing me he’d died, and I cried for hours until Mimi and Papa drove up to console me.
I wanted Kiyah, but she had school, and having Mimi and Papa by my side was the second-best thing.
A pang struck me in my chest as I thought of my grandparents from Kierra’s side.
They were the kindest people I’d ever met—Mimi with hugs and kisses that’d make the Grinch’s heart grow three sizes, and Papa with his patience and words of infinite wisdom.
Having them there constantly felt like having another set of parents, making it that much harder to cope when they passed within a month of each other.
Saying I didn’t deal with their passing gracefully was a severe understatement.
I’d turned to drinking heavily when I couldn’t make peace with their loss.
Coincidentally, I did the same when Buzzard died. Grieving clearly wasn’t my strong suit.
Movement from across the table caught my attention. Nori was signing to Kiyah. I couldn’t catch all of her finger and hand movements because she was turned sideways in her chair, but she clearly didn’t want her words to be deciphered. Kiyah briefly made eye contact with me before glancing away.
Is it bad that I’m considering making Kiyah jealous so that I can have her eyes back on me?
It’s a horrible idea. Fuck Stage Five, Corgi Layla seems like a Stage Ten clinger.
Currently, I’m trying to find an excuse to leave before dessert.
Next year, Mom’s Mother’s Day gift from me will be less extravagant than usual.
“Grant? Where are you taking us on our annual sibling trip?” Kieran asked.
“I vote this year that Nori and I get to attend,” Ronan huffed as he sliced into his steak.
“Denied; only Bakers allowed,” Kieran informed him.
“I second that. As much as we love and adore Nori, I don’t want any drama,” Casey added. Nori immediately ceased signing to Kiyah and narrowed her gray eyes at Casey. “What? It’s the truth. How much do you want to bet you and Daisy will get in a knockout drag-out fight on your honeymoon?”
“They’ll get into it before they walk down the aisle,” Ronan commented.
“I could see it,” Kieran offered.
“You all are ridiculous,” Daisy said with a roll of her eyes.
“Says the woman with a black eye,” Casey added.
I checked out of the conversation and considered where I’d take the brats on vacation.
I loved my siblings—they worked hard throughout the year and deserved to be treated.
Plus, it was a tax write-off for the business that was expensed as a “leadership summit.” Last year, I’d taken them to Italy.
They had a wonderful time; however, I remained in a less-than-jovial mood because all I could think about was how I wished Kiyah were with me.
I’d imagined we’d break off from the other siblings and tour the country together—eating great food and drinking even better wine, eventually falling into bed together, drunk on alcohol and love.
The thought caused a dam to break, allowing acrid bitterness and resentment to flow freely.
We had our future mapped out. We planned to talk to our parents about our relationship and marriage.
We didn’t care if they accepted; they’d have to get with the program.
Kiyah would attend law school and eventually join me at the firm.
She’d get her feet wet, and right about now, we should’ve been discussing growing our family, but instead, we were discussing the dissolution of a marriage she never gave a chance.
“I vote we go to Las Vegas,” Daisy chirped.
“No,” I responded, shaking my head.
“I think Vegas will be fun. I’ve never been,” Kieran mentioned.
“No,” I repeated.
“I haven’t gone either,” Casey added. “All in favor of the annual Baker sibling trip to Las Vegas, say aye.”
Ayes resounded around the table.
I stood.
This is the out I needed.
“Are you leaving?” Layla asked.
“I am. I’m sorry, everyone, but I have work to catch up on. I need everyone at the office on time in the morning.” I paused and glared at Daisy. She pouted at my callout. “We need to audit Daisy’s caseload and divvy the crucial ones. Good night, everyone.”
I was halfway to my truck when I heard a voice that made the roof of my mouth itch.
You can do this, Grant. Tell her nicely that you’re not into her.
“Grant.”
I stopped and turned to face the Corgi-loving woman. “How can I help you?”
She blushed.
For fuck’s sake.
“Today, Layla.”
“Would it be all right for me to call you? I had a great time with your family, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
“No, thank you.”
Her smile slid into a disappointed frown.
“Anything else?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Then have a good evening.”
I climbed into my truck without a hint of remorse. It was my meddling family’s fault that Layla’s feelings were hurt.
I’d barely pulled out of the parking lot when I received a text.
Do Not Answer: You did not have to make her cry.
Do Not Answer: Mom and Dad are not happy about how you mistreated her. A simple “It was nice meeting you, but no thank you” would’ve sufficed.
Grant: Maybe my wife shouldn’t try hooking me up with other women.
Do Not Answer: She was beside herself. I told her that I suspected you were gay just to get her to stop crying.
I smirked.
Me: You have an hour to get to our home, or I’ll show up at Mom and Dad’s place and spill the beans about where you run off to late at night when you come home.
Do Not Answer: You’re diabolical.
Me: What’s the matter, Ki? You don’t want Mom and Dad to know how you come crawling home to get rage fucked by your stepbrother?
Do Not Answer: Technically, you’re not my stepbrother.
Me: That’s right. I’m your fucking husband.
Do Not Answer: No reminder is needed. I’ll see you in two hours, Granny.
My hand clenched around the phone, and the urge to hurl it out the window appeared but vanished as I thought about how I planned on edging the fuck out of Kiyah.
Kiyah
Grant: You’re late.
Me: I’m not. I told you I’d be there in two hours, and I still have five minutes to get there.
I watched anxiously as the gray bubbles on the bottom of the screen bounced up and down as I waited for his response.
Grant: Use your key.
“What’s the code?” my Uber driver asked.
“Two-nine-six-six,” I said. My stomach twisted in knots when the driver punched in the code, and the gate swung open, welcoming residents and guests to the well-sought-after neighborhood.
“I’ve never been out here before. Nice neighborhood,” the driver remarked.
“It is,” I agreed.
There was no doubt that Grant had me in mind when he chose our home.
The neighborhood was everything I told him I wanted—off-the-beaten-path, quiet, safe, sprawling lots that were tucked away and invisible from the main road.
It didn’t come with the outrageous price tag like our parents’, but it was sufficient to meet our needs.
The knots in my stomach coiled tightly as the distance and time until we reached my destination ticked down like a Doomsday Clock.
I was toying with the idea of finally letting the cat out of the bag.
Truthfully, I was tired of running. The road was lonely, the friendships I formed were superficial, and despite the distance I’d put between Grant and me, there was nowhere I’d rather be than with him.
However, the one thing I was counting on was the blowback from my secret.
“We’re here,” the driver announced, pulling into the roundabout of the grand English colonial home that was nestled on its own private street.
“Thank you,” I replied, leaving him a tip on the app.
I stood outside and admired the home that had been plucked right out of my teenage dreams. The tan brick blended seamlessly with the hunter-green shutters and white trimmings.
One of my favorite features was the ivy arch trellis that framed the front entrance right after the four-car tandem garage that held Grant’s truck, his luxury weekend and vacation car, an empty spot for my vehicle, and one for my Harley.
Grant: Get your ass in here.
I grinned and texted him back.
Me: Translation: I want you, real bad.
Me: I think I might take a midnight stroll on the footpath under the full moon. My carriage ride was quite tedious.
Grant: Kiyah…some of us work for a living. Cut your bullshit.
Me: I bet the garden is lovely this time of year.
I took the sunken steps to the front door and fished my keys out of my purse.
I was moments from slipping the key into the lock when the door flew open.
The anger and frustration rippled off my husband in waves like a tsunami threatening to crash over me and wipe me from existence.
I liked him angry—the sex was infinitely better when he was.
I knew exactly how the night would go. He’d be overly dominant and aggressive and try to punish me for being gone by edging me.
Joke’s on him; I like that edging shit. It sucks, yeah, but the orgasm? Mind-blowing.
I admired him for a moment and thanked God that he grew into his features as he aged and no longer looked like a carbon copy of Dad when we were younger.
Don’t get me wrong, the two blonde-haired and green-eyed men share a resemblance, but there’s just enough Eliza in Grant that I don’t feel like I’m fucking my dad.
“Look at you, shirtless and ready to be used,” I teased. He rolled his eyes and pulled me into a tight embrace. I melted on contact and allowed my body to conform to his. My head rested on his broad chest, and his rapid heartbeat revealed all the things he tried hiding from me.
He was nervous, angry, excited, and aroused.
My pussy started to throb in the doorway as his hands traveled south. He squeezed my ass—a painful but necessary action.
“Up.”
I jumped up and wrapped myself around him like we were in the middle of the ocean, and he was my life preserver.
His lips parted for me, and the groan that spilled from him nearly made me forget that I could taste the bourbon on his tongue.
Grant had stuck to Moscow Mules before dinner… the house is supposed to be dry….
I didn’t have time to reprimand him, nor would I, at least not at the moment. I wasn’t trying to mess up my nut.
“I hope you didn’t take out my favorite piercing,” he mumbled breathlessly once we finally separated. I dropped my purse in the foyer.
“That depends… do you still have yours?” I challenged as he carried me to the living room—our first stop on my “Welcome Home” sex tour.
“Maybe you should get a closer look,” he said, dropping onto the couch with me in his lap. I eagerly slid off his lap onto my knees before him and reached for the ties of his pajama pants. I pouted when he slapped my hands away. “After I get mine,” he insisted.
I refrained from rolling my eyes and stood. I lost my shirt, launching it somewhere in the ether, and shimmied out of my shorts. My right foot balanced on his knee, and I spread my pussy lips, revealing my clit piercing that he loved to suck on and stroke with his tongue.
“You happy?” I asked.
“Not until it’s in my mouth.”