Chapter Seven
Grant
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the couch cushion and impatiently waited for my dick to deflate before returning it to my pajama pants. It twitched angrily, wanting nothing more than to be buried in Kiyah. I was grateful she fucked up because I nearly came just from tasting her.
My cell phone vibrated on the side table, and I expected Daisy to tell me she would be an hour late to work in the morning. I made myself presentable and frowned when I found several incoming text messages from Dad.
Dad: I’m sorry, Grant.
Dad: I’m sorry that I hurt you and that you carried that secret for all these years.
Dad: I can’t begin to imagine the level of mistrust you have for me, and despite you telling me that you’re over it and I’ve been forgiven, I’m not convinced.
Dad: I don’t regret what I did. Given the opportunity, I’d do it again.
Dad: You might find that statement particularly cruel, but I love my children, and I’d do anything to see them safe and happy.
Dad: You’re not a father, so you might not understand my position. But one day, you’ll understand when you’re blessed with the gift of fatherhood.
Dad: You’ll understand how low you’re willing to go to protect the people you love.
Dad: I meant it when I said my door will always be open.
Dad: I love you.
I rubbed my chest with a closed fist as I attempted to massage away the ache that blossomed from my father’s words.
I was a piece of shit for weaponizing that secret against him for the sake of getting him off my back about Kiyah.
I knew a blow like that would devastate him, and I did it anyway.
He wasn’t his usual fun-loving self during dinner.
He remained muted while everyone around him animatedly spoke.
He drank more than expected—going over his two-glass maximum at dinner, earning concerned glances from Mom.
She finally intervened and moved his wine glass out of reach when the server attempted to pour Dad his fifth drink.
I began to respond to his message, but my guilt had gotten the better of me. Before I knew it, I was in my office, fishing a bottle of Jack out of the false bottom of my desk.
“Fuck Casey,” I mumbled when I poured myself a shot. Only three souls knew I had a drinking problem: me, Kiyah, and Casey.
Mimi and Papa died, Kiyah returned for the funeral and disappeared again, and work had been kicking my ass.
I turned to alcohol and have been having difficulty kicking the habit ever since Casey found me passed out beside an empty bottle on my kitchen floor.
He tried to convince me to get help, but stubbornly, I told him I was fine when I was anything but.
He thought I should tell Dad, but the thought of Dad finding out I was a functioning alcoholic was enough to send me spiraling.
He promised not to tell, but only if I agreed to keep the house dry and not overdo it at social functions.
He also insisted he’d swing by and do random checks every once in a while.
I replaced the bottle, traversed my office, and typed the code into my safe.
I held the divorce papers in my hands and briefly considered signing them.
I scanned the document, snorting at the section where she refused assets.
She was entitled to half of my assets because there was no prenup.
Yet, Kiyah didn’t want alimony, the house, or any stakes in Baker Personal Injury if you hurt him, he’d annihilate you, and he didn’t discriminate.
Father, brother, sister, wife—anyone can get it.
“You’re right. What else?”
“We’ll sit down on Sunday, and you’ll tell me why you left me. And the ‘we were too young’ and ‘it was a mistake’ bullshit isn’t going to fly. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whispered hoarsely, feeling my heart fall to my feet.
“And if, for a second, I believe you’re lying to me, I’ll return the documents to the safe, drag you to Mom and Dad’s, and confess everything. Do you understand me?” he said sternly.
I nodded mechanically, feeling like I wasn’t in control of my body. I stood from the bed and stared into eyes that swam with pain, confusion, and loss.
“So… let me get this straight. You want to play house for a week?” His Adam’s apple bobbed, making me wonder why he was such a sucker for pain.
That was the difference between him and me—I ran away from pain, and he ran smack dab into it.
“You want me to make your breakfast, have your dinner on the table when you get home, and fuck you good before bed?”
He nodded once, and my heart broke for him, but not as much as it would on Sunday.
“This is a bad idea, Grant,” I whispered.
“I know… but this is what I want.”
“But it’s not right.”
He cupped my cheeks before pressing his lips against mine so softly that it felt like kissing air. He broke the kiss and whispered against my lips, “Get on your knees, baby.”
I ought to be fucking ashamed at how fast my knees hit the floor, but Grant knew exactly what to do and say to get me to submit.
“Are you going to take me down your throat like the good girl you are?” he asked, dropping his pajama pants to the floor. He held his monument of a dick in his hand and stroked it languidly, forcing precum from his crown.
“Did you even have to ask? Let me give you something to hold on to, baby,” I said as I unfurled my bun, leaving behind my high ponytail from dinner.
Grant grabbed my ponytail, wrapped it tightly around his fist, and used his hold on me to guide me to his dick.
“God, I missed you.”