Chapter 3
Kiss Me on the Mouth and Love Me Like a Sailor
HARMONY
His lips lure mine like a magnet.
He flinches slightly at the kiss, and for an instant I think maybe I’ve done something wrong, but then he reaches up and cups my cheek. His mouth presses back against mine.
Heat floods my entire body.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m supposed to be inside the resort, using this event as an opportunity to further my career. Instead, I’ve been wandering The Habitat for over an hour with a guy I barely know.
Except I feel like I know him.
Conversation is easy, and I’m not on guard every second.
Griffin talks to me like a peer, yet not like he assumes he’s on my level. He’s impressed by me but not starstruck. He seems to admire me, but his compliments aren’t pandering or obsessive. What is he? I don’t understand.
All I know is, I like him. A lot.
I’m gripping the lapels of his blazer to pull him closer. His cologne is musky and warm, like singed sandalwood.
Our lips give and take in perfect time, synchronized to each other and to the song that’s playing that I’ve all but blocked out because my pounding pulse has taken over.
The masks make this whole thing even more sensual.
His hands rove all over me—my waist, my hips, my shoulders, my face—everywhere but where I suddenly want them. He restrains himself before caressing too high on my ribs but I pull back enough to tell him, “You can touch me if you want.”
“You mean …”
I nod and kiss him again as I urge one of his hands up to my breast.
A soft rumble erupts in his throat.
He squeezes me gently, then less gently.
Yes. Like that.
“Anywhere,” I clarify the next time there’s the slightest break between us.
He detaches my cape and it falls to the ground. He kisses down my neck, then his lips graze my bare shoulders.
I shiver at the featherlight touch.
Griffin pauses, looks around, then guides me toward an ornate wrought-iron bench in a verdant alcove, somewhat secluded from the rest of the garden. He sits down and pulls me onto his lap.
Straddling him, I thread my fingers through his belt loops.
He’s so hard.
He hitches me up higher on him and—oh, sweet lord.
His hardness aligns perfectly with the ache between my legs. I moan involuntary. On instinct, I grind my hips against him. I start to apologize but he just says, “Don’t be sorry,” and cups my ass so that there’s no gap between us.
His cock strains against his pants and I can feel its full shape, its glorious pressure.
“Is this still okay?” Griffin asks, panting.
Breathless, I nod my reply.
His lips find mine again. I grind harder, chasing the high he’s given me a taste of.
This can’t be a good idea, I tell myself.
In our day-to-day lives, we work together. Not closely, sure, and not the same way two colleagues in the same office work together, but … this could complicate a lot of things for me—for my career—if he’s someone who can’t be discreet. Couldn’t it?
What’s this whole scene going to look like tomorrow, in reflection?
I think about putting a stop to what’s happening, but the tension inside me only builds, and I want more and more desperately to release it. I’m like an instrument and he’s plucking all the right strings, pressing all the right keys, getting sounds out of me that I shouldn’t make out in the open.
I’m so close. Am I really about to do this here? Now?
“Griffin,” I say. “If we keep going, I’m going to—” I cut myself off with another involuntary sound of pleasure.
“I know,” he breathes against my collarbone. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“But …”
I don’t quite know how to express my concern.
First, of course, is how exposed we are—even though we’re apparently alone.
Second is that this feels like a one-way street; what he’s doing to me, I can’t do to do him.
Not without him having to change his jeans afterward.
I highly doubt he’s brought an extra pair.
“Shhh,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.”
Wanting to argue, but wanting more to finish, I obey. I concentrate on the outline of him, where and how his hardness touches me.
Our clothes are an infuriating barrier, but we work through them. I let him—encourage him to—grope and caress and kiss whatever he wants. He is hesitant, at times, like maybe he’s afraid to cross a line, which makes me even more attracted to him.
The hair along his jaw tantalizes the swells of my breasts. I imagine what it would feel like if I were completely bare to him, and that starts to push me to my edge.
He’s even harder now, denim taut.
Thank God my leather pants are so fitted, getting us as close as possible under the circumstances.
I kept grinding, seeking more friction. A minute later, I find it—the sweet spot.
I’m holding fistfuls of his baby-blue dress shirt when my body goes rigid and I cry out.
He holds me to him so I don’t lose pressure while the blissful spasms rock me from the inside.
“Griffin …” I practically choke.
The carnal part of me wishes I could feel him more deeply, but for now this is enough. For now, I am satisfied.
The spasms fade to a throb, like the afterimages of a blinding light.
I glance down at Griffin, who looks weary but thrilled.
Curious, I slip the mask off his face, over his head, and stare at him. His brown eyes seem to brighten. His brows are thick and blond and straight like his hair. His nose has the faintest bend on the bridge. I stoke his trim beard, nothing the dimple on his chin as I catch my breath.
He really does look so familiar. I can’t believe I’ve seen him, yet never really seen him. How could a guy like this have escaped my notice?
Griffin kisses me one more time with tender grace, and I realize he’s still hard between my thighs.
Deftly, I reach down and tug his belt out of its buckle. I’m not sure why I’m feeling so bold, but if I do this on my knees I think I can keep the mess to a minimum.
Except that another man’s voice suddenly calls out through the palms and Griffin grabs my wrists to stop me.
“Riff?!” the voice says.
“Shit,” Griffin mutters.
His reaction gets me to climb off of him as I try to make sense of what I’ve heard.
He stands and fixes his belt and adjusts himself.
“Riff!”
Riff? I turn it over in my mind. It must be … a nickname? But why “Riff” and not “Griff”? And why does that name tickle something in my brain like dust blown off a trinket in an attic of forgotten memories?
I scour the ground for my discarded cape.
When I find it, Griffin reaches for my hand and I let him lead me back to the main pathway that will take us to the building’s side doors we came out of an hour ago.
The other man calls out, “Riff!” again, and this time it’s louder because we’re getting closer.
“Who’s that?” I ask as we hurry over.
“My assistant Hunter,” says Griffin. “He’s probably been looking all over for me.”
Assistant? What? Why would he have—
I stop dead in the middle of the path.
My hand tugs out of Griffin’s hold.
His momentum forces him forward a few steps before he can stop himself and glance back at me in confusion.
Everything starts to come together, one puzzle piece snapping into place and then another.
Goes by “Riff.” Important enough to have an assistant. Been with Glambam since February.
His knowledge of overbearing managers. The way he can mention a song’s key changes so casually. How he managed to strike such a perfect balance between being in awe of me but also not completely intimidated in my presence.
That honey-blond hair that would normally be falling into his eyes. His deep, melodic voice. The reason his face was familiar.
When he said, “I could sing instead, if you’d like,” he was only half-kidding—because he can and does sing, professionally.
He does resemble the IT director, on a superficial level, but now I see the differences. I imagine him wearing a Henley tee and cowboy jeans, and I can mentally hear his voice with a southern drawl.
My stomach flips again, but in a much less pleasant way now.
“You’re … you’re …” I have to rack my brain for several seconds, flicking through all the industry names I’ve heard, opening mental subfolders until the right file comes up: “Riff Hurley.”
Up-and-coming country singer Riff Hurley.
He frowns. “Yeah …”
For a long moment, I’m speechless. Like, I literally cannot make myself speak. Everything he said, everything we just did …
“I … thought you knew,” he says, and maybe it’s just the moonlight but he’s gone pale.
“You said your name was Griffin,” I finally reply in a strained voice.
“It is. No one in my personal life calls me Riff. That’s just my stage name—or what my team calls me if they’re addressing me in public. You seriously didn’t know who I am? Who did you think I was?”
I stammer several incoherent vowels. “You don’t have an accent.”
“Technically everyone has as accent.”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s also part of my stage presence. I told you, I’m from Ventura County. I also don’t drive a pickup truck or wrangle cows on a farm. The closest thing to agriculture I’ve ever done is work a few summers at my grandparents’ citrus groves—to pay for UCLA, where I studied journalism.”
Journalism?
“I’m kind of a lit nerd.”
My head is spinning wildly. “Why aren’t you dressed like ‘Riff’ tonight then? Everyone else here is more or less on brand.” I conjure the memory of Daisy Malloy in her leather mask and baby pink dress and cowgirl boots.
Griffin holds up his own mask. “‘Grind My Gears.’ It’s the name of my last hit single. Although, with the way this conversation’s going, I’m guessing you’ve never heard of it.”
My eyes widen.
Actually, I’ve heard of it. In fact, I’ve heard it.
The melody comes in fits and spurts. The music video, too.
Glambam headquarters has a big screen in the lobby that plays its artists’ hits on loop.
I caught a few frames of a country song once a couple months ago, but I never gave it a second thought, only rolled my eyes as I walked past on my way to meet with A&R.