Chapter 12 – Dylan #2
I press my forehead against his back as I laugh some more before I agree. “Okay. Hands in the ready position.” I guide him back to them when he doesn’t get it right the first time. “Your tongue on my skin . . .”
And we play through the lyrics I’ve been working on. It isn’t pretty but it’s the break in concentration I didn’t realize I needed. We end with a laugh, and right when I shift to the side of him, he turns to face me.
It’s a sudden movement that neither of us expects and leaves us closer than expected. So close, I can feel the heat of his breath feather against my lips.
Everything zooms in and out of focus in those first few seconds. The hitch of his breath. The scent of his soap. The zap of his touch where his fingers rest on my forearm. The firestorm of want burning through me, which is nothing at all like I felt with Wes Winters last week.
There can only be distance.
There can only be adjusting to a life without Jett.
There can only be not wanting this.
And yet, he’s right here. A whisper away. With piercing eyes and full lips and that body that begs to be touched. Explored. Tasted.
“Thanks for showing me,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking to where my tongue darts out to wet my lower lip.
“You’re welcome.”
And still, neither of us moves.
“You’ve shown me yours, when are you going to let me show you mine?
” His voice is a suggestive murmur, but for the life of me, I have no idea what he’s talking about .
. . and I don’t care so long as he keeps talking to me in that tone.
Hell, he could probably ask me to remove my panties, and I would without question.
“Grady?” I’m asking so many things when I utter his name, but I’m not quite sure which one I want him to answer. Show me what? Why aren’t you kissing me? This is dangerous. Isn’t this a bad idea? “What do you have to show me?” The words barely make any sound when they come out.
“Why don’t you like firefighters?”
His question throws me, and out of reflex, I slide off the bed and busy my hands by putting my guitar in its case. Again, I’m left to feel like an absolute idiot when it comes to misreading Grady.
“Well?” he prompts as I straighten papers on my dresser that don’t need to be straightened.
“My dad was one.”
“How did I not know this?” he asks as if he’s dumbfounded that neither Damon nor I have told him this before.
“Because I don’t talk about my dad. That’s why.” Grady starts to talk, and I hold my hand up to stop him while making sure I have a soft smile on my face. “It’s a long story for another time. Another night. What was it that you wanted to show me?”
Grady looks at me, fighting a smile until each dimple breaks through—one side at a time—before throwing his head back and laughing at something I’m not privy to.
“What? What’s so funny?” I start looking at my clothes, at my hands . . . everywhere to see what is making him laugh so hysterically.
“Do you know how badly I wanted to say ‘my fire pole’?” I scrunch my nose, still not understanding. “At the fire station. You showed me how you work, and I want to show you where I work. So I was going to say I wanted to show you my fire pole as a joke.”
I roll my eyes because he’s acting like such a little boy, but I can’t help my smile. “C’mon, you can do so much better than that.”
“I can?”
“You can. You’re a firefighter. Don’t women fall at your feet?”
“They fall at my feet?” He looks to his socks and then back up to me as if to say no one is there. “If you can do so much better, let me hear it.”
I put my hands on my hips and purse my lips as I try to think of one. “How about, I’m a firefighter, I see your pussy needs rescuing.”
“Can’t deny having heard that before, but it sounds all sorts of hot coming from you.”
“It’s sad that I’m one-upping you, and I’m not a firefighter.” I throw down the challenge and wait for him to think of one.
“Find ’em hot, leave ’em wet.” His eyes are laden with amusement as those dimples of his wink. “Or two-in, two-out is the safest way to do it.”
“Is that so?” I laugh as he rises from the bed.
“Definitely. It’s important to hit your target with a loaded stream. It’s always best to get yourself positioned on top of her when she’s hot.” That tone is back in his voice, liquid sex with a bit of gravel mixed in.
“Oh, the man can talk a good game.”
He steps closer to me, and his smile falls a fraction as he chuckles. “It isn’t talking a good game you should be worrying about. It’s if a man can back it up with his actions.”
“Can you?” No doubt he can.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He lifts his eyebrows and then heads toward the doorway.
“Where are you going? To play with your hose?”
“Not as good as mine,” he says but keeps walking down the hall as I step after him. “It’s late.”
“You going to bed?”
“Nah.” He pauses and turns to face me. “I’m going to work on the playroom.”
My neck feels like it just encountered whiplash. “It’s almost two in the morning.”
“And? It isn’t going to build itself, now is it?”
“What’s the rush?”
His feet falter just the slightest bit, but it’s all I need to tell me there is something about his extravagant shed that he isn’t telling me. “Sometimes it’s easier than trying to sleep.”
With that, he heads for the back door, and a few minutes later I hear the pounding of the hammer.
It isn’t the sounds of the city I’m used to, but it’s definitely a symphony of its own for me to write my lyrics to.