Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VIOLET
Istabbed the wooden spoon into the risotto, gleefully stirring extra butter into the pot.
I’d lasted six days on Griffin’s meals before the craving for actual carbs became unbearable.
Turns out there’s only so much lean protein and steamed vegetables a person can eat before they need pasta drowning in butter and cheese.
As much as I hated cooking, this was the most relaxed I’d been in days.
Wine glass balanced on the counter, kitchen to myself, no sound but the satisfying sizzle of the pan.
The baby monitor sat silent in the corner, its soft green glow the only indication that Hazel had finally surrendered to sleep after fighting it for an hour.
I took a long sip of wine, savoring the moment of peace.
If the universe had any mercy at all, Griffin wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. Just enough time to finish cooking, eat, and retreat to my room.
Not that hiding helped. Every night my subconscious betrayed me, replaying his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me. I didn’t need to see him in person when my dreams were already doing such a thorough job of reminding me.
If it were just about wanting him, I’d have walked into his room six days ago and never left.
But wanting wasn’t enough. Not when my father would use me to destroy him.
“Something smells good.”
I nearly dropped my wine glass. Between the extractor fan and my own thoughts, I hadn’t heard Griffin come in.
Universe: one. Violet: screwed.
My spine stiffened as I turned, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re home early.”
“Training finished early.” Griffin crossed the kitchen, plucked the wine bottle from beside the stove, and poured himself a glass.
“Great,” I said, my tone far too bright and forced. “Hazel’s finally asleep and I need that bottle for my dinner so if you wouldn’t mind—”
The wooden spoon froze mid-stir as his hand closed over mine. His chest pressed against my back, heat radiating through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low against my ear. “I have other plans for you.”
He reached past me and turned the heat off. He spun me around and held me against his chest. His eyes caught mine, and the air vanished from my lungs. I recognized that look. It was the one he wore before a race, when nothing existed but the track ahead.
Now that laser focus fixed on me.
“Griffin—”
His hand cupped my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair as his lips crashed onto mine. He demanded I give in as his tongue swept against mine with absolute certainty. The taste of him, wine and something uniquely Griffin, flooded my senses.
My hands flew to his shoulders, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer. In the end, my body betrayed me and melted into him like it had been programmed to respond only to his touch. A low moan escaped me, swallowed by his mouth.
He walked me backward, lips never leaving mine, until my hips bumped the edge of the kitchen table. His hands found my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the wooden surface.
He stepped between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs, pushing my knees apart. His thumbs dug into the sensitive skin just above my knees, sending burning need crashing through me.
“Stop,” I gasped, breaking away.
My lips felt swollen, already missing his.
His eyes locked on mine, unwavering. “Make me.”
I stared into those green eyes, trying to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
My father would kill us both. My carefully constructed exit strategy would shatter.
Griffin Michaels didn’t do commitment. He did adrenaline rushes and victory laps and women who knew better than to expect anything more. And I knew better.
Push him away. Right now. Get off this table, go to your room, and lock the—
I curled my fingers into his hair and yanked his mouth back to mine.
Something wild broke loose inside me, some last thread of restraint snapping as his hands slid beneath my shirt, hot against my skin. I rocked my hips against the growing hardness in his joggers, earning a sharp groan against my lips.
I muttered, even as my fingers gripped the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it upward.
He smiled against my mouth, lifting his arms to help me.
I tossed the top aside as his hands skimmed up my sides, taking my t-shirt with them.
I lifted my arms, letting him strip it off.
He dropped it on the floor, gaze raking over my body with undisguised hunger.
His eyes darkened as they lingered on the lace of my bra, the swell of my breasts above the cups.
“Fucking gorgeous.” His thumbs grazed the undersides of my breasts, making me arch into his touch. “Drove myself mad remembering the sounds you made in Singapore. Terrified I’d never hear them again.”
He unhooked my bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. Cool air brushed my nipples, making them peak instantly. His pupils widened, breath quickening, every muscle tense with restraint. I’d done that to him, made the famously controlled Griffin Michaels tremble with need.
His mouth descended to my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin, sending lightning down my spine.
His hands palmed my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they peaked, tight and aching.
His mouth replaced his fingers, tongue swirling around one sensitive bud before drawing it between his lips, sucking hard.
I gasped, my head falling back against the cool wood of the table, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there. The sensation shot straight to my core, building pressure with each swirl of his tongue, each gentle scrape of teeth.
“Griffin,” I panted, my hips rolling against him, seeking more.
He switched to my other breast, giving it the same thorough attention while I arched against him.
My fingers fumbled at the waistband of his joggers, desperate to feel all of him.
He helped me, shoving them down along with his boxers, freeing his erection.
I wrapped my hand around him, stroking the hard length, relishing the groan that tore from his throat.
He positioned himself between my thighs, spreading them wider as he leaned me back across the table. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness pressing against my damp leggings, exactly where I needed friction.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough, eyes challenging. His fingers traced the waistband of my leggings, dipping beneath the elastic to tease the sensitive skin below my navel.
I answered by lifting my hips, letting him peel the leggings and my underwear down my legs. He tossed them aside, his gaze devouring me as I lay bare before him. The vulnerability should have terrified me. Instead, it fueled the fire.
“Christ, Vi,” he breathed, his hand sliding up my inner thigh. His fingers parted me, finding me slick and ready. He circled my clit slowly, watching my face as I gasped. “So wet. All for me?”
I could only nod, my breath catching as he slid one finger inside me, then two, curling them expertly.
My hips lifted off the table, seeking more.
He added a third finger, stretching me, preparing me, his thumb never leaving my clit.
Pleasure built in tight coils low in my belly, threatening to snap.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Taking me so well.”
He withdrew his fingers, replacing them with the broad head of his cock. He pressed forward slowly, stretching me, filling me inch by agonizing inch. My nails dug into his shoulders as he seated himself fully inside me.
He groaned, holding perfectly still, his hands braced on either side of me on the table. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Now tell me this is a mistake.”
I couldn’t. Not with him buried deep inside me, my body gripping him, every nerve firing with sensation. Not with his eyes showing me everything he felt, everything he wanted. Not with the terrifying knowledge that I wanted it too. Needed it.
“Move,” I whispered instead, heels pressing into his lower back, urging him on.
He did, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in.
The force of it pushed me up the table. He gripped my hips, holding me in place as he set a relentless pace.
Each powerful thrust drove him deeper, hitting a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
The table creaked beneath us, the sound lost beneath my gasps and his guttural groans.
“Fuck, Vi,” he groaned, his pace quickening, driving into me with raw, primal intensity. “You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect.”
He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard while his thumb found my clit.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point.
I felt every ridge of him inside me, every pulse of his cock against my inner walls.
My legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper still.
“Look at me!” One hand tilted my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his burning gaze. “I want to see you.”
The intensity of his stare, the perfect friction of his cock hitting that spot deep inside, the relentless circles on my clit.
.. everything converged, hurling me over the edge.
I shattered, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed through me, stealing my breath, my thoughts, everything but the sensation of him inside me, the feel of his skin under my hands, the sound of his ragged breathing.
My release triggered his. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep, pulsing inside me as his body shuddered against mine. His hips jerked erratically, emptying himself into me with a final, broken moan against my neck.
For endless moments, we stayed tangled together on the table, breathing hard. His lips brushed my temple, my cheek, finding my mouth in a kiss softer than any before. Gentle. Tender. Devastating.
Reality seeped back slowly. The cool wood beneath my back. The lingering scent of risotto and sex in the air. The stickiness between my thighs.
We didn’t use a condom.
Panic flared. I’d never let anyone come inside me. Birth control pills were my safety net, swallowed religiously every morning, but still, the intimacy of it, the sheer recklessness, sent a jolt through my system.
And yet… beneath the panic, a traitorous warmth spread through my chest. A deep, undeniable sense of rightness that it was with him.
Which made everything infinitely worse. Because if I was glad it was him, if I wanted this, wanted him, then what was I protecting?
Why couldn’t I silence the screaming warnings about my father, about the inevitable heartbreak when he moved on to the next shiny thing?
Why did the thought of walking away feel like tearing out a piece of my own heart?
It wasn’t fair. How the universe could create someone who fit me so perfectly, made me feel so much, and then surround us with a thousand reasons we couldn’t be together.