Chapter 54
Fifty-Four
Piper
“A little to the right.”
Griffin exhales slowly, as if he’s counting in his head to avoid saying something that could get him in trouble.
“No, that’s too much.”
“Piper,” he warns.
He shifts the frame half an inch back the other way. I tilt my head, squinting like a museum curator assessing a priceless work of art instead of the watercolor I bought in Mira Cove.
“Perfect. Right there.”
He lowers his arms, turns, and glares at me from across the living room. “I have never seen someone so particular about where they hang a picture.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s because you’ve never decorated an apartment with emotional trauma attached to it.”
He mutters something under his breath and presses the frame firmly against the wall to make sure it’s secure before stepping back beside me. For a moment, we both look at it, like this small domestic victory deserves a standing ovation.
He glances at me. “Happy?”
“Very.”
“Good, because if I had to move it one more time, I was going to start charging labor.”
I step into him, wrapping my arms loosely around his shoulders. “Didn’t you know? I’m only with you for your DIY skills.”
One dark brow arches. “That so?”
“Absolutely. The emotional support is just a bonus.”
He slides his hands to my waist, pulling me closer, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “That’s devastating. Here I was thinking it was my sparkling personality.”
“That too,” I say sweetly. “But mostly the ability to hang shelves.”
He hums like that’s a fair point and presses a quick kiss to my lips, the kind that lingers just long enough to make my stomach flip before he pulls back. “What’s next on the list, boss?”
I glance around the apartment, taking in the half-assembled bookshelf, the unopened box of kitchen stuff sitting on the floor, the throw blankets still draped in completely impractical places because I liked how they looked there.
“We could start the bookshelf.”
He follows my gaze and sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You offered.”
Griffin grunts. “That’s the last time I open my mouth around you.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
But instead of moving toward the bookshelf, he steps into me again, this time with intent.
“Actually,” he murmurs, sliding his hands to the backs of my thighs, “I think I have a better idea.”
Before I can question him, he lifts me clean off the ground.
“Griffin!” I yelp, arms wrapping instinctively around his shoulders.
There’s a spark in his eyes I recognize. It’s mischief laced with something hungrier.
“Careful,” I say, trying to sound stern even as I cling to him. “I just got emotionally attached to that picture frame. If we knock it off the wall, I’ll need six weeks of therapy.”
He grins. “Noted.”
But he’s already walking past the bookshelf, past the kitchen boxes, and straight down the hall.
My stomach flips. “Where are we going?”
“The bathroom.”
“And why are we going to the—” I stop and squint at him. “Are you planning on washing my back?”
He kicks the bathroom door open and answers by turning on the shower with one hand, the spray already starting to steam.
Then he steps right in.
Fully clothed.
With me still in his arms.
“Griffin!” I screech as the water hits us, ice-cold at first before it kicks into warm. “What the—oh my God!”
He chuckles darkly. “Look at that,” he says, blinking water off his lashes. “You’re all wet.”
I shove at his chest, water running down both our faces, my shirt already plastered to my skin.
“You’re insane.”
He presses me gently against the shower wall. The humor still lingers at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes shift. “You have no idea.”
My breath catches.
Just like that, the moment turns.
I watch his jaw tighten as his gaze drops to my chest, my soaked shirt clinging to every inch of me.
I curl my fingers into his wet T-shirt. “Then show me.”
And he does.
Clothes are stripped fast—urgent and slippery with water. My top peels off. His shirt hits the tile with a wet slap. Jeans are tugged down, underwear lost somewhere in the steam and rush.
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s anything but soft.
My back presses against the cold tile. He’s everywhere at once. Hands, mouth, chest against mine, water running down his spine as he lifts me again and slides inside me in one slow, devastating thrust.
I cry out, fingers sinking into his shoulders.
The shower pounds around us, heat and wet and skin, but I only feel him.
He moves inside me with control, with purpose, with that familiar tension that always makes me fall harder.
I cling to him the entire time.
He groans against my neck. “Piper—God—”
“Don’t stop,” I breathe. “Please don’t stop.”
We move together, messy but perfect, steam fogging the glass and our bodies sliding with each thrust. His forehead rests against mine. Our mouths break apart only to find each other again. His hand grips the back of my neck like he needs the anchor too.
It’s not just sex.
It never is with him.
It’s everything.
I feel it in my chest long before the pleasure catches up to the rest of me.
When we fall apart, we do it together.
After, he holds me under the water as his mouth finds my temple. When I finally lift my head to look at him, his smile is soft.
“Still think I’m only good for DIY?”
I laugh breathlessly. “Maybe also for showers.”
“Hmm. I’ll add that to the résumé.” He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose and sets me back on my feet. “Come on, violin girl. I’ve still got work to do. Try not to distract me this time.”