Chapter 9 #2
"This. Pretending that this feels normal in any way." He signals for the check. "Let's get out of here."
"And go where?"
His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "My place. We can actually talk without—" He gestures vaguely at the formal dining room. "All of this."
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. "Okay."
The ride to his building is short. Or maybe it just feels that way, time compressing under the weight of anticipation. Grant's hand finds mine again in the car, this time landing further up my thigh.
His penthouse is everything I suspected it would be—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, modern furniture that probably costs more than my yearly rent, the kind of elegance that whispers wealth in every room. I usually hate these types of places because they’re so sterile.
But Grant's place doesn't feel sterile. There are books stacked on the coffee table, a laptop left open on the kitchen counter, some framed photos hanging on the walls.
"Can I get you something?" Grant asks, shrugging out of his jacket. "Water, tea—"
"I'm fine." I set my purse down, suddenly uncertain. There’s no table between us now. No server to interrupt.
Just us and everything we haven't said.
He moves to the windows, looking out at the city spread below us. "I meant what I said earlier. About wanting to do this right."
"I know."
"But I'm also aware that there's no right way to navigate this situation." He turns to face me. "We're having twins together and trying to build something—friendship, partnership, co-parenting—while also dealing with the fact that we're attracted to each other."
"Extremely attracted," I correct quietly.
God, why did I say that?
His jaw tightens. "Extremely attracted. And I don't know the rules here, Emma. I don't know if we're supposed to ignore that, or acknowledge it, or—"
"I don't know either." I take a step toward him. "All I know is that I haven't stopped thinking about Florence. About you. And I know that's probably not smart, given everything we're dealing with, but—"
I don't get to finish the sentence.
Grant crosses the space between us in three strides, his hands framing my face, and then his mouth is on mine. The kiss is nothing like Florence—not soft or exploratory or tentative. This is desperate. Hungry. Like we've both been holding back and the dam just broke.
I kiss him back with equal desperation, my hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him closer. He backs me against the nearest wall, his body hard against mine, and I gasp against his mouth.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes against my lips. "Tell me this is a bad idea."
"It's a terrible idea," I say, then drag his mouth back to mine.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head for better access. I arch into him, craving the contact, the heat, the overwhelming rightness of being in his arms again. In Florence, this felt like a fantasy—something stolen and separate from reality.
This feels different. Raw. Real. Weighted with everything we know now, everything we're about to face together.
He pulls back enough to look at me. "I need to hear you say you want this."
"I want this." The words come out breathless but certain. "I want you."
Something in his expression cracks. Then he's lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and he's carrying me down the hallway to his bedroom.
The room is all clean lines and muted colors, but I barely register it. Grant sets me down beside the bed, his hands going to the tie of my wrap dress.
"This dress has been driving me insane all night," he murmurs, his fingers working the knot.
"I noticed." I can’t help but giggle.
The dress falls open, and his hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it off my shoulders. It pools at my feet, leaving me in just my bra and panties. His gaze rakes over me, and I watch something shift in his expression.
"You're so beautiful," he says quietly. "And I know—I know you're probably not feeling beautiful right now, with everything your body is going through, but Emma—" His hand settles over my stomach, gentle and reverent. "You're breathtaking."
Tears prick my eyes. I blink them back, reaching for his shirt buttons instead. "You're wearing too many clothes."
He helps me, shrugging out of his shirt, and I press my hands against his chest. Solid muscle, the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm. I lean forward and press my lips to his collarbone, smelling the faint trace of his cologne.
Grant's hands move to my back, unhooking my bra with practiced ease. Then we're tumbling onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. His mouth finds my breast, and I arch into him, my fingers threading through his hair.
"Grant—"
"I've missed you," he breathes against my skin.
He kisses his way down my body, and I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. Everything narrows to sensation—his mouth, his hands, the building heat low in my belly. When he hooks his fingers in my panties, I lift my hips to help him, and then there's nothing between us.
"Wait. Are we—is this safe? For the babies?"
"Yes." He brushes hair back from my face, his touch impossibly gentle. "It's perfectly safe as long as you're comfortable."
He kisses me again, slower this time. "But if you want to stop—"
"Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet, and I gasp into his mouth. He remembers from Florence exactly how to make me moan and he does those things over and over again.
"Please," I finally gasp. "Grant, please—"
He sheds the rest of his clothes and settles between my thighs. For a moment, he just looks at me, his hand cupping my face.
"This is different," he says quietly. "Than Florence."
"I know."
"If we do this, Emma—" He pauses. "I'm already in too deep. After this, there's no going back for me."
The confession should scare me. Instead, it feels like relief.
"Then don't go back," I whisper.
He enters me slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving mine. The sensation is overwhelming as I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he lets out a low groan.
"Emma—"
We move together and the pleasure builds, addictive and insistent, and I cling to him as it crests. When I come, he's right there with me, his voice in my ear telling me how amazing I am.
Afterwards, we lie together, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my back. The city glitters beyond the windows, and I feel utterly exhausted and sated at the same time.
"So much for coming here to have important conversations," I murmur against his skin.
His body rumbles with quiet laughter. "We both knew that wasn’t going to happen."
He presses a kiss to my hair. "Should we try to have the practical conversation now?"
"Absolutely not."
"Good." His arms tighten around me. "Because I'm not ready to let you go yet."
I should protest. Should remind him—and myself—that we can't just hide in this bedroom, in this moment, forever. We still have huge decisions to make. My father to tell. Grant’s ex-wife to deal with. Babies to prepare for, and a thousand other complications waiting just outside this door.
But lying here in his arms, with the city lights spread out below us, I feel a sense of calm.
This is no longer a simple mistake. It's my life.
And I have no idea what to do next.