24. Andi
Chapter 24
Andi
W ith Logan at Sebastian’s house, I take Grace shopping and out to lunch before she asks if she can sleep at Taryn’s house with Maddie. I text Griff to make sure it’s all right then drop her off just as he messages me back, informing me he forgot to bring his new phone charger to work and asking if I can drop it off.
So, I double back, pick up the charger from the corner of the kitchen counter and head over to the firehouse. He’s outside when I pull up to the curb, and he greets me with a kiss.
“I feel like this was a ploy to get me here,” I say with a laugh.
“I wish. I’d rather hang with you than do this training.”
Usually, he’s off at noon, but he won’t be home until after eight tonight, working an extra couple of hours. Tough job, saving the world and all.
I’ve watched videos of firefighters doing timed drills, running up ladders and staircases, carrying heavy bags. I’d pay money to see Griffin do that. “What’s it for? Practicing saving people and stuff?”
He shakes his head. “New procedures, OSHA requirements, system updates. All the boring bullshit stuff.”
I wrinkle my nose. “So, it’s just a few hours sitting at a desk?”
“No, I have to run it.”
“Big boss man.” I whack his arm, earning a stiff eyebrow raise that sets my panties ablaze.
And I am in sudden need of a rescue.
“What are you going to do all day by yourself?” he asks, and I try on my most flirtatious grin.
“I’m sure I could find something.”
He grunts a rough sound like he’d rather be home with me—kid-free—than here. Especially when he winds a hand around my waist, squeezing possessively. He keeps me against his side as he leads me inside the firehouse. He introduces me to everyone we pass, some of them familiar-looking since I met them at the fundraiser weeks ago, but I’m not able to talk to them, too busy foaming at the mouth over how good Griffin looks in his fitted work pants and shirt with a radio strapped to his shoulder. So official.
He gives me a short tour of the house, including the kitchen and bunk room before we end up in his office with a closed door. I lean against it while he plugs in the phone charger.
“So, what do you do all day around here? Besides, like, look hot.”
He raises his brows. “Excuse me?”
I wave my hand up and down the length of him. “You have basically the most attractive career on the planet. You’re the stuff women fantasize about. I mean… Look at you!”
He shakes his head, mouth twitching, so I push him further.
“You’re the stuff movies are made of.”
He keeps his gaze on me as he sinks into his leather chair, rolling it backward, creating space between him and the desk. An obvious invitation.
“What happens in these movies?” he asks, and I’m bolder than I’ve ever been when I slink over to him, standing between his open legs, my hands on his shoulders.
I pitch my voice higher yet keep it a whisper like Marilyn Monroe, “Oh no, Mr. Big Firefighter Man, my cat is stuck in a tree. You have to help me.”
He slips his hands around my waist and tugs me to his lap, adjusting the arms of the chair so they aren’t in my way anymore, allowing me to settle my thighs on either side of his hips.
He licks his lips and plays along. “Miss, you should go inside your house and put something on. You shouldn’t be outside in only a bra and underwear.”
I glance over my shoulder at the closed door. We didn’t lock it, and there are no windows so no one can see anything, but I’m still not comfortable taking off my shirt, like I’m sure he wants me to. With that bra and underwear prompt.
When I face Griffin again, he’s grinning, and the sight of his rare smile never ceases to amaze me. His straight white teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Brackets form deep grooves on either side of his mouth, and I trace them with my fingertips, cupping his stubbly jaw with my palms before leaning in to kiss him.
He grips my waist tighter, his tongue meeting mine with a moan like it’s been a year, as opposed to only a day. But that’s what it feels like. There is never enough time. There will never be enough time.
I’ve known the man for less than two months, but it might as well have been two decades for how I can translate his soft puffs of annoyed breath when something doesn’t go exactly how he’s planned or how he always inclines his head with a furrowed brow, like he’s trying so hard to understand his kids when they talk about their friends. I adore the strained lines across his forehead when he doesn’t grasp the nuance of fifth-grade social hierarchy and he glances at me to help him.
I love everything about him, the way he always smells vaguely of smoke but more prominently of his soap, and how he likes everything just so. How he never fails to take a moment when he finds something new I’ve added to his house—like the woven rug with a Southwestern vibe and small decorative basket I added to the entryway in front of the door—staring at it like it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen, before finding me with a nod and soft smile. Since he has yet to say a word about it, I keep decorating.
Because I think he secretly likes it.
Me in his house. Taking over his house.
Making it more like our house.
Now, I feel his erection growing beneath me, hardening so I can grind against him, rolling my hips with abandon. I’ve always been shy.
No, afraid.
I’ve been afraid to let go with anyone, but Griffin has silenced the voice in the back of my head. He’s made me come alive in a way I never knew I could.
His hands roam my back and sides, pressing and squeezing, like he can. Like I belong to him. And I do. Completely. He doesn’t need to pull on my neck to change the angle of the kiss. I go willingly, following where he leads us, further into this spiral of delicious heat.
My phone buzzes in my purse, a distant annoyance that I choose to ignore as Griffin drags his hands along the underside of my butt, his fingertips delving beneath the fringed hem of my denim shorts.
“I love when you wear these,” he says against my throat. “Such a fucking tease in them.”
To illustrate his point, he pulls me harder against him as he thrusts up, rubbing against my clit. Even through the layers of clothes, I can feel him. Like I’m sure he can feel me.
I’m putty in his hands. A desperate, panting mess, ready to take my clothes off in his office.
What have I become?
I don’t recognize myself, this wanton woman, no longer embarrassed to ask for what she wants.
“Think you can come like this?” Griffin asks, voice low and urgent, skimming his hands up under my shirt, and I nod, my heart racing, pulse throbbing in my wrists and between my legs. When I angle my hips, my zipper hits at the right spot, and I hiss a breath.
“I feel like I’m sixteen,” I whisper against Griffin’s lips, “doing something I’m not supposed to be doing.”
“Yeah, well, I am at work, but I can’t wait till I get home.” He wiggles his fingers under the cups of my bra, brushing his thumbs back and forth over my hard nipples. “And I only have a few minutes left on my break. So get there, sweet thing.”
I grip his shoulders and rock against him, rubbing, working myself up into a lather, the temperature of the room rising.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts almost inaudibly. “Show me you’re not afraid.”
I’m not sure if it’s the illicitness of what we’re doing that’s making this so hot, but I’m already so close, and we’re both still clothed. He’s barely touching me. And yet this…dry humping is getting me off.
I drop my head down, biting into my lower lip as Griffin nips at my earlobe, whispering words like use me and faster, baby and you know what you do to me?
No, but I can guess. That I tear him to pieces only to put him back together, because that’s what he does to me. Uses his fingers and mouth to dissect me, finding every wound and cut, then bandages them carefully and sews me together with his love. I am stronger, not because of him but because he’s allowed me to see how those hurts and sore places have made me who I am.
And who I am is a girl who can ride her man to orgasm in the middle of his office without taking off a stitch of clothing.
“Oh my god,” I moan into his neck.
He grunts too, and I don’t want to think about the mess he made in his pants. Not when his big hands are stroking down my back and butt, and when he cups the back of my head, kissing my mouth and chin and forehead.
As we catch our breath, my phone buzzes again. And again. The persistent sound cuts through the haze, a rude interruption that neither of us can avoid any longer. Griffin pulls back slightly, and I clear my throat, feeling overheated and damp in places I cannot easily ignore. “I should get that.”
He nods and carefully helps me stand before turning his chair around, grabbing a few tissues while I retrieve my purse. I loop it across my body before looking at my cell phone screen, finding two missed calls from Dahlia and a text in all caps. CALL ME.
“Everything okay?” Griffin asks, in front of me once again.
“Yeah. It’s Dahlia. I gotta call her.”
He tucks a few strands of my hair behind my ear then opens his office door and takes my hand to walk me back to my car. “I’ll try to be home as soon as I can.”
“You better,” I say, hitting the button on the key fob to unlock it. “I’ll be waiting.”
He watches me open the car door and lifts his hand with an almost accidental, “Love you.”
He stops, and so I do. His eyes widen, mirroring my own surprise. But neither of us says anything. We merely stand there, frozen. Staring at each other.
“I mean…” He finally drops his hand to his side. “See you later.”
“Yeah, totally. See you later,” I stammer and start up my car as quickly as possible, driving away from the curb with Griffin’s stiff form in my rearview mirror.
I’m positive he didn’t mean to say it. From his reaction, I’m not even sure he meant it.
But…
I sort of hope he did. Does .
Because I love him. I love Griffin Stone.
I dial Dahlia, putting the call on speaker, and she picks up after one ring. “There you are!”
“Dahl, oh my god, I was just at the firehouse with?—”
“You have to come to LA.”
I pause my giddy blathering. “What?”
“I need you to come back to LA. They want me to record our songs.”
I blink, taken aback. “What? Who?”
“The record label,” she says. “They love our songs. I was in a meeting with them this morning and played them our songs, and they love them. I told them you’re my partner, that I want you to be on my album, and they agreed.”
“Oh shit,” I mumble, my mind stumbling over what this all means. I’m stunned to the point of being unable to do anything, and I pull over, parking on the side of the road. Almost in the exact same spot where I met Griffin.
“Tell me again,” I say, my head on the steering wheel.
“It’s always been you and me, And. We’re a team. I need you to come to LA to help with the recording. Write some more songs with me.”
This is it. The dream. What I’ve always wanted.
And yet…
I swallow, staring out through the windshield, seeing Griffin walking toward me that first time, and I have to close my eyes to it. To the memories.
Shaking his hand in the cab of his truck.
Him tugging on the strings of his zip-up.
“Can you believe it?” Dahlia says, yanking me back into reality. “We’re getting what we always wanted. You’ll have a writing credit on every song. Maybe we can even get you producing too. I’m so happy.”
“So happy,” I parrot, a whirlwind of thoughts circling too fast to latch on to any one besides, “But I’m…here.”
“Yeah, but they know all about you. They know you’re the brains behind our songs, and they think our dynamic is perfect. They want to capture it on the album. And they’re willing to pay for your travel and accommodations. All I need is your okay, and I’ll forward them your contact info, and they can explain it all to you. There is so much to go over, and we’ll have to figure out contracts and stuff, but gah! It’s fucking amazing, Andi! This is you and me, like we always wanted.”
I nod. This is exactly what we always wanted, and I’m beyond grateful for the opportunity, especially when I thought I’d never have one again.
Yet I can’t muster up the energy right this second to scream and dance around.
“You’re in, right?” Dahlia prods. “I can’t wait to see your face in person again.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Okay, I’m gonna let them know you’re in. It’ll be Cynthia who emails you.” She squeals and starts rambling in Spanish, something she does when she is really, really excited. I lift my face up to my rearview mirror, expecting to see bright eyes and a big grin in the reflection. Instead, it’s red cheeks and a quarter of a smile.
“Okay,” she says, back in English. “We’ll talk later. Text me after you talk to Cynthia.” She squeals one more time. “Te quiero. Te quiero. Te quiero.”
“Love you too,” I say, realizing I said the words to my best friend when I should have said them back to Griffin minutes ago when I had the chance.