Still (Grip Book 2)(21)

Great love must be tested.

Is there a greater test than your soul mate no longer knowing you? Than  the memories you created together forgotten, lost to an encroaching  darkness? I've seen Mrs. O'Malley clinging to what they had with all her  strength, and it makes me want to cling to Grip harder and as long as I  can-especially when he does sweet things like stringing fairy lights  and preparing a dinner that even now prompts my stomach to growl. He  stands over the table, the width of his shoulders and the strength of  his arms confined in a slate-colored button-up, rolled up to his elbows.  A black vest molds the power of his chest, and dark jeans fit the  flexing muscles of his thighs.

"What the . . ." He trails off, clicking the lighter over the candles and looking baffled when there's still no fire.

"Need some help?"

He whips around toward the entrance where I stand. His expression shifts  from surprise to pleasure and then settles into a slight frown.

"You're early."

"Sorry." I turn on my heel. "I can leave."

I don't make it half a step out of the greenhouse before a strong arm  wraps around my waist. Grip presses me into his chest, inhales a deep  breath of me, and kisses my neck.

"You aren't going anywhere," he mumbles into my hair.

I face him, reaching up to rest my elbows on his shoulders.

"Make up your mind. Do you want me?" I dust my lips across his, dropping  my head back before he can take command of the kiss. "Or not?"

"Oh, I want you." Lust roughens his voice. Love makes it soft.

His gaze drops, a lazy, heated sweep over my body, a sweet searing of my  skin. The look is as heavy as a stroking hand, but so gentle that I  barely feel its tantalizing weight.

"What's all this?" I gesture over his shoulder to escape this hypnosis  of passion. We could stand here all night staring at each other, and  after nearly two weeks apart, I want to do more than look.

He takes my hand and walks us over to the table in the corner, the same  place it was when we viewed the place a few weeks ago. Now it's loaded  with domed dishes, sparkling glasses, cutlery, wine, and a bottle of  champagne chilling in ice.

"Champagne and wine?" I ask.

"One for dinner," he says with a grin. "And one for a toast."

I grab the note propped against the wine bottle.



Eat. Drink. Dance. Love. It's all better under the stars!

Welcome! Take care of our home and don't waste one moment.  –  Esther





"How thoughtful!" I consider the beautifully set table. "Did Mrs. O'Malley do all this?"         

     



 

"She sent the champagne to celebrate your first night here." Grip plucks  the note from my fingers and drops it to the table. "The food I ordered  from this place up the street that delivers and makes things look  fancy."

The smell of him, the heat of his proximity works on my resistance-never  the strongest to begin with-and I tip up to take his lips with my  mouth, stroking his tongue with mine until he growls, his hands tight at  my hips.

"We are not doing this out of order, Bris," he says, his breath misting  my lips. "You saw the card. First we eat, then we drink. Then we dance."

"Then we love?" I finish, sliding my hand to his belt. "Are you sure you  want to save that for last? Because I don't mind flipping the script."

"You're always so horny." His husky laugh feathers against my cheek.  "It's one of my favorite things about you actually, but no. Tonight,  we're doing it the right way. We'll eat."

I notice for the first time that there is only one chair. My lips twitch with a barely checked smile.

"Where's the other seat?" I ask.

"I burned it," he deadpans.

Our laughs tangle between our mouths at his ridiculous statement.

"You did not burn it."

"Well it's not here."

Grip sits down in the lone chair, spreading his thighs and grinning.

"I guess you have to sit with me." He grasps my wrist and tugs me forward until I'm standing between his legs.

I shake my head, smiling inevitably, and settle onto his lap.

"This could get awkward and messy." I twist to get my plate and make room for all of our food on one side of the table.

"Think of it as food foreplay." He pulls me back until I feel him hard  and poking in the crease of my ass. "See? It's working already."

I wiggle in his lap, drawing a laughing "shit" from him as we dig in,  reaching around each other to get to our food, eating from each other's  plates, one feeding the other, spilling food and wine all over the  place. It's a five-course meal with all the courses squeezed onto our  little table at one time. It's an orgy of decadent tastes and consuming  conversation, the words flowing as smoothly as the wine. He's asking for  every detail about Kai's release, about the days we were apart, and I'm  demanding everything he can tell me about Dr. Hammond's class. The name  Iz peppers every other sentence, flavoring our discussion with Grip's  admiration and something close to awe.

"I think I'm jealous of Dr. Hammond." I shift on Grip's lap, feeding him  chicken with greasy fingers. "I hope he hears my name as much as I'm  hearing his."

"More." Grip eats past the meat to capture my finger in his teeth,  tracing my fingerprint with his tongue. "He's sick of hearing about how  wonderful you are."

"I can't wait to meet him." I pierce an asparagus spear on my fork and  shove it into his mouth. "I bet your leg has gone to sleep."

"Not my third leg." He chews the crisp vegetable, stretching to grab and  tear a roll down the middle then work it past my lips, laughing when I  choke a little. "It's wide awake."

I grind my ass over that third leg, satisfied by and hungry for the stiff readiness behind his zipper.

"You made a mess." Voice stripped of pretense and body tired of waiting,  I tip my glass of wine toward the stain on his vest where the chicken's  rich burgundy sauce has left a splotch.

"Yup," he agrees, eyes locked with mine. "I should take this off."

He slips one button and then the others from the holes until his vest falls open.

I scoop up some of the sauce with my spoon, bringing it to my lips, but  at the last minute allowing it to dribble on my silk blouse.

"Oops." I breathe into the small space separating us. "So should I."

I grab the hem of the stained shirt and pull it over my head.

He swallows loud enough for me to hear it. His jaw tics and his eyes  roam over my naked shoulders and stomach, over the breasts barely  contained by strips of silk and lace. He takes my glass of wine from me  and goes to take a sip, allowing just a few drops to land on his shirt. I  reach for it, fingers fumbling at the buttons, laying bare the sculpted  plane of abs and pecs.

"Are we ready for love now?" I lick the heady traces of wine from my lips.

"Mrs. O'Malley said we have to dance." His words are a dark-timbered  rumble laced with want as he shifts me off his lap to stand. I press  myself against his chest, grabbing his shirt by the lapels and shoving  it down his arms to the floor.         

     



 

"There's no music." I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and look up at  him through my lashes because I know that drives him crazy.

He reluctantly steps away from the heat our bodies share and crosses  over to the wall. With the press of a button, music wafts from the  hidden speakers. The music is sensuous and whispers sex before the  singer delivers the first lyric.

"Prince?" I ask, surprised. I recognize the iconic voice, but not the song. "What is this?"

"Adore." Grip lifts my arms around his neck and hooks my wrists there. "One of my favorites."

"I've never heard it," I murmur, barely aware of saying anything. I'm  entranced by the intensity of his stare. He cups my jaw, drawing me  closer until all our bare skin presses together and all our covered  places strain against our clothes, seeking out naked skin and heat. We  sway to the music, our hands moving over each other in a dance of  rediscovery. He palms my hip, sliding down to hold my ass through my  skirt. My fingers wander over the ridges and dips of his torso, rendered  in stone. I run my thumb across the fullness of his bottom lip, tracing  the lines that are so precise it's like an artist drew them.

God, this man's mouth.

I reach up to kiss him, slowly exploring the warm silk interior of his  mouth, our tongues like the tide, pushing in and flowing out. We trade  moans, our mouths sharing the soft, needy sounds. Our hands pick up  pace, mine urgent at his waist, undoing his belt, his fumbling at my  back, unsnapping my bra. It's a quick, thorough disrobing that leaves us  naked in the moonlight, half-drunk on the stars with Prince on repeat.

"Now?" I pant at the right angle of his jaw, dragging my lips over his  neck and licking at the saltiness of his clavicle. "Time for love now?"