Two to Tangle (Thirsty Hearts Book 6)

by Kris Jayne

  Her face pinched. “Doesn’t it bother you that there’s practically the same age difference between you and him as between him and Katerina? He could be dating her, and hell, that would make more sense.”

  My face heated. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “I never thought you went in for short-term relationships.”

  “I don’t. That’s not what this is.” Saying it out loud made it more true, and a little scarier. I did want something long-term with Griffin. I had no idea how it would work out.

  “Doesn’t he want kids?” My mother shook her head.

  I squirmed in my seat. “No. He never has.”

  Her questions picked up steam. “What kind of brutha doesn’t want to pass on his legacy—especially if he’s got money?”

  “He’s not a brother,” I replied, chasing down calm and wrangling it into my voice.

  “So, you’re dating white men, now?” With that question, she finally lowered her voice and glanced around at all the white people in the restaurant.

  I lifted my nose and sniffed. “Are there only two races? Maybe he’s Asian or Columbian or Saudi.”

  “I don’t see you getting that adventurous with your swirl.” Her laugh hissed between her teeth.

  My irritation climbed. Zola had never let a man’s race or job status or, hell, prison record or drug problem interfere with getting her groove on. Now, all of a sudden, she had opinions? “What difference does it make?”

  “I just…it doesn’t seem like you. All the boys you ever brought around were upstanding black boys. The kind you’d see in ads. Like that song: smooth black skin and a smile.”

  The way she talked, I thought about Carter Cross and cringed. That description fit him to a T.

  “I didn’t have time to have a type. I met Terrence and got married. Now, I’m going to date whoever makes me happy.” The edge to my voice was designed to forestall additional commentary.

  “And your young white boy makes you happy?”

  “He’s in his thirties and a man and yes,” I snapped.

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. I’m just surprised. Am I allowed to be surprised or am I doing that wrong, too?” she shot back.

  Civil conversation, remember. “I’m sorry. You’re asking a lot of questions, and I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

  She thrust her spoon at me. “Say whatever you want. You never care what I think, so if you’re getting pissy now, that’s about you, darlin’.”

  I poked at my uneaten sandwich, hating that she was right.

  Chapter 19

  Griffin

  Delilah arrived from her day trip just after five. I handed her a bouquet of roses and an array of goodies from my favorite chocolatier in town. Then, when she started nosing around the kitchen asking if she could help, I exiled her so I could finish dinner.

  “I have everything under control. Now shoo.”

  She pouted and protested but left.

  While I was at the store, I decided to make a German chocolate cake like the one she made for our holiday dinner. I managed a very poor imitation using newly purchased, heart-shaped cake pans. The cake part was okay—though I had a feeling I’d cooked the layers a little too long. The icing was a mild disaster. It wasn’t thick enough to spread evenly, and the three layers of chocolate cake looked like they were bleeding caramel and nuts. I crossed my fingers that it tasted fine.

  By the time I was nearly done, with duck breasts resting on the plates with a heaping of potatoes and slightly soggy sprouts—no clue how I managed to do that—I had a thin sheen of panic sweat on my brow. This was why I left cooking to my own housekeeper or restaurant chefs. It was much easier to impress a lady with my taste for fine cooking than my skill.

  However, Delilah put so much energy and love into her food, I had to return the favor and hope to get an “A” for effort.

  I ducked into the bedroom to change my shirt and freshen up, and when I came back into the kitchen, she was surveying the plates and sipping a glass of champagne.

  “I hope you haven’t toasted already,” I said.

  “Nope. I’m waiting for you. Everything looks really good, Griffin. Even the cake.” She tapped her finger on the frosted dome covering my first made-from-scratch dessert.

  “You peeked.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “The frosting could use work.”

  “For your first time, I’m impressed. I can’t wait to taste it.”

  “Yes, I’m a cake virgin. And a cooking virgin. This is the first meal I’ve ever made entirely myself that didn’t involve a taco or spaghetti.”

  “Are you serious? What did you do in college?”

  “I ate at the dorm cafeteria or ordered pizza,” I replied. Marisa was a fraction more adept than I was in the kitchen, so on the weekends sometimes, she would make something more elaborate. Neither of us was trained in proper homemaking skills.

  “My grandmother would be appalled. She thought every child should know the basics, which included chicken—roasted and fried—making mashed potatoes and baking biscuits. Then, you venture out from there. Otherwise, how do you make Sunday dinner after church?”

  “Maybe that’s where my parents failed me. I didn’t grow up going to church.”

  “I went every Sunday, and most of the time, we also went Wednesdays.”

  “Twice a week?”

  “Yep. Gotta get that midweek infusion of the Lord.”

  “Do you still go?” I’d never heard her talk about religion.

  She laughed. “No. I did when Katerina was at home, but my attendance fell off after she left for college and stopped completely after the divorce. Terrence goes.”

  “Not religious anymore?”

  “I still believe in God, I guess, but I’ve done my time in church. I figure I can find him or her in my living room as easily as in a building across town. I never felt comfortable with the politics and finger wagging. Maybe if I didn’t go to one where my ex-mother-in-law sat on the church board,” she giggled and took a long drink of champagne.

  “Having met her, I can imagine that might help. She’s got a lot of opinions.”

  “She’s judgmental as fuck,” Delilah declared. “She’s a good person underneath it all. That’s just easier to remember at a distance, which I why I see her only once or twice per year. Christmas and maybe Mother’s Day if Kat’s in town and we do something. Thankfully, she’s going to be too busy to come back to Dallas this year with Adrian’s graduation coming up and all the wedding planning.”

  “Are you excited about the trip to France?”

  “Yes and no. I can’t wait to meet Adrian’s parents and see where his family is from. We’re going to tour the vineyard.”

  “That white burgundy we drank on New Year’s Eve was fantastic,” I interjected.

  “The only downside is my mother will be there,” she said.

  “I take it your lunch didn’t go well.”

  “No, but let’s not talk about that. I’ve been looking forward to dinner all day.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Delilah set her wineglass on the counter and closed the distance between us. She stood on her toes until we were nearly eye level and planted a too-brief, wine-soaked kiss on my mouth sending electricity coursing through my veins.

  “Absolutely. What else is on the menu?”

  Her provocative tone started a war down below between the grumbling in my stomach and the shifting blood flow in my pants.

  “As much as that question makes me want toss the menu and try for another kitchen encounter, I’m going to resist.” I picked up her glass and drained it. “Why don’t you head to the dining room? I’ll bring you another one of these and get my own.”

  I dropped a kiss on her lips and let her go.

  Chapter 20

  Delilah

  I dabbed my mouth with the linen napkin and leaned back in my dining chair. Griffin had struck the perfect balance of sweet
and savory with the duck and cherries, roasted the sprouts almost to perfection with their little studs of bacon, and his icing disaster helped salvage the cake, which would have been a little dry without the sticky, rich caramel and coconut icing being a little runny and seeping into the layers.

  “You did real good, Griffin.”

  “Thank you. I’m very impressed with myself. Now, what do I do? Stretch out on the couch while you do the dishes?”

  “The dishes can wait,” I replied.

  The tips of his ears turned pink.

  “Not yet,” I laughed. “You know what I feel like doing?”

  “No. I know what I feel like doing.”

  “Dancing.”

  “Dancing?”

  “Slow dancing. I haven’t slow danced in years.”

  Griffin jumped up from his seat on the side of the dining room table, having ceded the spot on the end to me, and fished his phone from his pocket. “I can arrange that.”

  “I thought that was going to be a harder sell.” I stood and wrapped my arms around his waist. Griffin tipped down until we were almost nose to nose.

  “Holding you close while we grind to fuck-me songs? Easy sell.”

  I moved my face away and poked his chest. “This is supposed to be romantic. It’s not grinding to fuck-me music. It’s swaying to romantic songs while gazing into each other’s eyes.”

  I waved my hips and shoulders side to side in demonstration.

  “With dirty thoughts?”

  “As the man, you are supposed to pretend your thoughts are chastely romantic,” I said and gave his face a featherlight slap.

  “I haven’t had a chastely romantic thought since the fifth grade.” He chuckled as he swept his thumb along my jaw.

  My boobs flattened against him, and I kissed his Adam’s apple before resting my head on his shoulder and closing my eyes. “Music.”

  “Let me see.”

  His chest shook with laughter. “Here we go.”

  The soft roll of keyboard tones and synthesized high-hat, drum, and orchestra swelled before being pierced by the taut, high-pitched strains of a saxophone.

  “Why are you laughing?” I asked.

  “Kenny G?”

  “I loved this song. When I was a kid, this was the kind of song I thought I’d be dancing and making love to my entire life.”

  “Making love, huh?” Griffin laughed harder. His arms shaking. “This is a fuck-me song.”

  I pinched his ass.

  “Ow!”

  I swayed to the music and patted his hurt behind. “No. This is a make-love-to-me song. Listen to that saxophone. A lot of ‘80s babies owe their life to this song.”

  “I’m an ‘80s baby, and I hope to God I’m not here because of Kenny G.”

  “You’re ruining the mood. I love this song, and it’s the perfect choice—even if you stumbled into it as a joke.” I nipped at his neck with my teeth, and his arms tightened around me. “Just dance, Funny Boy.”

  “Ooh, a nickname. Finally.”

  Griffin tapped a few more times on his phone before putting it back in his pocket. The music got louder, washing over us from above.

  “I didn’t know there were speakers in here.”

  “The whole house is wired with a sound system, and this afternoon, I figured out how to connect to it wirelessly.” He stepped back and gave me a spin, then drew me closer again and dipped me. “I knew we’d have music tonight.”

  “It’s playing all over the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “So we can dance in the bedroom.”

  “We can.”

  Griffin took my left hand while still holding me around the waist with his. We danced in slow circles down the hall, then he tapped the cracked bedroom door wide open with his foot.

  “The song’s almost over,” I said.

  “It’s looped,” he said, turning me toward the bed. “We can make love to this fuck-me song all night if you want.”

  “Watch it, Funny Boy.”

  I spun out of his arms, circled him, and swatted his ass. Griffin leaned over the bed, propped up on his lean forearms, and waggled his khaki-ed rear end at me. “Oh, am I in trouble?”

  “Yes.” I swatted him harder.

  “Oh, no.” He gave a falsetto squeal, still laughing and looking back at me with mock fear.

  I pointed a finger at him and poised my other hand inches away from his butt. “I can spank you harder.”

  “Promise?” he said and winked.

  “Don’t test me,” I giggled and gave him a series of thwacks hard enough to get my hand stinging.

  “Ouch. Enough.” He flipped over, grabbing my arm and bringing me tumbling to the bed on top of him. I wriggled up his hard body—some parts of him getting even harder—until we were face to face.

  He slipped his hand under my sweater and tweaked my nipple through my thin, lace bra. “That actually hurt.”

  “I’m sorry.” I dove and gave him a hard kiss, pressing into him with every inch of my body that I could. His hand moved to my spine, tapping it with his fingertips as if he were playing the music surrounding us.

  “I liked it,” he said.

  “You would.” I laughed and teased his mouth with my lips again. “Never question a ‘70s baby’s ability to deliver an ass whooping—especially a black ‘70s baby.”

  “I stand corrected. Or part of me does. Take your clothes off.”

  Instead of acquiescing, I said, “You’re very bossy in bed.”

  He ground his erection into my hip. I moaned and dropped my forehead to his. Our faces were so close, I thought our lashes might brush. Our breath mingled between us.

  “I can’t help it. I can’t get enough of you,” he whispered.

  He took my bottom lip between his teeth and flicked his tongue over the plump flesh before capturing my mouth with a groan. He quickened the pace of his kiss, and I pulled back, slowing him down.

  “We have a date for all-night lovemaking. Remember? No hurrying. In fact…”

  I rolled over and stood up by the bed. Griffin sat up, looking unhappy until I drew my sweater over my head and tossed it on the side chair in the corner. I reached back and unhooked my bra, then it joined my sweater.

  I closed my eyes and let the cheesy, but oh-so-perfect jazz move me side to side, and I peeled off my jeans and underwear. “I don’t care what you say.” I giggled and kept dancing solo. “I love Kenny G.”

  Griffin took off his shirt and cupped my breasts, drawing me closer. With the siren of the music stretching louder, I hadn’t heard him move. His thumbs flicked over each nipple until they tightened and ached, and his mouth replaced one of his hands. The heated pressure and the wet friction of his tongue collapsed me against him.

  “Lie back,” I said.

  He gave me a dirty look in protest and captured my other nipple with his teeth and bit down softly. I pushed at his shoulders.

  “Back.”

  The disappointed chill seizing my breasts made me question my orders. I hurried to my suitcase to retrieve the handful of condoms I’d brought but not unpacked because I hadn’t wanted to forget them.

  Griffin plucked open the button on his waistband and stood to drop his pants and his underwear before doing as I’d asked.

  I climbed on the bed, hovered in a straddle above him, and scattered the condoms on his chest and face. He reached for my breasts, but I grabbed his hands and pitched forward. The weighted leverage trapped his hands over his head.

  He smirked. “I see who’s in charge now.”

  “Exactly.” I sat back admiring him, naked and surrendered beneath me.

  “So, what do you want me to do, my lady?” He flexed up, crunching his abs. He kept his hands up by his ears, waggling his fingers. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

  “I let the power go to my head. Bring them back here,” I said, briefly holding my own tits.

  “Hmm. Do that again.”

  “I’m issuing the orders tonig
ht. Hands, please?”

  He ran his hands up from my waist to my chest and played with my breasts as they swayed inches from his face.

  “There you go,” I hissed. “Uh huh, fingers too, please.”

  He pinched and rolled and teased until a hot, building pleasure licked at my skin. I reached down and took hold of his dick. I pulled him in long, gripping strokes.

  Griffin’s belly fluttered each time I got to the cum-beaded tip of his cock.

  I sat up, grabbed a condom, and ripped the packet open with my teeth, so I could keep squeezing him. I placed the rubber over the head of his dick and rolled it down with a tight fist.

  I placed at him at the perfect spot and slid down. The heated length of him stretching and filling me, then I eased back, then down in a slow grind. I braced my hands on his chest, feeling his hardened nipples on my palms. I rolled my hips over him a little faster and tipped forward.

  With a new angle, he thrust upward, matching my downward motion until there was no more waiting. He clutched my hips in a frenzy as I rode him.

  “Oh, God, Delilah.” Griffin shuddered then went rigid beneath me.

  The heat of release eluded me, still coiled inside me, but I took satisfaction in his sweat-sheened body and hammering pulse. I kissed him hard, then he grabbed the back of my curls and pulled my head up.

  “Turn over. We’re not done.”

  “You’re still not giving the orders,” I said, “but as it happens, I would like to turn over.”

  “And then?”

  I rolled to my back and, feeling brazen, let my legs fall open. I tapped his slanted grin with my fingers.

  “This mouth goes here,” I said and slipped my fingers between my legs.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Griffin dove in, glancing up at me wickedly from between my thighs.

  Finally, a little obedience.

  Chapter 21

  Delilah

  Griffin got up early the following Monday to have a business breakfast with his father and Carter. We’d fallen into that rhythm each morning. He left for the office, and then came home mid-afternoon so we could outline what he and his business partner, Nate, needed for their business. The schedule worked because Nate was three hours behind on the west coast.