by Aria Ford
“I’ve never spent the night with a guy. I mean, I’m not a virgin. I just—I haven’t. Haven’t wanted to stay and sleep with anyone all night, wake up beside anyone. It seems like a big deal.”
“I know,” I say, “but I still want to.”
“Okay,” she says, and smiles.
“Tell me something you’ve never done. Besides spend the night.”
“I’ve never done exactly what I wanted, just because I wanted to. I try to do the responsible thing. Not, you know, like this.”
“Are you afraid of what people will think if you’re irresponsible?” I say.
“There’s nobody to think anything about it. My parents are dead. My little brother too. Car wreck two years ago,” she says, her voice careful and even.
I crush her in my arms and kiss her hair. I want to protect her from that. I don’t even want to think what it would have been like if Gina had died when Mom did. Two years ago—she must have been very young. I was twenty-five and barely survived half that much loss.
“That’s terrible. My mother passed away last year in a Jeep accident in Syria. She was doing charitable work. But I still have my sister. She’s sixteen,” I say.
“Josh would be fourteen and a half, if he had lived,” she tells me. I brush her hair back from her face, not knowing what to say.
“They went to this monster truck thing—a rally or whatever, the thing where they drive over piles of regular cars and everyone screams and cheers. He loved stuff like that. I was at school. I wasn’t with them.”
“I’m glad you weren’t with them. You wouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve wished I was in that car, Griffin,” she says, her voice thick with tears, “And tonight, when that man was choking me and ripping off my clothes, I kept thinking—why couldn’t I have just died? Why couldn’t I have just died in the car wreck and not had to go through losing them and now this—being raped in a goddamn hallway while I’m waiting tables!”
Her whole body shakes with ragged sobs. Her face is hot and sticky on my shoulder, her weeping hectic and loud. I can’t think what to do. I just keep my arm around her and let her cry. I want to tell her to stop, that it’s okay. But I know it’s not okay. I’m sure as hell not okay, and I’m not completely alone in the world and waiting tables to survive. I don’t think I have much right to tell her to hush because everything’s fine.
“You’re safe here,” I finally say.
She nods enthusiastically and sniffs and hiccups. I disentangle myself from her and come back with a box of tissues. She mops up her face and blows her nose about twenty times. Her makeup that was smeared is now completely gone. Her face is puffy and red. I kiss her again because it makes my chest hurt to see her like that. I can’t imagine looking at her and not kissing her.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a while, “I haven’t cried like that in a long time. Not since the burial even. I mean, I’ve cried, but not like that. Not like I’m dying of it.”
“It’s okay to do that here.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not your job to just—save me and comfort me,” she says hotly.
“What if I wouldn’t mind applying for that job?” I say before I can even think. I want to protect her. I never want another man to hurt her. I want to make her feel safe enough to be herself like she just did.
“I never told anyone that I wanted to die. I’m not suicidal. I haven’t tried to hurt myself. It’s not just grief. They say that the worst part goes away after a year, like—ding—time’s up, you’re back to normal. But if that’s true, I don’t think I’d still wonder what the point is. Like, why am I even still here? My whole family’s gone. My life as I knew it is gone. I had to drop out of school. I live in a total craphole with my friend Amy, and we work opposite shifts, so it’s not like I’ve even got her.”
“What about—I know you said you had to quit school, but what about student loans? You might have been able to finish your degree,” I say.
“I could have done that, I guess. But I had just lost my whole family, Griffin. I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t want to deal with taking on debt after I spent weeks sorting everything out to get death certificates. I had to clean out the house and figure out what to donate and what to try and sell, and I only had till the end of the month because it was a rental. There was just me. To go through Josh’s baseball cards and know I didn’t have any way to keep them. I didn’t have a house or anything—any way to store these keepsakes I didn’t want to let go. I was like shell-shocked after all that. I couldn’t face financial aid and more debt and trying to live my life like I hadn’t just lost everything important…you probably think that’s stupid.”
I didn’t think it was stupid. I think it’s unfortunate, and that some university advisor really dropped the ball in this case, because some form of support system surely existed at the campus level to help. I wish that I could have helped her, that I could help her now.
“How can I help?” I say.
“Just you letting me do that, cry and be mad and everything. That helped.”
“I don’t just mean tonight.”
It is out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying: I will absolutely move her in here tomorrow. I’ll take her for a live-in lover, and we’ll see where it goes. Her eyes get big, but she shakes her head.
“No way. I want this perfect night with you. I don’t want you trying to solve my problems for me. I’m here for a good time. I’m sorry for sobbing all over you. We’ve both lost people we love, so let’s just steal tonight and be as happy as we can before reality catches up with us.”
It’s probably the best idea I have ever heard. I roll over to set my alarm, and she spoons up behind me, her cheek against my back. I feel myself relax completely. She’s holding me, one arm behind my neck, one slung over my chest. She molds her body to mine, her chest against my back, her thighs behind mine, her bare feet somewhere around my calves. It’s practically heaven. I didn’t know I wanted anything like this, but here I am. Griffin Doyle, self-made millionaire, international playboy, ruthless businessman—being the little spoon in bed with a waitress. I can’t help but smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caleigh
I lay awake most of the night. Sleep drags me under once in a while, but I shake myself free. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to sleep through my one night with Griffin. He lets me hold him, when I know he’d refuse if I asked. I love syncing up my breathing with his as he sleeps. I love when he turns over and pulls me into his arms, still mostly asleep but reaching for me. I love how whole I feel when I’m with him, and how being with him feels full and right and safe.
Once when I drift off, I wake to Griffin leaning over me, peeling the sheet back from my breasts and taking a nipple into his hot, wet mouth. I tighten instantly, a wave of arousal hitting me. The slow way he touches me, his palm sliding down my stomach and between my legs, cupping me with his hand—it’s romantic and sexy at the same time.
The room is completely dark. This bed—which is the hugest bed I’ve ever seen, by the way—is covered in black satin sheets and a velvety purple comforter. Both feel amazing against my skin, sinful even. I slide along the bed wherever he moves me. I feel desirable and pretty, like my skin is luminous against the dark fabric in the dark room. When he settles me in his lap, my legs on either side of him, I’m not sure what to do. I want to wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck, just feel him inside me and be as close to him as I can. So that’s what I do. I don’t wait for guidance. I just hug him and drop my head onto his shoulder and hide. I feel his hands on my back soothing me, his voice against my hair.
“Is something wrong?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to talk. I’m overcome by what can only be emotion. Feelings for Griffin, who is only with me for one night. I love being in his arms and relaxing against him. I don’t really want to be on top though, where he can watch me. I whisper to him that wish—but I
can’t say out loud what I wish.
“I wish—” I break off, afraid to say more. I wish you could love me.
I won’t ask for more than I can have. I’m already getting this one perfect night, this affair I can live off for years—all the romance, all the intensity, all the passion a woman could want. It would be greedy to think I could ever have more than this.
It starts to rain. I can hear it lashing the windows. I kiss him then, his face in my palms.
“Do you want me on top?” he says against my lips.
It seems gallant of him to me, this offer. I nod gratefully. I want to be joined to him, but I’m not bold enough yet for this. I want him to be in charge, to set the rhythm and the pace, to take care of me. It’s a luxury to give up control, to trust him and just let go.
Softly, he lays me on the bed, sweeps my hair out from under my shoulders so it’s fanned out on the sheets around me. He kisses my forehead, my eyes, my cheekbones. I feel like he sees all of me, like I’m being worshiped, cherished.
Griffin is so beautiful. I can see him, just the outline of him and his eyes in the moonlight, but he’s gorgeous. Even his shadow is probably gorgeous. I twist my fingers in his dark hair and concentrate on the whole experience. The brush of his stomach against mine, the flex of his shoulders beneath my hands as I hold on, the way he keeps kissing me—my lips, my cheek, my forehead, my neck. He’s with me, really present in the moment, not thinking of someone else or some other night in the past. This is us, right now, and it’s intense. He’s rocking deep within me, not moving in and out anymore. Like he can’t bear to pull out of my body. I feel it too—the buildup, the taut stretch of our bodies struggling to become one, merging into a single being.
I arch off the bed to press against him harder. His hands find mine, stretching my arms above my head and lacing our fingers together. Griffin leans his forehead against mine, his breath on my lips. I kiss him softly.
“I love you,” I whisper into his mouth as I come apart, pleasure rippling through me in waves.
He has the grace to pretend he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe men lose their sense of hearing and vision right before they come—who knows? He is nice and doesn’t mention what I said. He just presses me into his side, his hand playing with my hair. This time I fall asleep first.
His alarm wakes me. I don’t know where I am. I look around. His gorgeousness is instantly recognizable. I’m with Griffin. I see his beautiful back, bare and muscular. I kiss him between his shoulders, wrap my arms around him and kiss his hair. I feel such a flood of affection for Griffin that I’m afraid if he looks at me he’ll see it at once. I’m smiling. I can’t stop smiling. I haven’t been this happy in a very long time if I ever was.
“Good morning,” I say to him.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says sleepily, kissing my cheek.
“It’s cool. You don’t know my name so you don’t have to worry that you forgot it,” I tease.
“I told you, I don’t let women spend the night. It’s not like I’m in the habit of forgetting anyone’s name the morning after.”
“You seem weirdly proud of that,” I say.
“I am. I’m up front about the no strings arrangement. Sex isn’t a commitment. It’s just an extracurricular activity.”
“Not where I went to school,” I laugh, “And I hope not where your little sister goes to school.”
“Crap, I was supposed to call Gina.” He rolls over and looks at his phone, “I have like eight texts from her.”
“Message her. Tell her you were held hostage by a waitress last night but you’re free now.”
“I don’t want to be free,” he says, rolling onto his side and kissing me lazily.
I think I could spend the day like this easily. It’s Sunday so technically I don’t have to hurry home. Not that he wants me to stay.
He messages his sister, or that’s what I think he’s doing. I get up to go get dressed. It’s not like Mr. Extracurricular Sex wants me to hang around. He catches my wrist and pulls me back down onto the bed.
“What’s your hurry?” he says.
“I thought I’d better get home. Feed the fish,” I say.
“Do you have fish?”
“No. But if I did they’d be starving,” I say.
“Are you starving? We should get breakfast.”
“That’s okay. You’ve been really great. I’d offer to cook you breakfast, but I basically only toast Pop-Tarts.”
“I don’t need you to cook for me. I need you to come back to bed.”
“You need me?” I say, enjoying the sound of the words, even though he doesn’t mean them the way I’d like him to.
“Yes,” he says.
Griffin is propped up on one elbow and looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. It hits me that I slept with him. That a guy who looks like that took me to bed. It doesn’t even seem possible. He’s as handsome as he was the moment I first saw him. I feel myself go stupid and stare. Of course I’m getting back in the bed. Easiest decision ever. I mean, he asked me to. I’d probably bark like a dog if he asked me to. I’d bark with enthusiasm. I giggle at the thought and, just like that, I snort. I clap a hand over my mouth. He gives me a half smile.
“I remember you did that last night too.”
“Yes. I did,” I say flatly, “I’d hoped you were too much of a gentleman to notice.”
“I probably should have been, but a proper gentleman wouldn’t have done most of the things to you that I did last night,” he says.
“Good point. I’ll take you instead of a gentleman.”
“And I’ll take you, snorting and all.”
“I can’t help it. It’s how I laugh.”
He reaches for me with one hand, and I take his hand. He pulls me onto the bed and wraps me in the velvet comforter with him. He pulls it up over our heads like a tent, and I laugh like a kid. I only snort once, and that’s because it tickles when he kisses his way down my stomach. I push the comforter off us eventually so I can breathe, and I wriggle away. He captures me and pulls me back. We wrestle around playfully and kiss and laugh. He pins me, my wrists on either side of my head, and holds me down. He gives me a gentle, searching kiss that makes my whole body respond to him. I toss my head back and forth as he kisses my neck, pleasure building in me, my wrists trapped. I feel so needy for him. When he kicks my legs apart, I open for him, more than ready, wet and eager to feel him slide in. The second he enters me, I start to whimper. He eases into me, stretching me. I’m looking in his eyes. The way he’s looking at me is so serious, so intimate that it’s somehow more personal than having him inside of me. I need to look away, but I can’t. It seems like he can see everything about me, everything I’m thinking. I need this, but it scares me. It goes on forever, this soul gazing and the slow burn thrusts.
I feel it building, the hum of pleasure getting higher and higher until Griffin hauls me up into his lap in one motion. I’m seated on him, our bodies still joined, but now we’re wrapped around each other. He wraps his arms around me, pressing my nipples against his chest, one arm hooked around my hips and moving me a little, guiding me so that I rub up against him. The pressure starts, and I’m panting and making small squeals every time I grind into him. There’s an explosion in me, my head flying back, my arms swinging out as it rips through my body. I cry out, and it sounds like I’m trying to sing. He moves me faster against him until his climax breaks free, and he shouts hoarsely as he comes. We collapse onto the bed, his chest cushioning my fall. I shiver from the aftershock of my orgasm, grateful to be in his arms when I’m feeling so vulnerable.
“That was amazing,” I say, practically purring against his chest hair.
Griffin strokes my hair and his other hand roams along my back. He doesn’t say anything. I like to assume he’s speechless from ecstasy. I sink into him after a while and drift, not quite awake.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he says, “don’t leave.”
I pretend to be
asleep. I don’t want him to know I’ve heard, or that I want to stay with him for as long as he’ll let me. Even though I know he’s a broken heart waiting to happen. Just looking at him it was obvious, and that was before he ever touched me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Griffin
What was I thinking, asking her to stay over?
I don’t spend the night with women. I take them to a hotel, have some fun and then leave. I don’t want strings attached, and I don’t want to deal with awkward morning-after stuff. For example, I don’t know if anyone I’ve ever slept with is a coffee drinker. Because I don’t stick around that long. And I don’t bring anyone to my penthouse. It’s my retreat, the only space where I don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations of who I’m supposed to be. Why would I let her breach those battlements?
Sure, she’s pretty. I like blondes. I saved her, and I feel sort of responsible for marching her out there to bear witness against Simpson in the club. I don’t like bad shit going down in my clubs, and I don’t like my employees—even contracted catering ones—being abused. I’m no saint, but I’m a better man than that, so I feel bad for her. She’s had a rough couple of years and no way should she be stuck getting groped by assholes like Simpson when she’s just trying to make rent.
