by Leigh, Ember
Grayson doesn’t quit, though; he fucks me through the blinding peak of my orgasm all the way to the second tier and even third tier of residual pleasure, thanks to his thumb working its magic between my legs. Suddenly he pulls out, just when I’ve gone legally blind and deaf from the pleasure, and grunts as he spurts onto the kitchen floor in a perfect arc.
His chest heaves as he runs his hands through his hair, looking up at me like we’ve done something very bad. But bad in the best way.
I clutch the edge of the countertop beneath my ass, still lost in the clouds. My entire body is Jell-O, and I’m not sure I could stand if I wanted to.
“Holy…” I begin. Three more labored breaths. “Shit.”
He swallows and nods, fisting the front of the hair as he looks down at the floor. “I came on my grandma’s linoleum.”
I don’t know what it is—the words or the moment or the heady combination of both—but I burst out laughing, and I can’t stop.
Grayson laughs along with me, and his laughs stoke my laughter.
We laugh until we’ve both got tears streaming down our faces.
Chapter 12
GRAYSON
It wasn’t until I came all over my grandma’s kitchen that I noticed how ugly the flooring really was.
Burnt orange and white, mixed together in some heinous floral pattern. They say trends always return, but I really don’t see this one coming back anytime soon. It belongs to—and died in—the 70s.
Hazel hadn’t failed to mention about a hundred times how my resale value could skyrocket if I did some renovations. And I don’t know—call it the clarity of an orgasm—but after I fucked Hazel in the kitchen, I decided to replace the flooring.
I figured I had enough time to get some basic things done, and if a few basic things might help me net an extra ten or twenty G? Worth it. Besides, everything is possible with YouTube.
I spend that whole night and the next day watching informational videos about the type of project I want to pull off. Within twenty-four hours of spunking all over the kitchen that started the Daly family, I have my toolbox and flooring equipment purchased and ready to go.
Home renovation is new to me, admittedly. But something about it has always attracted me. When I was a boy, I wanted to be an architect, which spoke to my love for cool houses. In my regular life in NYC, I don’t get many chances to work with my hands or get dirty. Everything revolves around the office and the gym and the transportation in between. Hell, if I could get laid like last night even once a month, I’d be on cloud nine.
But of course I wouldn’t have that chemistry with any of the random Tinder hookups of recent history. Of course the person who is able to set fire to every single nerve ending in my body is Hazel.
Murphy’s Law or something like that.
Even thinking about Hazel’s juicy pussy has my cock stiffening beneath my gym shorts. I haven’t texted her, and she hasn’t texted me. I don’t plan to, either. It doesn’t feel right…mostly because I still don’t know what the fuck happened in this kitchen last night.
It wasn’t a truce, but it wasn’t part of a cold war, either. Per Hazel Protocol, it was something that exists in an abstract category, which defies expectations and reason. If Hazel were a mathematic equation, she would absolutely involve imaginary numbers because nothing about her makes sense, and she would appear in italics every time she was mentioned.
It takes me two full days, working over twelve hours each day with the help of Weston and Connor, to pull out Grandma Ethel’s hideous burnt orange injustice and replace it with the slate gray wood-like laminate flooring I picked out. Once it’s in, it’s not just a breath of fresh air, it’s a windstorm. Mom can’t stop cooing about the pattern. And Weston was oddly an enormous help, proving once again what a strange wheelhouse my brother has.
“Your plans for the kitchen are amazing, Gray,” Mom says, thumbing through the paint swatches I laid out on the countertop. “If you did the whole house like this…” She tuts, shaking her head. “It would be the best house in the entire Daly family, for sure.”
“Wow, now that’s offensive,” Connor says in mock injury. “You haven’t seen the changes I made to my apartment in San Fran.”
“Yeah, and what about my house that I’m never going to buy?” Weston asks. “You’re shitting all over my future, Mom.”
Mom sighs, a smile on her face. Of course she can count on her sons to hassle her about everything.
“I would like to disqualify my current apartment from the contest,” I add, “Because I hired an interior designer to do that, so it shouldn’t count. I want to win this distinction fair and square.”
“Yeah, because now that there’s any hint of a competition, Gray has to win,” Connor says.
“Just don’t tell Dom,” Weston adds ominously.
I shake my head but say nothing because I definitely can’t deny it. The only rivalry greater than the one between Hazel and me is between my older brother and me. And they’re right. If Dom got involved, it would turn into a war.
“Whatever, guys,” I finally say, stepping over the discard pile of ugly old tiles in the front sitting room. “You’re salty because you know I’ll win.”
My brothers snicker while Mom drifts toward the front window, looking out at the yard. “Do you want me to help clean up the landscaping out here? I can put in some rose bushes, some lilies, maybe a weeping willow over there.”
“That would be awesome, Mom.” My phone buzzes.
HAZEL: Last minute potential buyer. 3p okay??
It’s 2:45 right now. I text back that it’s fine and address my family.
“Hazel’s on her way with a potential buyer. We should clear out.”
“Okay, okay.” Mom sighs, heading for the front door. “You tell that sweetheart I said hi.”
“I will.”
Connor grabs for the open beer he left on the countertop. He’s enjoying vacation as much as I am. He’s only got a few more days left, though, whereas I still have weeks. A fact I love to shove in his and Dom’s faces.
“We doing the bathroom remodel next?” Weston asks. The kid is genuinely interested in helping.
“Yeah, bro. Let’s start it tomorrow.”
“I’ll go pick up some plumbing stuff,” he says. “I know a guy who’ll lend us what we need.”
Of course Weston has the plumbing contact. I slap my brothers’ backs on their way out the door, and then I get to work trying to tidy up the mess in the living room. There’s a soft knock on the front door, and then Hazel pokes her head in a moment later.
I turn to look at her, and all the air in my lungs fizzles away. She’s got skintight vinyl-looking leggings on with high heels, and a loose, flowing sweater that hangs off one shoulder. She’s not retro today, like she normally is, but her lips are still fire-engine red. Gorgeous as always. My abs tense as I drink her in.
“Hey there,” she says cautiously, her gaze jumping between the piles of crap in the living room. “What’s all this?”
The trepidation in her voice tells me she wasn’t expecting it. A couple comes in behind her, wide-eyed and smiling.
“Hi, guys,” I say, surging forward to offer my hand. My tool belt jostles as I move forward. “I’m Gray. I was just cleaning up.”
Haze’s lips are pinched into a very particular sort of grimace-smile. She meets my gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she asks, her words measured.
“Ahh…” I rest my hands on my hips, trying to think of anything she might accept. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m sure you’ll be surprised when you go into the kitchen. But hey, don’t let me get in the way. You guys do your tour. I’ll be around if you need me.”
Hazel moves past me stiffly, her heels clicking on the floor. I twist around to watch her go, wetting my bottom lip as I drink in the curve of her ass and that soft arc of her shoulder. Fuck. So apparently once wasn’t enough with her. I adjust my jeans and get back to work cleanin
g up the debris. Listening to the husky lilt of her voice as she shows the house gets me lost in yet another Hazel fantasy while I sweep the living room floor.
Fifteen minutes later the tour is over, and she’s chatted the couple out the door. She waves at them in a final goodbye and then pushes the front door shut.
She turns to me. Arms crossed. Eyebrow lifted.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What is this?” She gestures at me kneeling on the floor. “What are you, Bob the Builder?”
I snort. “Didn’t you tell me the resale value would improve if I did some renovations?”
She huffs. “Yes, but…” She gestures angrily at me again. “I didn’t say you had to pretend to be some sort of construction model.”
I sit back on my heels. “You want me to take my shirt off again.”
“No, thank you. I got that out of my system.”
“Right.” My pulse quickens at the thought of what we did two days ago on the kitchen counter. Hell, the memory of my fingers buried in that juicy pussy might haunt me for the rest of my life. When I close my eyes, I see her face as she unraveled around me. Getting it out of my system is a non-option. I could fuck Hazel until the end of our days and still want more. “So, no thoughts on the kitchen? Just gonna body shame me for wearing these old jeans?”
She huffs again, but I see the start of a smile on her lips. She swings her head toward the kitchen. “It looks awesome, honestly. And if you finish the paint job and update the cabinets, you’ll have buyers salivating over it.”
“Great.” I come to standing, wiping my hands off on my jeans. I can sense her eyeing me again. The tension in the house quadruples, and I swear to God the air is buzzing between us.
“I’m up here,” I say, pointing to my face.
Hazel’s rocking back and forth on her heels, looking at me like she wants to say something. Instead she spins on her heel and heads out the door. “I’ve got another appointment. Bye.”
I watch her storm down the driveway and hop into her car. She basically peels out of the neighborhood. And maybe she’s right to run away like that. There’s something explosive burbling beneath the surface with us. I feel it too, except I don’t want to run from it. I want to strip her down and bury myself right into the heart of it.
It’s a little weird to think that we had as much sexual chemistry at age seventeen and eighteen as we do now at age twenty-eight. It makes me think there really has been something between us, simmering since time immemorial. It’s as dreamy as it is upsetting. On the one hand, people like that story about soul mates and meant-to-be love. Except nobody knows what they’re talking about, and “soul mates” is simply code for two people who are in love.
And if that’s the only requirement, Hazel and I will never be soul mates.
On the other hand, something really has sparked between us since day one, starting in the hospital when we were born minutes apart. Like life designed a path for us to follow together. Though we diverged early on and tried to veer away from each other, here we are.
Butting heads in Bayshore again.
I fight the urge to go after her, even though I’d love to march her back inside this house and pin her against the wall one more time. Maybe this time, I’d start in the living room and work my way upstairs. Fuck her on every flat surface in the house. I could bring in additional flat surfaces and fuck her on those, too.
Something about the additional flat surfaces makes a lightbulb go off.
I should get some furniture.
Sure, fucking Hazel on new furniture is a consideration for this idea, but really, I want to see what this finished kitchen will look like. My mind races as I figure out my game plan. I could rent things temporarily while I’m here, but why not just buy? That way, I can pass them off to Maverick or Weston when I’m done. Like giving them a bachelor’s leg up. I’m their big brother. I should do shit like this.
And the more I think about it, the more excited I get.
I should use my time in Bayshore to be as productive as possible. But that doesn’t only mean physical labor.
It might also mean being a better brother and son.
Chapter 13
HAZEL
It’s eight thirty on Sunday night when a harsh knocking sounds on my front door. I jump out of my skin, not expecting anybody. In some places, people wouldn’t show up without texting or calling first. Like sane twenty-first-century technology addicts. But no, in Bayshore, we’re still small town and proud of it. Hence the unannounced visits that could send a cat bursting through the roof.
I pull open the door. The evening outside is bathed in gold and red, the air holding that unmistakable scent of early summer.
And in front of me, Grayson Daly.
Hotter than fucking ever.
“Are you alone?” he barks.
I narrow my eyes, trying to conjure even an ounce of irritation. It’s hard, because all I can feel is relief. God, I’ve been pining for this man since the second he pulled himself out of me on Wednesday night. And now that he’s decided to cultivate his construction-worker chic side, it’s harder than ever to keep my libido at bay.
“Not if you count the entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy waiting for me inside my television right now,” I say.
He grins. He’s at it again, in those worn jeans and stained white T-shirt. When he gestures for me to follow him, I notice a hole near the armpit, allowing me a glimpse of wiry, dark armpit hair. My pussy clenches.
“Come with me, then.”
“But they’ll be upset if I leave.”
“Hazel.” My name on his lips is a warning, and I slip my feet into the flats I keep by the front door.
“Okay,” I grumble. I shut the door behind me, not bothering to lock it. I have a loose tank top on over leggings, and I cross my arms over my chest to keep the fabric from billowing up around me as a light breeze wafts through. Gray’s boots scuff over the sidewalk, and I keep a couple paces behind him. Out of defiance.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My house.”
“Your mom’s?”
“No, the house I own.” He glances back at me. “The one you’re selling?”
“Right, but…” I drift off, distracted by the ochre center of a recently opened sunflower. In this golden light, everything looks magical. Especially Grayson. “You talk about it like you live there, but you don’t.”
“Don’t I?”
His cryptic comment settles strangely inside me. As soon as we round the corner onto his street and we’re within viewing distance of the house, I can tell he’s been working on it. The landscape is neatly formed—still sparse, but it’s been heavily weeded. There’s actually an edge to it now. He’s pulled up all the weeds that formerly dominated and cut back an unsightly juniper bush that had become a shapeless eyesore.
“Holy shit,” I murmur as we draw nearer. He looks back at me, pride creasing his face.
“Thought you should see the latest developments,” he says, hooking his thumbs in the beltloops of his jeans. We walk up the stone path to the front door, and as soon as I step inside, I’m hit by the presence of furniture.
Two big love seats fill the sitting room, facing the picture window. The original wood floor is still there, untouched. Into the kitchen, I can see a new fridge and a high-topped table. Some of the countertops are missing, and it’s clear that his project has moved to the cabinetry.
Still, I turn to him with my mouth parted. “This looks so much better.”
He nods, then jerks his head toward the stairs. “Come up here.”
We clomp up the wood stairs, and when he shows me the master bedroom, I gasp. A king bed, fully outfitted with a boxy, black leather headboard and sheets and all, faces the big bay window. There’s not much else—a closet door where there previously was none, and a nightstand—but holy shit. What a difference a king bed makes. I run my fingertips over the down comforter, eyeing the comfy-looking bed.
I’m a sucker for nice things, and this bed looks brand new. I hop onto it, sinking in. I groan and flop backward.
The bedroom door clicks shut. I glance over at him, and he’s watching me with unmistakable hunger. Grayson smiles like this was his plan all along.
“I didn’t think it would be this easy to get you into my bed,” he says, a new huskiness in his voice.
“Oh, was my magic pussy the motivation behind you getting furniture?”
He scoffs but doesn’t correct me.
“I’ll have to remember to put that in my dating profile. Sex so good you’ll furnish a house you don’t live in.”
“Not the craziest thing I’ve done to get laid.”
“Oh? What’s got the top spot?” I’m almost offended that dropping thousands of dollars in renovations and furniture isn’t purely a reflection of how top-notch our sex was.
“One time, a looong time ago, I let a girl win at tennis so I could get into her pants.”
My cheeks grow hot as he scuffs his way over to the bed, a shit-eating grin on his face. He fills the space between my feet hanging over the edge of the bed. Waiting for me to bite. I’ve already fallen into his trap; now begins the torture.
“I won that match fair and square,” I counter, but my voice wavers as this little nod to our shared past inevitably sends me spiraling into nostalgia.
“So you think.” He takes care to enunciate each word succinctly.
“And losing one tennis match is worse than dropping thousands of dollars of your hard-earned money?” I ask, my eyes on his palms indenting the comforter on either side of my legs.
“Totally.” He wets his bottom lip, dragging his fingertips up the side of my calf. I inhale sharply when his fingers reach that sensitive hollow behind my knee. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he loves it. “Because money comes and goes. But nothing is better than winning.”
