“Gabby, let’s go.”
“Reid, are we still going to FunZone this weekend?”
“You bet, but can we leave your mom at home? She’s no fun, and you know what that pizza does to her. The sauce is made with onions.” He winks at my daughter.
As Gabby doubles over laughing, I shoot eye daggers at Reid. Leona scurries out, Gabby in tow.
“Ready?” Reid asks me after they leave. He looks dashing in dark jeans and a navy shirt, tucked in, a black belt and black boots, eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose.
“I just have to grab one more quick thing.”
I run to my room and shove the gift box into my duffel, and I’m out in a hurry. We have plans to eat at a gastro pub and stay overnight in a hotel. I want to get to the latter part . . . wink, wink.
As Reid helps me on with my coat, I ask, “Where’s yours?”
“I was hot, lugging all that shit up here.”
“Ha, that’s your own damn fault.”
“Wouldn’t trade it. Want to bring some candy?”
“I’m pretty sure Gabby would kill me.”
He nods and ushers me outside with his right hand at my lower back and my duffel in his left.
“By the way, you look smoking hot tonight,” he says when we get in the Jeep.
“A grilling reference, my oh my.”
He gives me a wink and a smirk and turns on the car. Off we go . . .
Soon we’re sitting in a corner booth, a plate of poutine and a bowl of brussels sprouts in front of us. On our second drinks, conversation comes easy.
“So, I came clean on The UnAffectionate Blogger because I don’t want to be apologetic in my opinions anymore. Faulty products or measly deals aren’t for me. I’m going to say I love something and mean it.”
Reid nods. “Sounds like a plan. I was wondering, do you think I can write about FunZone with Gabby? I don’t have to show her face in pictures, but I thought it could be a fun post. Cheat day for me, pizza and video games. Or is it too soon?”
“It’s perfect,” I tell him.
After dinner, we walk back to our hotel and head up to our corner suite on the eighth floor. Reid hangs the DO NOT DISTURB placard and double locks the door.
Our clothes come off in a hurry, neither of us waiting for the other one to help. My jeans and sweater and boots are in a tangled pile with his, leaving me in a red thong and a red lace bra.
“Oh, now that’s on fire, hotter than my grill gets,” Reid says, then picks me up and lays me on the bed.
Our mouths fuse. We spend a long time kissing and creating friction in other areas. Moans fill the room, and then Reid lowers himself, taking my bra and thong with him.
His tongue is doing its own very own due diligence, and I grab my pillow and cover my mouth. I’m definitely getting too loud. Our neighbors are going to call the front desk or the police. I’m about to come apart and I yell, “Stop!”
“What? Jesus, fuck,” Reid says. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to finish with you inside me.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
I nod.
“That’s hot. You should’ve said so.”
And he obliges.
I wish I could say we took our time, but I crawl onto all fours and Reid slams into me.
It doesn’t feel hurried. It’s intense, and I turn to the side and watch Reid slipping in and out of me, and that’s all I need.
I go off.
Then he does.
And then we collapse in a heap. We’re sticky and sweaty, but neither of us cares.
Reid is caressing my back and I need to get up and clean up, when I remember. “Oh, I have something for you.”
“You do?” he asks, his voice deep and throaty.
“Well, it’s for me, but also kind of for you.”
I get up and pull out the gift box from the duffel we left in the room earlier. Handing it to Reid, I tell him, “You open it, but then I’ll show you.”
“Don’t ruin the surprise. Is it a vibrator?”
“Open it.”
He does, and pulls out an apron. “This is for me, and for you,” he says slowly, not getting it. “Is there a riddle in here I’m missing?”
“Give it to me.”
I snatch the apron, turn away from him, and tie it on.
I turn around to face him, the apron securely fastened around my otherwise naked body, and he reads the caption aloud.
“MY COOK ALWAYS GIVES GREAT SECONDS.”
His eyebrows rise, and he says, “C’mere.”
I go . . . and I get not good, but even better seconds.
Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, grandpas, honorary uncles, men, and grillers out there.
Today is a special one. Not because I’m making street tacos for dinner—and it’s not even Tuesday. But today is a special day.
Last week, I became a father. Twice. Two times, folks!
No need to read that twice. I actually became a father twice in one week, and not to twins. So, don’t try to get smart with me.
In the eyes of the law, I adopted Gabby, who, in my mind, was already my daughter and commander-in-chief of my heart.
[Below is a pic of the two of us on our first alone date to FunZone.]
Less than forty-eight hours after the adoption became official, my beautiful wife, Andi, gave birth to our son, Liam Tobias. Mom and baby are both doing well, and anxiously awaiting my dinner. Liam happened to love street tacos when he was still in Andi’s belly.
[Below is a pic of baby Liam in the hospital nursery. He’s the one wearing the tiny apron reading CHEF IN TRAINING.]
I know it’s Father’s Day and the crew should be cooking for me—at the very least, baking a cake—but in this house, every day is Mother’s Day. Yeah, I know, I’m a sappy fool. In the wise words of Elsa, Let it go.
Don’t call me a wuss. I speak the truth.
Six years ago, when this blog started on a dare, I never thought it would be all of this. Or that I would be a dad (twice over).
But I am a dad, and this blog is what it is today because of the woman in my life. Without her, I’d still be the very lonely Grill and Groom.
BUT I’m much happier writing The Girl and His Grill.
Until dinner tomorrow,
Reid
Andi
Morning, lovers.
It’s been eight weeks since I had a baby, and let me tell you, Johnson’s Baby Wash is just as good as any of that fancy stuff on the market. Yes, this post is sponsored by them—I admit it—but only after I wrote a few weeks ago about their sensitive-skin formula kicking ass. After all, I speak the truth.
In other news: Apparently, our daughter, Gabby, inherited the family gene for blogging. She made the following video of Liam in the bathtub.
[Insert video of Liam in bath seat, kicking his feet, Mom on the floor with a constant eye, Dad making a cameo saying dinner is ready. He’s shirtless and wearing an apron.]
Liam smells delish after a bath, and his dry skin immediately cleared up. Johnson’s is gentle enough for everyday use and all that . . . and it’s affordable.
Bottom line: I love it, and it gets an UnAbashed Seal of Approval.
Comment below for a chance to win a gift basket complete with receiving blanket from Johnson’s.
What else is new?
We’re off to Disney tomorrow. My husband and I are presenting as a power couple in social media. Yep, we’re taking Leona to watch the kids. You know her from her regular cameos on the blog. Yes, we did get matching shirts—look for the upcoming post.
LOVE to all,
The UnAbashed Blogger
Last August
Although my back was pressed against the door, my entire body surged forward, seeking him. If I’d been in a dream or having an out-of-body experience, I would have seen my long limbs and lean torso straining to get closer to the man in front of me. My heart was beating to the most vibrant pace I’d ever experienced. I felt like I was practically c
oming out of my skin to get closer to the horny, hot-blooded man caging me against the door.
Mon dieu, he was like a god. His hands were splayed against the wall on either side of my head, and my legs were wrapped around his waist. I was in heaven, and it had only been a few hours since I’d last visited this paradise.
My pelvis rocked back and forth, searching for his erection and my salvation. They were one and the same, the only balm I needed for the yearning that centered between my legs, but burned everywhere else.
I wanted his hand down there, or maybe his mouth. Or both.
“Pierre.” I moaned his name as I moved, trying to connect my sensitive spot with his cock. Desperate, I craved friction like I imagined a habitual smoker longs for a cigarette.
“S’il vous plaît,” I begged, please, then sucked in a breath to indulge in a long inhale of his cologne into my lungs. It was something fancy and French, of course, and another in the long list of reasons why I was head over heels for my Frenchman. My older Frenchman.
He shifted his hips away, teasing me, and I whimpered with need, making a noise that unfortunately sounded like a dying guinea pig. I was so desperate for him. He was my world, my universe. I wanted to spend the rest of my life lost among the planets circling his orbit. He was the moon and I was a lowly stalk of wheat bowing to him in the middle of the night, and I didn’t care what that said about me. I was that weak and pathetic when it came to him.
I’d never lived a moment until Pierre was buried inside me. We didn’t need to profess our love for each other or send each other cute texts. When he claimed me with those slow, languid strokes in and out of me, I knew he was the one to make everything else go away. Far away. He was the man of my dreams, and I wanted him inside me right that second, that very millisecond. I was an extremely demanding girl.
Finally, he ran his hand inside my panties and separated my folds with his slim fingers. He dove in with one finger, then two, and my body bucked into his strong, yet well-manicured hand.
My head fell back against the wall with a soft thud. “Oh, baby, more,” I managed to wrench out.
And then he lost control as I’d been hoping and praying he would. When I heard my panties tear and drop to the floor, I moved my hand to his zipper and opened his khakis, firmly grasping what I wanted. He was conveniently commando, hard and ready. I rubbed my hand up and down his length, pumping him. Before I knew it, my hand was pushed away and he was deep inside me, riding me fast and recklessly.
“Faster!” I demanded. “I love it when you’re rough.” I squeezed his ass, tilting my pelvis to allow him to slide in even deeper.
“Easy, Tigger,” he panted, calling me by his nickname for me in that sexy French drawl, but not bothering to slow his pace. He was always in control, even if I thought I held the power.
I was kneading the shit out of his ass with my hands as he ran his tongue over my neck. He nipped and sucked before biting a bit harder, causing my orgasm to build in preparation to barrel through me. I didn’t want it to start or end because it always finished the same—with me wanting more.
“Monsieur, I’m coming,” I semi-yelled or gurgled, I wasn’t even sure because I was unraveling, tightening my thighs around his waist like a vice.
“Tigger, ma chérie.” He growled the sweet words, pumping faster, his release vibrating through my bones. A drop of sweat fell off his brow into my cleavage, and he leaned in to kiss me.
My entire body trembled; I was shaking with release and need all at the same time. I never wanted that feeling to end.
At that moment the door from the hallway into Pierre’s office banged open, apparently not locked as securely as we’d thought. The fancy diploma hanging on the wall above my head—the one that read DR. PIERRE DUBOIS—rattled from the impact, nearly falling. It didn’t really matter if it had because within a matter of days, the gilded frame was gone. And so was Pierre.
It all ended, and I felt like my life was over.
Continue reading Vérité now
Read other books by Rachel Blaufeld
These thank-yous only scratch the surface of how much time, effort, and community go into writing a book—or any kind of publication, actually. They become more troubling with every release, because chances are I forget someone. Usually, my mom.
So, thanks, Mom, for giving birth to me and supporting me 97% of the time.
Thank you to my family and friends for being there. Writing is lonely work at times, and I appreciate your going along with me when I need to put on makeup and eat pizza and drink some wine.
Thank you to my betas: Michelle, Jennifer, Becca, and Margo. Without you, this book would have sat dormant on my laptop. Especially you, Michelle, who kept asking…ARE YOU FINISHING?
Thank you to Pam Berehulke, Sarah at Okay Creations, the entire Tippetts gang, my FTN ladies, and Leigh Dickey (my texting spirit animal who lives too far away). Without you, nothing would be possible.
Advance praise and thanks to Jenn Watson, Sarah, and Brooke at Social Butterfly PR, who put up with my emails and the emotional roller coaster of releasing a book.
As always, thank you x 1000 to Nicole Snyder, my PA & right hand. Left hand too.
There are so many authors, bloggers, readers, and supporters, I can’t begin to name them all. They lift me up when I’m down and pull me out of the cave when I’m lost in the darkness. Thank you.
AND THANK YOU TO YOU FOR READING THIS BOOK! Xoxo
Rachel Blaufeld is a bestselling author of Romantic Suspense, New Adult, Coming-of-Age Romance, and Sports Romance. A recent poll of her readers described her as insightful, generous, articulate, and spunky. Originally a social worker, Rachel creates broken yet redeeming characters. She’s been known to turn up the angst like cranking up the heat in the dead of winter.
A devout coffee drinker and doughnut eater, Rachel spends way too many hours in local coffee shops, downing the aforementioned goodies while she plots her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end as lusciously as her treats.
As a side note, Blaufeld, also a long-time blogger and an advocate of woman-run anything, is fearless about sharing her opinion. She captured the ears of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog, BacknGrooveMom, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and running a business, often at the same time. To her, work/life/family balance is an urban legend, but she does her best.
Rachel has also blogged for The Huffington Post and Modern Mom. Most recently, her insights can be found in USA TODAY, where she shares conversations at “In Bed with a Romance Author” and reading recommendations at “Happy Ever After.”
Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two beagles. Her obsessions include running, coffee, basketball, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.
When she isn’t writing, she can be found courtside, tweeting about hoops as her son plays, or walking around the house wearing earplugs while her other son, the drummer, bangs away.
To connect with Rachel, she’s most active in her private reading group, The Electric Readers, where she shares insider information and intimate conversation with her readers:
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If you liked this book, feel free to leave a review where you bought it or on Goodreads. Send me an e-mail when you do, and I will thank you personally!
Hot for His Girl
Copyright © 2018 Rachel Blaufeld
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9970707-9-8
Edited by
Pam Berehulke
www.bulletproofediting.com
Proofread by
Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover design by
© Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, LLC
www.okaycreations.com
Photo by
Regina
Wamba
Interior design and formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
Kindle Edition
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Warning:
This book is intended for mature audiences.
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