by Kennedy Ryan
A smirk works its way through my irritation.
“Thank God there’s been nothing like that,” I say. “I don’t think most people know I’m even there.”
“Well you sitting at the back with that hat pulled down low isn’t much of a disguise, but I guess it’s working for you.”
“It also helps that your class is huge.”
“Yeah. I had no idea there would be such a response.”
“Are you kidding?” I know I’m gaping, but I can’t check it. “Your book is . . . life-changing. This is my first semester on campus. I’ve been an online student for the last year and a half, and I relocated from LA for the semester just for this class.”
He’s a stone-faced man, but surprise ripples across his rugged features.
“I had no idea.” His eyes drop to his drink and then lift to narrow on my face. “Why would you do that?”
I hesitate, self-conscious in the presence of someone who has become a hero of sorts to me—not the Superman, Marvel comic kind of hero, but the kind whose superpower is reason and whose kryptonite is ignorance.
“I read Virus on my first world tour over the summer, and it articulated so many things I had either never considered, or knew but never put into words,” I say. “I didn’t set out to sell a million records. I wanted to be successful, of course, but fame is seductive. It has this way of making you forget who the real person is behind all the hype, and the bigger I get, the less I want this distance between who I am in public and who I am in private. If anything, I want people to know the things I really believe in and stand for.”
I pause to look at him frankly.
“I come from nothing. Where I’m from, a life like the one I’m leading now is a fairy tale. I want to leverage my success to change things for people who don’t actually believe another life is possible. Your book helped me see that.”
“So, if my book did all of that,” he says, taking his glasses off to clean them on the hem of his T-shirt, “why haven’t you at least come to my office hours? I can’t even get to my door most days for the line of students in the hall, but if we hadn’t bumped into each other here, I wouldn’t have ever met you.”
I take another sip of my drink, using that time to collate my thoughts.
“I guess I didn’t want special treatment because of . . . you know.”
“You don’t think you’re special?” he asks.
“Um . . .” This feels like a trick question. “Well, everybody is special.”
“Does everyone sell a million records?” He tilts his head, both brows lifted like he really wants to know.
“Well, no, but—”
“Do hundreds of thousands of fans across continents fill arenas to see everyone?”
“Look, I see what you’re getting at, but—”
“Would you say Martin Luther King was special?”
“Yeah, obviously.”
“But he would argue that he wasn’t better than anyone else.” He plows on, not waiting for the response I’m not sure of anyway. “And what about Ghandi? Wasn’t he special? But fighting a caste system, he would have been the last to say he was in any way superior.”
He and I watch each other, the sounds of conversation and lattes being slurped and coffee shop music coalescing around us as his words sink in.
“I guess my point is we are all created equal,” he says. “But it’s what we choose to do with what we have that makes us extraordinary.”
He laughs, flashing white teeth against skin the color of mahogany.
“Or not,” he says. “’Cause best believe most people don’t do enough with what they’re given. The fact that you did so much with the little you had makes you special. Own that.”
And just like that, uprooting my life, even missing my girl to the point of aching feels worth it. Some people are a revolution and, with their words, overturn the things you thought you knew. You don’t always see them coming, but once you’re with them, you know the impact they have will be like a crater, deep and lasting. That’s how much of an impression they will leave. Over the next hour as Dr. Hammond challenges me, pokes at my perspectives, and picks apart my preconceived notions, there is no doubt in my mind he is one of those people, and his impact on my life, unfathomably deep.
11
Bristol
This is my new home, at least for the next semester.
It’s not the pictures of Grip and me, of Rhys and Kai, Aria, and our friends sprinkling the mantle and other surfaces here in our temporary Tribeca apartment. It’s not the clothes hanging on my side of our closet. It’s not even my favorite Cookie Dough ice cream that Grip has already stocked in the freezer. These aren’t the things that make this place home.
It’s him.
If I’m in Antarctica, as long as Grip is there shivering beside me, it’s home.
Now where is he?
I wander from room to room, checking both floors, but there’s no sign of him. It’s kind of anti-climactic considering I took an earlier flight to get here. That’s what I get for trying to surprise him. I know his schedule as well as I know my own: he had class today then a session with Qwest’s producers and writing team this afternoon.
Grrrrr.
I refuse to torture myself with thoughts of them working together while I was stuck in LA, although “stuck” isn’t the right word. I was just a little busy making Kai’s debut the freaking number one album in the country. If we thought the offers were pouring in before, now I’m flooded with movie roles, endorsement options, and more opportunities than she’ll be able to handle. If all goes according to plan—mine and Rhyson’s, that is—soon Broadway will be knocking, too.
“Dammit.”
The muffled curse reaches me from the greenhouse, and quiet steps take me toward the outdoor retreat where I’m now sure he is. I wonder if it will always feel like this when I’m about to see him. Anticipation trembles in the air. My mouth dries and then waters with the promise of his kiss. There’s a pillow fight in my belly and feathers float all around. Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes still gloss over when she thinks of her Patrick, of the years they had before his illness. They made this place together. I take in the tinted windowpanes and the space they created for one another.
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?”
He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, but his body betrays how much self-control he’s exerting when his dick twitches against me.
“We have to drink,” he says sternly, stepping back and leaving me chilled, bereft.
“We’ve been drinking,” I whine, every cell of my body pouting because he’s denying me.
“But we haven’t toasted.” With a devilish glint in his eyes, he walks naked over to the table, the high, round arch of his ass flexing with every step. He pours two glasses of champagne from the bucket that has been chilling all night. My eyes drop between his legs and I force myself to stay standing when he hands me the flute instead of dropping to my knees and taking him in my mouth. Carnality courses through my veins, feral desire possessing every part of me. I want him occupying every empty
space. I want to lick his sweat and bite chunks from him, swallow him whole. I grit my teeth and accept the fragile glass filled to the top with exhilaration and bubbles.
“This is a lot of champagne,” I say, letting the bubbles tickle my nose. “I’ll be too drunk for . . .”
I clear my throat, leaving wild thoughts unspoken and bucking in my mind.
“I think you’ll manage.” He lifts his glass and quirks a smile at me, even as his eyes lose some of the humor. “A toast to our first night in our first home together.”
He gently tucks strands of hair behind my ear, rubbing the texture between his fingers before looking back to me.
“You didn’t have to do this, Bristol,” he says softly. “Move here, disrupt your life, your career for me like this, but I’m glad you did.”
“No, I did have to,” I disagree, surprised to find myself blinking back tears. “What I feel for you is not optional, Grip. It’s a mandate, a demand I have no problem meeting. I have to be wherever you are.”
He studies me a moment longer, and the intimacy and openness are almost too much, but I force myself not to look away. I’ve never been more vulnerable to anyone, and I’ve never trusted anyone else the way I trust Grip—with my life, with my heart.
“A toast then, to wherever we are.” He clinks our glasses together, raising his to his lips, but at the last minute and with a wicked grin, pouring just a little onto my chest. I gasp as the cold liquid trickles over my flesh, streaming between my breasts. Before I have time to recover, Grip pours more over my nipples, which immediately bud and lift as if they’re drinking in the potent liquid. Not done, he pours the rest of his champagne over my belly, wrenching a whimper from me when it drifts between my legs, sluicing into my naked folds, seeking out my core, the parts of me that silently beg to be filled.
“Grip.” My voice emerges on a need-broken whisper. “What are you—”
With his lips, he answers the question I didn’t get to voice, licking the champagne from my shoulders and flattening his tongue between my breasts, soaking up every drop in greedy swipes. His hands clamp around my hips and he sinks to his knees, his mouth venturing across the flat surface of my stomach like a sojourner, lost and searching. His tongue delves into my belly button then he nibbles the skin at my hips and above my pubic bone, the bristle on his chin abrading even as he withholds his mouth from me. Over and over, he kisses closer and closer, but never spreads me, never tastes me in the deeper places. The champagne boils between my legs as my body heats.
