“Likewise,” I reply with a cheeky smirk.
“Hey, don’t steal my move.” He wraps his arms around me, chin rubbing my neck. I giggle and lean to the side; he just moves with me. I roll my eyes but maintain my smile.
“Sorry, didn’t know you owned it,” I retort.
He pinches my hips. “Last night sure was amazing, don’t you think?” he whispers directly in my ear, then kisses my earlobe. I shiver, and he smirks. Just the thought of his hands on me, lips biting me…I consciously rub one of his marks on my neck, and he chuckles darkly, squeezing me tighter against his body.
“It was okay.” I shrug, playing around with him. I’m lying, of course. It was phenomenal. I have never felt that way before. So loved and special and beautiful. His lips, eyes, and soul poured into me, changing me with this overwhelming feeling, and I can’t get enough of it. I want more. I’m eternally greedy for him.
“Oh, really?” he growls, and I snicker lightly.
His ego gets the best of him, because one second, I’m cooking and the next I’m on the counter, my legs spread around him. He cups my face and brings his face a hair away from mine, foreheads touching and lips hovering. Hot. Open. He’s talking, but I am too focused on his skin glowing like a beacon for all things good in the surrounding glass walls, the morning sun beaming in.
I cup his face with one hand, brush pieces of dark hair behind his ear with another. He looks shocked at my sudden actions but doesn’t question it. I smile just because I’m happy and lean in, gently pressing our lips together. He immediately responds, his body flush against mine. A sun and a star colliding, him and I, and constellations explode. I will never get tired of this. Him. Us.
When I pull back for some air, he says in a low, soft voice, “What was that for?”
“Just because.” I shrug, reaching around and touching his tattoo for me. “Do you think I should get a tattoo?”
He pulls back quickly and eyes me like I’m crazy, shocked. “Where did that come from?”
I shrug again, pulling his hand up and admiring the little bird. “I just want one. It’s only fair to get one after the one on your back. Maybe I can get your name tattooed on my left butt cheek,” I joke. He breaks into this laughter of puffy cheeks and wrinkled eyes.
He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think a tattoo would…fit you.”
“Why not? I have enough skin for it.”
“Yes.” He smiles toothily. “But a tattoo isn’t for you. You’re innocent, good. Don’t let anyone taint your perfect skin,” he says seriously, voice sickly sweet as he rubs his hand under my shirt, rubbing circles on my stomach.
I think for a second, chewing on my lower lip. “I’ll think about it. But really, I’d like one that says Grey right here.” I tap my forehead. He laughs, and I continue. “Or maybe here.” I lift up my shirt and point at the skin above my chest.
He pulls my shirt down and shakes his head, eyes staring at my lips. “You’re insane.”
“I get it from you,” I tease, and he snarls at me. I smile and lift his wrist again, staring at the bird. “What’s his name again?”
“Levi,” he says, openly staring at me. I blush. He smirks. “Why are you so enchanted by him?”
“I just like him. And his name. Really…cute.”
“More than you like me?” he questions, brows lifting.
“Maybe…”
He pinches my thigh.
“Ouch! I was kidding, meanie.” I push at him, and he lays a slobbery kiss on my cheek. “Gross!” I push him off me, but he doesn’t move from between my legs. I bounce my feet on his butt and sigh. Stare at the little bird.
“I want to show you around town today,” I say, and he raises his brows, hands wandering under the shirt.
“Fine.” He sighs and licks his lips.
I roll my eyes, push him off, and jump down to my feet. “Great. Then help me cook the rest of breakfast.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll burn down the place?” He sidles up next to me, bumping me to the side. I give him the evil eye, but he just laughs, not afraid of me in the slightest, and loops an arm around me, pulling me to him.
“We have insurance,” I say and turn the stove back on.
“Of course you do.” He shakes his head. “Rich fucks.”
I smile up at him, and he beams down at me. He winks at me devilishly, and I roll my eyes. Together, we cook breakfast. And there are crude jokes, and smoke, and cursing, and laughter, and fleeting glances.
***
“Thank you, Monica.” The bell rings behind us as we exit the bakery. I used to visit the quaint bakery nearly every day for Monica’s chocolate cookies. They’re famous in town, and she’s loved by many. Especially me. She knows how to make a delicious batch of savory cookies. I used to help her around when I got bored sitting at home. So when I came by, she was insistent that I take an entire batch home with me. She’s too sweet, like her cookies and other treats.
“Fuck, Monica,” Grey moans playfully as he sinks his teeth into his cookie.
“Hey!” I nudge him in his stomach, and he chuckles and pulls me into his chest. I smile up at him. “So? How much do you love my hometown?”
“Almost as much as I love you,” he answers, and I laugh at the gleam in his eyes. “I’m serious. It’s all magical and shit, and very…nice. Kind of creepy, but I guess it’s where you learned to be the sweet person you are.” I blush and look around, sighing as I admire the people milling around, seasonal decorations everywhere. “Must have been nice living here,” he adds.
“It was amazing, actually. The people are friendly. The establishments were enough to keep me entertained if I felt a little stir crazy in the house. Sometimes I’d go weeks without leaving my room…”
He stops walking, tipping my head back. “Now you’re out and we’re going to travel the whole damn globe.”
“Really?” He’s never talked to me about traveling. I always thought he was content with Pennsylvania. That’s it.
“Sure.” He snags a bite out of his cookie, holding it up. “As long as the world has the likes of this sweet shit.”
I laugh and nod, holding onto his shoulders. “Italy has gelato. France has macarons. Australia has pavlova. Shoot a dart on the map, and we’ll go and personally taste whatever dessert of the country it lands on.”
“I can fuck with that. But we can’t go to France,” he says. Arms wrap around my waist. We do a little sway; I can feel pedestrians’ eyes on us, but I don’t really care. My focus is on him. Always him.
“Why not?” I ask.
His smirk is mocking and heart-stopping. “Because I can’t tie my shoes without you thinking I’m proposing.”
I hit his shoulder with a roll of my eyes. “Then wear Velcro.”
He takes a step back and holds up his hands. “Whoa.”
I giggle and take a few steps back myself. “I mean, anything has to be better than those atrocities on your feet.” I gesture to his signature biker boots. I actually really like them. Those and his normal jacket and maybe-washed black shirt is his thing. His identifier. And they make him look sexy as fuck, though he looks even sexier without them…
“You did not just—come here!” He runs after me, and I squeal. He deftly scoops me into his chest, picking me up like I weigh less than a feather.
“Grey!” I giggle, closing my eyes as he spins us around. My cheeks hurt, stomach clamping tightly from how hard and how much I am laughing.
“You do not disrespect my shoes. Ever.”
“It’s not disrespect if it’s the truth.”
He gasps and sets me down, shaking me a little. “Stop it. You’re hurting my soul.”
I push against him, and he pushes into me, walking forward, me backward. “Didn’t know you had one.”
“Well, I do. It’s Liv-shaped, right here.” He rubs the spot over his heart.
“That’s your heart, babe.” I bite my lip, teasing him. He rolls his eyes.
“Does i
t matter?”
I open my mouth to respond, but his phone rings, cuts off my words. He holds up a finger with a smirk, and I playfully groan impatiently. I lean my head against his chest as he pulls his phone out and feel him tense for a second. It’s gone before I can barely realize it happens.
“Everything okay up there?” I tilt my head back, and the hardness in his eyes melts away before he slips his phone back in his pocket and shoves the rest of his cookie in his mouth.
“Yup. Now, where were we?” He pushes hair behind my ear.
“I was complimenting your breathtaking shoes.”
“That’s more like it.” He taps my nose, and I smile up at him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’ve showed him nearly the entire town by the time the sun starts to sink into the horizon. I watch stars peek through the translucent blue sky. The pink, orange, and yellow of a color wheel splashes across the sky.
I had to stop and take a picture of the mesmerizing image. Grey watched me with fascination but stayed quiet, too wrapped up in staring at me to make a witty comment. I looked at him and kissed his knuckles before leaning into him.
Arms wrapped around me, I lead us to the last stop on our tour of the town, which he said he really liked. It is quite enchanting, close-knit, and friendly. I could live here for the rest of my life. Grow even closer to Monica, John, the owner of the hardware store, and Graham, the manager at the beauty supply store—and every other amazing person with warm hearts and blessed smiles.
With Grey by my side, of course. Anywhere he is, that’s where home is. He is my home.
“Milady,” he jokes as he opens the door to the store. The record store.
“MiGrey.” I do a courtesy and a little nod before he laughs and gently guides me in. Immediately, I am met with the sharp scent of old book pages, the sight of vinyls on stands, and a big blue promotional poster urging me to buy the latest Beatles album.
“What is this dinosaur place?” Grey curiously twirls a stand with dusty vinyls, eyeing me with amusement.
“A record store.” I pull him over to one of my favorite sections: Classical.
He rolls his eyes when he reads the identifier wedged between some Mozart and Bach. “Not surprised. You know,” he says, plucking a Vivaldi record and examining the cover art—with disgust, of course, “sometimes I think you were born in the wrong time period.”
“I think so too,” I tell him honestly. I run my fingers across the back of a Tchaikovsky. “Though there is nothing wrong with enjoying a good group of violas and clarinets every once in a while.”
“Um, yes, there is.” He bumps me with his hip. I smirk at him. “You’re nineteen, super young—”
“—compared to your withering age—” I add.
“—and should be enjoying the stylings of Taylor Swift and Harry Styles or some shit. And hey! I am not withering. I’m twenty-two years old.” He hip bumps me again. I bump him right back, slipping the record down and picking up another.
“What was that?” I cup my ear. “I don’t speak caveman.”
“You are so mean to me, it’s unbelievable.” He clicks his tongue against his inner cheek. He’s smiling.
“I’m sorry. Here.” I turn around to the Jazz section. I skim through records before going “aha!” and picking up a record. I turn back around; he’s staring at me intently, smile ghosting his lips. “Billie will be glad to cheer you up and pick up your heart.” I wave the record beside my face, with a grin.
He shakes his head and walks closer. “Nothing can cheer me up more than you. Especially,” he takes a threatening step forward, and I take one back; he smirks, “your lips on mine…” He leans down.
Billie’s lips meet his. “Maybe next time, buddy.”
He growls impatiently and pulls the record away. “Next time isn’t in my vocabulary.”
“Pick up a dictionary to widen it,” I retort.
He makes a stinging noise, touching his chest. “Lay it on me, be a meanie. It makes you look sexy.” He loops an arm around my waist, pulls me into his chest. “With the fire in your big eyes, the pursing of your pink lips…” He pauses and leans down to my ear. “Makes me want to bend you over and—”
“Stop being so insatiable, Grey Wyler.” I push him back, and he stumbles a bit, recovering with a laugh that cajoles a blush to my cheeks. He leans against a stand of country music.
“You make that near impossible, Olivia Westerfield,” he mocks.
I stick my tongue out at him before turning to the Jazz section. I skim the rack for a few minutes and settle on getting some Billie, Louis, and Duke. “Come on, Grandpa,” I tease Grey as I take his hand and lead him through a walkway of Blues and Opera.
“Would a grandpa do this?” He slaps me on the butt.
I gasp and wheel around; he pulls me into his chest with a wink. “If he were delusional or a predator.”
“I’m not crazy or an 80’s movie creature,” he defends with a pout.
“I meant the—not the movie kind, you goof.” I laugh at his mention of a movie that I did not enjoy watching.
He shrugs, digging his thumbs in his jeans. “Does it matter?”
“With your messed-up mind, I’m afraid not.” With a shake of my head, I turn to the Blues section.
“I used to listen to music every day,” I tell him with an airy, nostalgic bass in my voice. “Louise and I would dance around the sun room, listening to Ella Fitzgerald, and sing along to dramatic opera songs—” I glance at the section beside me with a laugh. “She used to tell me I could sing dead birds back to life. Plants she forgot to water. Anything, really.”
His hand glides down my arm, and even though I’m wearing a coat, I can still feel the bare tip of his fingers. Feel the electricity bite my skin. “I bet you can. I mean, you’ve never sang for me before.” He sounds jealous, kind of accusing.
I can’t help but laugh.
“I can’t. Not really.” I shake my head and glide my fingers along dusty vinyls, feeling sad people nowadays don’t buy and appreciate this form of art. I want to buy them all and store them and dance to the music. With him. I can imagine his eyes watching me like a predator—not the movie kind—and join me as I do the Black Bottom, a dance popular in the roaring 20s, however foolish he looked.
“Let me be the judge of that,” he says, pulling me from my silly thoughts.
I look into his eyes. He isn’t playing around or teasing me. He’s dead serious. I nervously glance over at Mr. Ming, the owner of the shop. He’s usually very snappy and mean. I avert my gaze when he narrows his eyes into slits at me. I clear my throat and shake my head, blushing.
“Not here,” I whisper.
He bends his neck. “Why not?” he mock whispers.
I punch his shoulder. “Because I can’t sing, and we’re in public.”
His eyes flit around, and he chuckles. “We’re literally the only ones in here,” he points out, and I look around. He’s right, which proves my statement correct; no one values this style of music anymore. People would rather buy a cheap song with no meaning. All the singers nowadays sing about is “baby” and “big booties.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I walk over to the opera section, bite my lip as I scan the rack.
His presence forms behind me, and I sigh as he loops his arms around me, dropping his chin on the crook of my shoulder. “Please. For me.” The sincerity and low tone of his voice is what gets me.
I sigh and play with his hair. “When we get back to the cabin.”
He straightens with a victorious smile that makes me question if he just acted sullen to make me agree, but then I see the childish gleam in his eyes, and I know he really wants to hear me sing. Well, if it makes him so happy, I’ll sing every record in this damned store.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He points a finger at me.
I bite at the tip, and he wags it at me with a gasp. “Go ahead.”
Grey follows me around the store as I pick up vinyls. By the
time we check out, our hands are filled with all kinds of music, ranging from blues, to jazz, to classical, to opera, to rock—his choice—to soul. I stare at them and hold the bag containing them like it’s my baby, mentally cooing at them.
My phone breaks up my motherly bonding.
“Who is it?” Grey asks when I pull my phone out of my pocket.
My father.
“No one,” I tell him, pocketing it.
He glances at me a few seconds too long.
“I’m serious.” I reach over and lace our fingers together.
“Liv,” he warns.
“Grey,” I mock.
He looks at me again, worry swirling in his black eyes. He wants to know who called me, what’s bothering me enough for me to hide it, but I give him a look that tells him I can’t talk about it. I plead it to him with a smile and my eyes. Sighing heavily, he looks at the road and grips the wheel.
“You are so stubborn.” He huffs.
I lift his hand and kiss his marred knuckles. “I know. I get it from you.”
He scrunches his nose, and I mock him, doing the same thing. He glances at my bunched-up nose and laughs. Shaking his head, he looks onto the road, and I watch the shadows of the night fall on his face. I smile contentedly and face the road myself, playing with his thumb.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he questions incredulously, pulling me to his side when I start for the stairs.
“To bed.” I yawn into my hand. “We’ve been walking all around town—I’m tired.”
“You’ll sleep when you’re dead,” he says.
“How cheerful you are.”
He kisses my temple, and I smile softly. “You promised to sing for me, and I expect you to live up to your promise.” He stops walking when we’re in the sunroom of the cabin. He scans the spacious room and smirks when he finds a record player in the corner. I bought one for the cabin, to listen to music when I wasn’t at the main house. When I wanted to escape.
“You do keep your promises, don’t you?” He looks over his shoulder as he walks up to the familiar contraption.
Grey: Everlasting (Spectrum Series Book 6) Page 18