“Did you get the basket?”
My eyes snap up to see those familiar slate-gray eyes that are even darker than I remember. Except now they are lidded with desire.
“She told you?” Embarrassment causes even my fingers to pink up. How is it that this man can get me to blush? After twenty-four years, I thought it wasn’t possible. And it isn’t. Except with him.
Cold air creeps in through the open door. It makes me realize I’m only wearing my sleep shirt that barely covers my ass cheeks. Griffin notices, too.
His unblinking gaze rakes over my bare legs. I can feel his eyes on my flesh as they wash over me, prickling my skin with heat everywhere he looks. He caresses me with his stare and I’m just sleepy enough to let him. His eyes grow wide when they fall on my chest, my nipples pebbling under the thin material of my shirt.
His reaction, however wrong, makes me hot. My libido—that is set to a constant simmer these days—is instantly taken up to a full-on boil simply by the heat of his stare.
“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, his voice dripping with lust and need. “I’m the one who sent it.”
I shake my head in confusion. “You?” Was I dreaming earlier when Erin called me?
“Yes, me.” He comes through the front door, uninvited, and closes it behind him. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. I’ve seen the fire in you. I know you’re horny. I don’t want you with other men. I got you these things so you don’t need anyone else.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask.
“Because.” He grabs my hand, pulling me across the room. “They would deliver it, but they wouldn’t set them up.” He gently pushes me down on the couch. “I’m here to help you with that.”
“Uh . . .” My mind races. Is this some kind of joke? I reach for the blanket to cover myself up, but he grabs it.
“No.” He throws it on the floor behind him. “I’m not here to watch you cover up, Sky. It’s quite the opposite.”
He walks into my bedroom, leaving me in a pool of unanswered questions on the couch. He called me Sky. He’s here to help me with the sex toys. I’m trying to wrap my brain around it when he comes back in the room with the basket.
Shirtless.
Oh, God.
He kneels before me, putting the basket beside him. “We’ll get to those later. The first one is all mine.”
Before I can ask him what first one, he parts my legs and stares at my crotch. He smiles a half smile. A crooked, sexy smile that has my brain shutting down and ignoring all the reasons flying through my head that assure me how wrong this is.
Maybe this was part of the package, I surmise. Maybe Erin sent him to me. She said he looks at me. She said he would think about me using the things in the basket. Wait, no, she didn’t send them—he did.
Desire blurs my vision as well as my judgment. I can do this. We can do this and not ruin everything. It’s just one time. One little act. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
My body trembles and I look down to see Griffin touching me there, through my wet panties.
He holds up the lubricant with his other hand. “We won’t be needing this,” he says. “You’re so wet, Sky. You want this.”
“No. We can’t.” My weak words are a direct contradiction of what my body is telling him.
“She wants this, baby. It’s okay,” he says, moving my soaked panties aside, slipping a long finger inside of me.
She wants this. Who, Erin? Maybe they’re not who I thought they were, after all. Maybe they want to pull me into some sort of polygamous relationship.
Griffin adds another finger, crooking them up to find the precise spot that has me throwing my head back, not caring who is doing what to me as long as it results in me coming all over, satiating this carnal need building inside me.
“That’s it, Sky, ride my fingers. Just like that.” He lowers his head, showing me what he intends to do. “I’m going to taste you now. I’m going to make you come over and over. First with my tongue and then with every single thing in the basket.”
Before I can protest, his tongue laves me. Oh. My. God. He’s only been at this for thirty seconds and all I can think of is that Erin was right. He’s got fucking talent.
My thighs tighten. Heat burns through my belly. A wave comes crashing over me. I buck my groin into him, pushing his fingers deeper, drawing out every last quiver of my orgasm.
“Griffin . . . Oh, God. Yes!” I cry out. My eyes fly open and even before the spasms die down, guilt washes over me. I look down at Griffin only to find him gone, replaced by my own fingers that are still caressing my center, heavily coated with my juices.
I quickly look around to see I’m in my bed. And I’m completely alone. My head falls back against my pillow.
Thank God!
A dream. That’s all it was. Another fantasy about the man who is forbidden.
An unexpected sob causes tears to spill over the rims of my eyelids, the salty liquid rolling down the sides of my head and into my hair. I’m just not sure if they are guilty tears, or if I’m mourning the loss of a man I can never have.
chapter seven
Erin has incredible fashion sense. I have to admit, the dress looks damn good on me. Even the extra material at the waist looks intentional. My newfound cleavage is the clear purpose of this dress, and like Erin said, why not flaunt it while I’ve got it.
I do feel pretty, which is welcome considering yesterday—only one day after I was proud that all my jeans still fit—I had trouble buttoning up my favorite pair.
I decide to put my hair in a French twist and add a little more mascara than I usually do. I even have the perfect green wedges to pair with the dress. The whole look has me feeling new and fresh. I’ll have to remember to thank Erin again later.
Walking to work, I make a point to notice some heads turning. It makes me feel good even though I won’t do anything about it. The new Skylar doesn’t do hookups.
I smile to myself when Trent gives me a low whistle as I pass by the bar on the way to the back.
“Whoa!” Mindy stops in her tracks to stare at my boobs. “Where did those babies come from? You look incredible, Skylar. What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” I say. “It’s something Erin bought me and she said I should wear it. That’s all.”
“Can you ask her to outfit me, too?” she jokes. “Because you could seriously get any man you wanted wearing that number.”
I roll my eyes at her exaggeration while I inventory the morning deliveries.
“Hey, speaking of Erin,” Mindy says, “she called earlier to set up a cooking lesson for Griffin.”
I stiffen. I can’t look at Mindy. If I do, she’ll see my flushed face. The last person I need to think about right now is Griffin Pearce.
I nonchalantly ask, “And?”
“And she asked if you were busy today at three. I checked your schedule and you’re free,” she says. “So Griffin is coming then.” I can feel her eyes bore into the back of my head.
“Today?” I chide myself for speaking two octaves above my normal range. I look at my watch and then up at Mindy. “As in, he’s coming in a few hours?”
“Yeah. Why, is that a problem?” A smile creeps up her face, turning into a full-on smirk.
“Problem? Uh, no. But—”
“But what?” She raises a devious brow. “But you were screaming his name in bed last night. Is that the problem?”
I’m certain the blood drains from my face.
Thankfully, Jarod, our new waiter, comes in the back to tell Mindy she has a new table. She winks at me and heads out front.
I spend the next few hours thinking of an excuse to call and cancel. I have Griffin’s number programmed into my phone for baby emergencies. I could simply text him and tell him we got slammed here, or that a waiter called in sick and I need to cover. Anything to move his lesson to some other day. Any other day where I hadn’t just orgasmed from dreaming of him.
I vow to sen
d a text when I’m done talking to Trent. Well, I’m talking to Trent—Trent is talking to my boobs. After he tells me what to put on today’s liquor order, he nods to a nearby table. “You expecting someone, boss?”
Even before I turn around, I know he’s here. There is a crackle in the air. It causes the fine hairs on my neck to stand at attention. The oxygen exits my body and my heart rate goes up.
I turn around to see Griffin sitting at the same high-top where he sat the day we met. And like that day, and every day I’ve seen him since, he sports the same dark-as-night stubble on his face. A manly sprinkling of coarse hair along his jaw that has me wondering if he ever uses a razor.
I can barely look at him, let alone into his eyes. The man gave me an earth-shattering orgasm last night. Hell, I practically needed a cigarette afterward. I can’t ever remember coming that hard before. I’m sure I’m three shades of red when I finally convince my feet to walk the ten steps over to his table.
“I know I’m early,” he says. “But I just finished a job nearby. I can wait here until you’re ready.”
I look out into the main room. There are still quite a few tables occupied. I try to think of a way to get out of this. I could go tell Mindy to fake being sick. But then I’d have a lot of explaining to do later at home. Plus, this seems to be important to Erin so I’ll have to do it sooner or later. I might as well start now.
“Trent can get you a drink,” I say. “Before we get started, I’ll have to make sure most of the orders are ready and we’ve finished prepping our catering bids for the day.” I turn to Trent. “Get him a drink on me. I’ll be back in a few.”
I go to the kitchen to see it winding down after the lunch rush. How am I going to get through this? I go in my office and, on my laptop, I pull up a few simple recipes I can teach him. I settle on lasagna. I print it out and quickly use the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror, I’m reminded of what I’m wearing. Of what Erin insisted I wear today. Today—the day she sends her husband in for a cooking lesson. Sometimes I wonder if she’s got her head screwed on right. Is she testing him? Me? I take a few deep breaths. I can do this. I simply need to focus on the cooking. As long as I don’t look at him, it’ll be fine.
I grab a few things on my way back to the bar. I put them down on Griffin’s table. “First things first,” I say. “You can choose between a hat and a hair net.” He picks the Mitchell’s ball cap I offered. “And you need to wear a chef’s coat or an apron.” He chooses the ‘Eat at Mitchell’s’ apron.
He follows me back to the kitchen. “How does this thing go on?” he asks, fumbling with the long straps of the apron.
I laugh when I look at him. The man has no idea how to put on an apron. I take it from him. I lean in and slip it over his head. When I do, I realize my mistake. Getting this close to him—smelling him—is not a good idea. It’s causing some kind of visceral reaction in my body that I don’t seem to have any control over. I reach around his back, crossing the straps, bringing them around to his front. Our faces come close. Too close. I realize I’m practically hugging the man and when I unwittingly look into his steely eyes, my stomach flutters. I momentarily wonder if it’s the baby moving, but I remember Erin telling me it would probably be another month before I could feel that.
Griffin is keeping a respectable distance, with his arms held out to the side, giving me room to work. I try not to think about the fact that he is draped in Mitchell. He looks damn good with my name all over him. I close my eyes while I finish tying the apron.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re not still sick are you?”
I shake my head. “No. Not for a few weeks now.” I take a few steps away from him, over to where I keep my own cooking uniform. My body relaxes a little at the distance between us. I put my apron and hat on, take another deep breath and turn back around.
Now it’s his turn to laugh. He’s looking at the apron I’m wearing. I wear it so often, I sometimes forget what it says. It has a picture of a cartoon pig and says ‘Every Butt Loves a Rub.’ I look down at it and feel the heat coming up my face.
Then he eyes my ball cap. “Yankees, huh?”
“Well, I did grow up thirty minutes from here. Plus, my friend, Jenna, is engaged to their batting coach, Jake Hanson.”
“I’ll let it slide, since I know you have to wear a hat in the kitchen,” he says, mocking irritation. “But I’ll have you know, if I see you wearing that on the street, all bets are off.”
“Not a fan?” I ask.
“I grew up in Ohio,” he says. “Indians all the way.”
I feel a twinge inside my heart. I wonder if he’s as big a baseball fan as I am. Growing up, my dad would take me and my sisters to Yankees games one at a time. It was his way of bonding with us individually. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from those games. It makes me smile thinking that maybe Griffin will do something like that with his kid.
“You know, Jake could probably get you some good seats when they play here, if you want me to ask.”
His face lights up. “Really? That would be fantastic.” He eyes me skeptically. “Wait, he wouldn’t make me wear Yankees crap, would he?”
Laughing, I say, “Well, if Jenna comes, she’ll probably spit on you if you aren’t.”
He contemplates this. “I don’t think I could, in good conscience, wear anything but Indians garb.”
I nod, understanding loyalty to sports teams. “I could try to get you tickets to a game when Jenna is working.”
“Aww, that’d be great!”
The sincere smile on his face makes the skin of his eyes crinkle. He looks almost childlike and for a brief second I wonder if the kid I’m carrying will look like him.
I nod towards the kitchen door. “You ready to get started?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Hey, thanks for doing this. I know Erin strong-armed us both into it.”
“It’s not a problem,” I tell him. “Besides, have you met your wife? She’s kind of hard to say no to.”
He laughs. “You have no idea,” he says, shaking his head.
We spend the next half hour gathering supplies, boiling homemade lasagna noodles, browning Italian sausage and hamburger, and putting ingredients into a pot of sauce.
“So, what kind of job did you have earlier?” I ask.
He stirs the sauce exactly like I showed him. “It was for Vogue. Their regular photographer got held up in L.A., so they called me in. I’ve done stuff for them before.”
“Vogue, really?” I try not to sound too impressed, but I totally am. “What did you shoot?”
“It was a Valentine’s Day spread,” he tells me.
“Isn’t it kind of early for that, like six months early?”
“That’s how far out they shoot them,” he says.
“It must be pretty great for a guy like you to be surrounded by hot models all the time,” I say.
“Nah, not really,” he says, shrugging it off. “Most of them get Photoshopped anyway. They’ve got nothing on Erin and you.”
I give him my ‘have you grown a third arm?’ look.
“What?” he says. “It’s true. You and Erin could both be models.”
“Erin could be a model,” I say. “She’s gorgeous.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Skylar,” he says. “You’re very beautiful, too. You are much more natural than the models I shoot. They’re all anorexic. You are real. And that dress you have on today, it really brings out the green in your eyes. You really look great.”
I smirk when he quickly averts his eyes from the cleavage that still shows above my apron. I grab a disposable tasting spoon and reach into the pan to take another bite of sausage.
Griffin eyes me. “You’re going to get fat eating that much meat,” he jokes. “Isn’t that like your millionth taste?”
My jaw drops. “I know you didn’t just call out a pregnant woman for eating,” I scold him.
“I was teasing,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Do you not read any of the books Erin buys for you?” I spit at him. “I mean, it’s Pregnancy 101: don’t call a pregnant woman fat.”
“I wasn’t calling you fat,” he says, shaking his head. “I said you would get fat if you kept eating. There’s a difference. I wasn’t sure you were aware of the fact that you’d eaten half the sausage.”
“Ugh!” I pout, stomping my foot. He just did it again. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t actually say those exact words,” I say. “It still makes me feel self-conscious. I mean, imagine you were going to get fatter than you’ve ever been, but you couldn’t do anything to stop it. And then someone points out how much you eat.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It won’t happen again. For Christ’s sake, Sky, you’re thin and healthy. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it.”
I throw the spoon into the trash with so much force that it bounces back out. “Skylar,” I say. “My name is Skylar. Not Sky.”
“Geez, Skylar,” he says, putting emphasis on my name. He walks over and picks the spoon up off the floor, depositing it back into the trash. “Those pregnancy hormones are really doing a number on you.”
My lips come together, forming a thin line as my eyes spit fire. What a jackass. I can’t believe this man made me come in my dreams. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.
“Don’t say fuck,” he says.
“I’ll say fuck if I want to say fuck,” I bellow out, causing my kitchen staff to stop and watch our exchange. “First you tell me how hot I am, even though you’re married—to my best friend, I might add. Then you say I’m fat, and now I’m hormonal? Griffin, you’re batting a fucking thousand today.”
He comes close and whispers through gritted teeth into my ear. “Will. You. Please. Stop. Saying. Fuck?” Each word a staccato that has his hot breath flowing over my neck. I almost have to leave the kitchen. Pissed off Griffin is even hotter than regular Griffin.
He pulls away and tries to speak so only I can hear. “Listen, Skylar,” he says quietly, holding me in place with his stare. “First of all, Erin told me to compliment you. She said pregnant women feel ugly and I should tell you that you’re pretty. I’m trying to make her happy. I’m trying to make you happy. Hell, she’s as hormonal as you are. She cries at the drop of a hat these days. You should feel sorry for me. I have two women to handle.”
White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) Page 6