by A. D. Ryan
My phone buzzes again, and this time, I see the screen light up on the top of my dresser. Groaning, I crawl out of bed and grab my phone to check a missed text message from my mom, wondering if I want to go for lunch with her and my dad. They’re even offering to come and pick me up.
Food is really the last thing on my mind right now; I need to get rid of this headache first. Though, after that, I know I’ll need hangover food, and I bet I can convince them to go to IHOP.
I quickly return my mother’s text and ask if I can choose the restaurant before setting my phone down and opening my bedroom door. Across the hall, I can see that Greyston’s door is wide open and his bed is made. I poke my head out into the hall and listen, not hearing anything. The silence suffocates me, and I fear he’s avoiding me, which makes me feel queasy. I realize just how hypocritical that sounds since that’s exactly what I did last night when he knocked on my bedroom door and I pretended to be asleep.
My phone vibrates again, and I read my mom’s response; they’ll be here in about an hour to pick me up for lunch. My choice of restaurant.
Knowing I don’t have very long, I head into my bathroom to quickly brush my teeth so I can go downstairs to grab a cup of coffee and maybe a piece of toast to help the light stomachache I’ve got. I stop just inside the bright bathroom when I spot a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol sitting next to my sink, and I smile at how thoughtful Greyston is.
Maybe I’m over-reacting about all of this.
I take two of the pills from the bottle and pick up the glass, noticing that the water is still chilled. This can only mean he’d been in my room not too long ago.
After taking them, I go about ridding my mouth of the foul after-taste of alcohol, coffee, and sleep. Looking into the mirror, I cringe at the sight of my hair; it’s an absolute mess, so I take a minute to remove the hairpins and brush it, cursing at myself for not doing it the night before. Once it’s looking a little less like I should be doing the walk of shame, I wash my face and button my flannel shirt before heading downstairs for coffee.
I glance into the living room to see that Greyston isn’t there. I poke my head through the basement door, and I hear nothing. Finally, I enter the kitchen, and he’s still nowhere to be found. The smell of fresh coffee greets me, though, and as usual, sitting next to the coffee maker is an empty mug. I pour myself some coffee, adding only a small splash of cream and sugar so as not to upset my stomach, and pop a slice of bread into the toaster.
While I wait for my toast to pop, the sliding door opens, forcing me to spin around, my heart racing wildly. He looks fantastic in a pair of slightly worn-out blue jeans and a grey long-sleeved t-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, which then brings back the memory of how his stubble felt beneath my hand right before I kissed him. The memory makes me blush, and I have to avert my eyes from him.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. “Hey,” he says softly.
“Morning,” I reply. “Where…? I mean, I didn’t…”
His hesitance radiates off him. “I’ve been out on the patio,” he tells me, answering the question I couldn’t finish. “Thinking.”
With a slight nod, I offer him a smile, knowing full well that if I open my mouth, I’ll spill my guts to him, and I’m just not ready to deal with that yet. Before he can see the deepening blush that is slowly staining my cheeks, I return my gaze to the toaster.
“How are you feeling?”
I know I can’t refuse to answer a direct question without coming across as rude or hostile, so I shrug, still focusing rather intently on the red elements inside the toaster. “Physically? Not as bad as I probably should,” I reply.
Through the corner of my vision, I see him approach. “Juliette…”
I turn, pleading with my eyes not to bring up what happened last night. My stomach feels uneasy, and my heart continues to race when he reaches out and takes my hand in his. I glance down at the contact, watching his thumb move back and forth over the back of my hand—just like it did last night…right before I left with Erik.
“About last night,” I say, speaking up before he can. “I’m so sorry. I guess I was just feeling kind of down on myself after finding out that yet another guy was able to pull the wool over my eyes. I was looking for a little…validation?” I stop talking immediately, because I know I’m not making this any better. I glance up at him through my lashes to find him smiling. I want to believe that he’s harboring no ill will toward me, but somehow I’m doubtful.
“I’m not sure why you’re apologizing. You didn’t act alone.”
There’s a huge part of me that wants to take comfort in his statement. The problem is, every time I remember just how two-sided our almost-affair was, I kind of go catatonic, because the memory of just how amazing it felt when his thick, hard—
Inhaling a shaky breath, I force myself to stop thinking about it before I get myself into even more trouble. “I’m apologizing because I never should have kissed you. It was wrong. You said so yourself.”
Greyston’s eyebrows pull together, and he looks absolutely baffled. “Wrong? I never once said it was wrong.”
“But it was,” I tell him, running my available hand through my hair and gripping tightly at the roots until it stings. “God, on so many levels.”
“Name one.” The strength in his voice makes it sound like he’s challenging me.
Looking him dead in the eye, I answer in an unwavering voice. “Toby. There’s one.”
“What? How do you figure?” I can only look at him, because how can he think Toby isn’t a factor in all of this?
Greyston moves to cradle my face in his hands, looking deep into my eyes. The intensity of his stare reminds me of the night before, and I fail to answer his question in lieu of getting lost in him. My hands move mindlessly to his waist, my thumbs looping into the belt loops on his jeans and holding steady.
Greyston’s eyes close, and he rests his forehead to mine. His thumbs begin to move gently along my temples, lulling my own eyes shut as I give in to the tingle that is moving through me and sigh. “Forget about him,” he whispers.
There’s a very brief moment of time that I do forget about him. I forget about him long enough to tug Greyston’s body closer to mine. Long enough to stand on the tips of my toes and let my lips graze his.
Then I remember him—remember everything—and I pull away, covering my mouth with the tips of my fingers and shaking my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t, Greyston. He matters; I know he does. How can you deny that?”
It pains me to watch the expression on Greyston’s face contort to one so defeated. “I guess I can’t.” I nod solemnly and turn to the toast that had popped a few minutes ago and is now cold.
I’ve just started to butter it when Greyston leans against the counter right next to me. “Can I just ask you one thing?” he asks, his voice not belying the fact that he’s somewhat distraught. Not wanting to refuse him, I nod. “Why him?”
Confused by his question, I set the butter knife down and look at him. “You tell me.”
I can tell he’s frustrated, I just don’t understand why. My head hurts again, but I’m fairly certain it’s not from my hangover. I run his question over and over in my mind, but it doesn’t seem to matter how I try to spin it, I can’t make sense of why he’s asking.
“I don’t know what it is you want me to say,” Greyston says. “You’re the one who keeps bringing him up. Always asking about him… You do know he’s not available, right?”
Dumbfounded, I stare at him. “Uh, yeah I know that. You guys made it pretty obvious the day I met him.”
Silence falls between us, and we continue to stare at one another. He looks just about as perplexed as I feel, and it takes a minute, but he finally speaks again. “So, you know that he and Callie are engaged…and yet, you still—”
“Wait…what?” I interrupt, my confusion reaching an all-time high. “No…I… What do you mean he and Callie are—? I thought that…”
“Oh god,” I whisper into my hands.
Greyston regards me with raised eyebrows as I internally kick myself for jumping to yet another wrong—and much, much worse—conclusion. “Wait, so you didn’t know that he and Callie were together?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond before he starts his own little connect-the-dot puzzle. “But you said you knew he was involved? And you said that we made it…” The instant his eyes widen, I cringe and await his outburst.
He backs away from me, and I open my mouth to begin yet another round of apologies, but no words come out. This happens several times, but it’s Greyston who beats me to it, yet again.
“So, you thought…?” He’s pacing on the other side of the island, looking at me, then the floor, then at me again. “That day you met Toby, you…you thought that we were together?”
My face kind of scrunches up, and I shrug in response. “Would you believe me if I said I was just kidding?” He stops pacing and looks at me with an unreadable expression. “No? Didn’t think so. In my defense, I asked all sorts of questions, and every answer that both of you gave led me there. You even introduced him as your partner.”
“Business partner,” Greyston corrects. Even though I feel like he should be furious, he looks amused and somewhat relieved by this turn of events.
He moves around the island again until he’s standing a few feet away, but it’s me who takes that final step. Greyston reaches up to push a few strands of hair away from my face. He’s handling my blunder far better than I think he should be—not that I’m complaining.
Slowly, his hands move down until they rest along my jaw and neck. The tips of his fingers tickle, and the tiny hairs all over my body prickle. I shiver.
We stand in the kitchen, silent as we try to absorb everything we’d just unearthed. The way he’s looking down at me should feel odd, but for some unknown reason, this—being in his arms—just feels right.
“I’ve made a lot of assumptions in the past two weeks,” I admit quietly, and Greyston chuckles. “So, in order to clear a few things up, I’m going to ask you one thing.”
Greyston nods, leaning forward and kissing my forehead lightly. I sigh when the warmth of the gesture spreads beneath my skin. “Ask me anything,” he whispers, kissing my right cheek next and making my legs tremble. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” Then he kisses my left cheek, and my fingers curl against my thigh. Finally, he kisses the tip of my nose, and I giggle. “Ask away.”
“So, just to clarify for my own personal peace of mind, you’re not gay?”
Greyston breathes out a single laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’d even think that, because from the minute I opened that damn door, all I seem to be able to think about is you.”
My heart is pounding so hard it’s all I hear behind the echo of his confession. Needing him closer, I wrap my arms around his neck. I break eye contact with him and run my lips over his stubbled jaw, stopping when I reach his mouth. “Kiss me.”
I barely have a chance to take a breath before Greyston’s lips collide with mine. One of his hands remains in my hair while his other arm snakes itself around my waist and picks me up so our faces are level. I thread my fingers through his soft hair, refusing to let him pull away like he did last night.
Kissing Greyston now, sober, is definitely better than it was last night. Maybe because now I know that the feelings I have for him aren’t unrequited at all. The arm that’s around my back shifts until he’s palming my backside, and I remove one of my own hands from his hair, placing it flat on the counter behind me to hoist myself onto it.
Before setting me down completely, Greyston’s hand moves down my ass, over my thigh, and his fingers hook under my knee, pulling it up and hitching it tightly around his waist before it slooooowly glides back up and slips into the leg of my sleep shorts.
Needing him closer, my other leg tightens around him, my heel resting just above the back of his knee, and I pull him forward a step until he’s tucked firmly between my thighs. The fingers of his right hand curl into the soft flesh of my ass beneath my shorts, pulling me forward, and I moan into his mouth when I feel a firm bulge behind his jeans.
I’m not overly experienced in sex or anything that might go along with it; I’ve never initiated it, and I never really cared if I got it one way or another. Of course, if I had felt half the things I am right now—the warmth that covers my body, the toe-curling, sensual tingle that’s coursing through me, the manic racing of my heart, and the deep pulsing between my legs—I might have been a little more excited by the idea.
Greyston takes his time, almost like he’s trying to memorize every part of me. He’s sweet and sensual, his hands soft as the glide over my body. Ben always seemed to be in a rush.
It’s intense and foreign to me. Plain and simple. And I want more.
I remove my hand from his hair and slip both arms between us, curving my back so I can keep kissing him and undo the button on his jeans. He moves to pull his lips from mine, but I react instantly, one of my hands returning to his hair now that it’s finished aiding and abetting the other’s dastardly mission.
Thankfully, he doesn’t resist, his tongue gently massaging mine. I’ll be honest; I never used to like kissing like this and avoided it entirely when I could. Ben was like a wild dog, salivating all over my mouth and chin.
But Greyston? Oh, god. His lips are soft, the pressure alternating between gentle and firm and bringing a delightful pulse to the surface of my own. Then there’s his tongue… well, it’s like he’s teasing me, giving me just the smallest taste of him for seconds at a time before robbing me of the sensation entirely. It’s maddening, but in the best possible way.
Confident that Greyston isn’t going to stop kissing me, I release my hold on his hair slightly while my other hand slowly lowers his zipper. He groans, and the hand that he’s had tangled in my hair since we began kissing unweaves itself and moves down my neck. His thumb presses firm against the skin along my jaw, pushing my head back and breaking our kiss. His lips press down just below my jaw, following the hard trail his thumb is leaving down the length of my neck. The minute he reaches my collarbone, his hand leaves my body, but his mouth remains focused on the hollow of my throat—kissing, licking, nipping, and driving me crazy with desire.
I move to protest the loss of his hand, but before I can, I feel the backs of his knuckles against my ribs as he works to undo my flannel top. His agile fingers have it open in seconds, and soon his hand is hovering above my breast. I’ve still got my tank top on, but it’s so thin that I can feel absolutely everything.
He’s barely touching me, and yet I’ve never felt so much pleasure. The palm of his hand ghosts over the peak of my breast, both of my nipples hardening at the barely-there sensation, and I thrust my chest forward in hopes of forcing his touch.
He chuckles against my neck, his warm breath against my skin causing an uprising of gooseflesh. “Easy,” he whispers, tightening his hold on my ass and pulling me toward him again, giving me just a small tease of what my body so desperately wants.
I whimper and plead with him, but he continues to drive me wild with whatever devilish plot he’s cooked up to prolong my pleasure. He doesn’t give in no matter how much I tell him to, and I decide that I’ll just have to convince him another way.
I bring my feet up, hook them into the waist of his jeans, and try to work them down. He lifts his face, his gaze burning into my own, and he shakes his head. “Juliette…”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I want to.”
“So do I,” he assures me firmly. “But I won’t have my way with you on the kitchen counter…yet.”
I pull his face back to mine and kiss him harder than before. When I press my body closer to his, his hand finally makes contact with my brea
st, and I moan shamelessly against his busy lips when he squeezes firmly.
“Please,” I plead, a tremor working through my body when his fingers curl over the top of my shirt, preparing to pull it down.
I’m lost to everything but the two of us. All I smell is Greyston’s cologne. All I taste is the coffee he had to drink this morning. All I see is the blue of his eyes. All I hear is our collective moans filling the kitchen. All I feel are his soft lips, his strong hands, his hard—
“Oh my!” My mother’s shrill voice burns through my perfect little bubble like a meteor, forcing Greyston and I to frantically scramble apart as we try to cover any exposed parts; thankfully we hadn’t gone as far as I was hoping to, so there wasn’t a lot to be seen. “I’ll, uh…we’ll…”
We. I don’t have to turn around to know what that means—but I do, because apparently I’m masochistic.
I turn to find my mom pushing my wide-eyed father from the kitchen. “We knocked,” she’s saying, probably to me. “No one answered. The door was unlocked. We’re so sorry.”
I’m petrified. Embarrassed. Horrified that they saw me in a less than innocent position. With Greyston. My landlord. Who my father used to like.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, burying my face in my hands. “I knew they were coming over to take me to lunch. I didn’t think… Oh, god.”
Greyston doesn’t say anything, but I feel his warm hands wrap around my wrists and pull them down. “You keep doing that.” I look up at him through my lashes, my eyebrows pulled together. “Apologizing,” he clarifies.
I laugh dryly and drop my eyes to the floor. However, on their descent, I catch a glimpse of the top of his underwear and smirk. He must know what’s caught my attention, because he reaches for his jeans and moves quickly to do them up.
“Ooooh no,” I tell him, grabbing for his jeans and pulling them open again. I glance up at him once more before looping my index finger into the elastic waist of his underwear…his pink underwear. With a giggle, I pull him back to me before doing his pants up for him.