STILL (Grip Book 2)

by Kennedy Ryan

  “Ahhh. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Griiiiiiip.” In the midst of what borders on an out-of-body experience, I slam my palm into the wall for support. “Oh, please don’t stop. Yes! Dammit, yes.”

  His mouth, right at the nexus of my pleasure, dips my inhibitions into boiling water, and they dissolve. Discretion takes a flying leap off Orgasm Falls, and I’m coming loudly and with unladylike enthusiasm when there’s a startled gasp from the other side of the heavy wooden door and then an awkward cough.

  Grip freezes and reaches up to cover my mouth with his hand. His eyes are laughing and his lips are shiny. “Why are you so loud?”

  I jerk away from his hand and narrow my eyes still teary from my cataclysmic orgasm.

  “You bit my clit,” I hiss. “What did you expect?”

  “Um, Bristol?” Charm taps the door, her voice sounding awkward. “We’re, uhhhh . . . out here when you’re ready to come—I mean, um, come out . . . here.”

  “We’ll be right out,” I reply with false brightness before lowering my voice to a whisper. “You think they heard me?”

  “Seriously?” He stands, a smug grin on his face. “They heard you in the Bronx, Bris.”

  This isn’t happening. If I pretend long enough that they did not just hear me screaming my brains out mid-orgasm, maybe it will become reality, replacing this disaster where I’m still shuddering from coming hard as fuck on a stranger’s porcelain sink.

  “We should get out there.” Grip grabs the knob.

  “Wait.” I clutch his arm and hiss. I can’t stop hissing because they’ve heard enough and anything above a hiss would only tell them more. “You’ve got . . . you need to . . .”

  I pantomime rinsing my face off, furious when he tilts his head in confusion.

  “You are not going out there wearing . . . me . . . all over your face,” I whisper fiercely. “I’ll go first. You . . .”

  I motion between the faucet and his amused expression. I reach for my panties, but he holds them over his head, out of my reach, and then shoves them into a pocket of the jeans resting low on his hips.

  “I hate you,” I growl.

  “Yeah, it sounded like it.”

  He has the audacity to smirk, and it’s so damn sexy I’m tempted to hop back up on that sink. Instead I draw a deep breath, reaching for the breeding my parents paid so much for, and open the door. I want to sink through the buffed-to-high-shine hardwood floors when I see a third person has joined Charm and Bridget. Apparently, Mrs. O’Malley arrived while Grip and I were indisposed. Bridget looks uncomfortable and slightly shocked. Charm looks amused and slightly jealous. Mrs. O’Malley looks . . . Jewish.

  She’s the most Jewish looking O’Malley I’ve ever seen. That’s my first thought, and before I can pull a Charm and remind myself to be politically correct, she shakes my hand and introduces herself as Esther.

  Nailed it.

  The powder room door opens behind us and Grip steps out, turning his smile up to full wattage. Charm practically swoons.

  “You must be Mrs. O’Malley,” he says, reaching for Esther’s hand. “I’m Marlon. You have a beautiful home.”

  “It really is,” I agree. If he can recover smoothly and be all normal, so can I. “We were just admiring the powder room.”

  Abort mission.

  Why did I remind them about the powder room? But I can’t stop. My mouth runs ahead of my good sense.

  “And noticing the, um . . .” What was I noticing other than Grip’s head between my legs? “The wallpaper.”

  “Wallpaper?” Mrs. O’Malley’s thick, dark brows pull center. “There’s no wallpaper in there.”

  “Exactly,” I rush to say. “I told Grip, I said, Grip . . . um, Marlon, I’m so glad they didn’t use wallpaper in here.”

  “She did. That’s what she said.” Grip nods with great gravity. “What color would you call that paint, though, honey?”

  The polite smile freezes on my face, and my eyes jerk to find his. He’s laughing at me. His mouth is a flat line, but those eyes are a-live with laughing at me.

  “Oh . . . gosh, well, it’s such a . . . such a . . . rich color,” I stammer. I’m not a stammer-er, but it’s not every day I have an all-out orgasm within earshot of a little old Jewish lady with an Irish last name. “I’d call it . . . well . . .”

  “White?” Mrs. O’Malley offers helpfully.

  Damn. White. I didn’t exactly take note of the walls when were in there.

  “But it’s such a rich white,” I say, forcing my lips to stay curved.

  “Well, this is Tribeca,” Grip deadpans. “There’s bound to be a lot of rich whites.”

  An uncertain silence blossoms among us, one of those spaces where you’re not sure if it’s safe to laugh or if things just got really awkward. And then the most unexpected thing happens.

  Mrs. O’Malley laughs—gut-busting, bend-at-the-waist, wiping-tears laughs. It’s a hearty sound, full of life. Chuckling, she links her arm through my boyfriend’s and starts walking off to show him the place. I’m still standing there getting my shit together as their voices mingle down the hall, and then a goofy grin finally finds its way to my face.

  I knew I liked this place. Anyone who laughs like that knows how to make a home.

  Charm and I pull up the rear, with Bridget, Grip, and Esther ahead of us.

  “Bristol,” Charm whispers. “You were right.”

  “About what?” I ask cautiously.

  “That time we had that threesome with Bumpy Dick”—a skanky smirk slides onto Charm’s lips—“you definitely didn’t sound like that.”

  6

  Grip

  “You can’t keep your hands off her, can you?”

  Esther O’Malley studies me with a knowing grin. I don’t want to grin back. I should be embarrassed that this nice old lady just heard Bristol screaming her head off, but it’s hard to find the shame with Mrs. O’Malley grinning at me like a Cheshire cat.

  “Um, no, ma’am.” I chuckle and try to look chagrined. “We haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks, and I missed her. Sorry about earlier. That was . . .”

  Remarkable. Earth-shattering. World-rocking.

  “Unacceptable,” I say instead.

  “Don’t apologize. She’s a beautiful girl.” Esther glances over her shoulder at Bristol and Charm bringing up the rear. Bristol splits a glance between Esther and me with bright red cheeks. I’ve seen that girl blush more lately than I can ever remember.

  “That she is,” I agree.

  Mrs. O’Malley leads me out and into an enclosed porch of sorts that looks like it might have been a greenhouse at some point.

  “Are you two married?” she asks.

  “Is that a condition for the lease?” I frown because I really love this place, more than any of the others Bristol sent pictures of this week while I was in Europe doing shows.

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. O’Malley releases another one of those robust laughs. “Just curious.”

  “We’re not married.” I pause to offer a one-sided grin. “Yet.”

  “Engaged?” Her brows climb into silver-streaked bangs.

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for? Someone else to snatch her up?”

  Even as a joke, that idea feels like a set of jagged fangs tearing through the muscles in my stomach, though I know it would never happen. I know she’ll never be anyone else’s.

  “That’s not even . . .” I clear my throat. “No, I’m just waiting for the right time. There’s so much transition right now, so much going on. I just . . .”

  I have no idea why I’m telling a complete stranger all of this, but there’s something about this lady. Ever since she busted out laughing over my joke and took my arm, a rapport has been building between us.

  “I just want it to be right,” I finish.

  Bristol, Charm, and her mother join us in the greenhouse before Mrs. O’Malley can respond. Bristol makes her way over and slips her hand into mine while the other
ladies converse about the latest gossip in the city.

  I assume Bristol is over her embarrassment, but I still bend to whisper, “You okay?”

  I linger behind her ear, inhaling the mingled smells of her hair and perfume, heated by her pulse.

  “Yeah.” She glances at Mrs. O’Malley still chatting with Bridget and Charm. “I owe you for that nasty trick you played on me. ‘What color would you call that, honey?’” she mimics.

  “Your face.” I drop my head into the curve of her neck and chuckle. “Classic. ‘Such a rich white.’”

  “Asshole.” When she draws back, the affection in her eyes and the smile on her face remove any sting. “Do you like this place?”

  “My favorite so far, by a lot.”

  “I don’t know.” A tiny grin teases the corners of her lips. “We could always go to my old stomping grounds, the Upper East Side.”

  “I told you it’s too bougie.” I laugh because we’ve already had this debate.

  “Is bougie anything like siditty? You called me that once.”

  “That’s because you were siditty.” I dodge her small fist when it comes toward my chest. “And yes, kind of like that.”

  “But it costs just as much to live in Tribeca as it does there.”

  “Yeah, but Jay Z lives here.”

  We both laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement.

  “I really like this.” Bristol studies the outdoor porch with the comfortable couches and the table set for two in the far corner. “It reminds me of our roof at home.”

  “Be a great place to watch the sun set,” I say. “Or snow fall. You know I’ve never seen snow fall?”

  Bristol turns stunned eyes up to me.

  “Are you kidding? You’ve never seen snow? How is that possible?”

  “I’ve seen snow on the ground, but never falling.” I shrug. “I’m a Cali guy. We never had snow falling in LA. When my mom sent to me to Chicago that year the violence was off the chain in my neighborhood, it was summer, and any time I’ve seen snow, it was after the fact. I just want to catch Mother Nature in the act, see it coming down.”

  I glance around the renovated space that oozes charm and intimacy.

  “This would be a great place to watch snow fall.”

  “Yeah, this is a beautiful space,” Bristol agrees. “The whole apartment is really, and there’s a suite on the other side for Amir.”

  I slant her a disbelieving glance and a quick frown.

  “What the hell makes you think Amir’s coming with us to New York?”

  “Well, I will be away some, and you need protection.”

  Irritation rises as it usually does when someone implies that I can’t take care of myself—something I’ve been doing all my life in rougher neighborhoods than Tribeca and SoHo.

  “He doesn’t need to,” I say. “If I have an event or something, he can fly in, but I don’t need him around the clock like some shadow.”

  “Grip, you’re not just a local guy who made good and can—”

  “I don’t want that, Bris,” I cut in, softening my voice when it comes out too harsh. “I said I can take care of myself. You think Amir’s going to walk me to school every day? Sit in class and make sure no one bullies me? What the hell?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Exasperation pinches Bristol’s lips together. “Your profile—”

  “Let’s not do this right now. I don’t want to talk about my profile or my security detail.”

  I glance at Charm sitting on one of the couches, typing rapidly on her phone.

  “And I sure as hell don’t want to talk about a book deal.” I interlace my fingers with Bristol’s, tugging her close until I can see the onyx starburst in her silvery eyes. “Don’t be my manager for a minute. We’re about to live together, move across the country together. This is a big step for us. Let’s enjoy it like any other couple taking a big step.”

  She blinks up at me, a small breath shuddering past her lips. I cup her neck, spearing my fingers into her hair, and have to remind myself there are other people in the room.

  “Can we just do that?” Emotion makes my voice husky as the truth of my words sinks in. “These last two weeks away from you reminded me how much I hated being apart when I was on tour this summer and you stayed in LA.”

  She nods and squeezes my hand.

  “You uprooting your life to come with me here to New York, it humbles me, Bris.” I swallow the warm knot in my throat. “Honestly, if you hadn’t agreed to come, I might not have pursued it and would have just let this opportunity go.”

  “I know.” Her eyes are clear, completely at peace about her decision, about her sacrifice. “And I would hate being the reason you didn’t come here for this.”

  I don’t care that we aren’t alone. I don’t care that they already heard Bris screaming with my head between her legs. Let them damn well think what they like. I brush our lips together, running my tongue into the corners of her mouth, kissing her with all the tenderness she inspires inside of me, like no one ever has before.

  “Don’t stop knowing me better than everyone else does,” I say between kisses.

  It’s our greatest intimacy, the way she knows me, accepts me. This is as intimate as when I’m inside her. It’s a closeness that goes beyond bodies.

  “I’m trying.” She glances down at the flagstone floor.

  “You don’t have to try. You just know me.”

  “Well, you’re changing, evolving . . . coming into yourself, into your convictions.” She lays one hand against my jaw. “It’s awesome.”

  I don’t get the chance to probe further because Mrs. O’Malley joins us, serving us both warm helpings of her smile.

  “You two remind me so much of Patrick and me,” she says. “We should have been oil and water—me, the reserved only child from a good Jewish family, and Patrick, so loud and boisterous from his Roman Catholic clan of brothers and sisters. Neither of our families were thrilled about us being together.”

  Her assessing glance bounces between Bristol’s face and mine, and then drifts down to our joined hands.

  “We didn’t care.” Her shoulders lift as if to say c’est la vie. “We knew. We loved. We did what we wanted to do.”

  She casts a wistful look around the enclosed patio.

  “This place, our home, was our last project together.”

  “Project?” Bristol asks.

  “Yes, I was a designer and he was an architect.” She laughs quietly as if at a memory just for her. “We moved here when prices were much lower. Best investment we ever made.”

  “So you designed and decorated this place?” I ask. It’s gorgeous and modern; I never would have imagined the owners designed it themselves.

  “We did. We even gutted this rooftop greenhouse and made it more functional.” She leans into us, lowers her voice, and points one bony finger up. “We replaced all the glass, tinted—you can see out, but no one can see in. Comes in handy.” She waggles her brows. “I’m sure you can guess why we did that considering your time studying the paint in the powder room earlier.”

  Something between a horrified gasp and surprised laughter pops out of Bristol’s mouth at Mrs. O’Malley’s boldness. I’ve already seen this side of the roguish old lady, so my reaction is a little milder than Bristol’s. She ignores Bristol’s embarrassed response and waves her hand toward the table in the corner.

  “We’d have our evening meals there with candles and the view of the city.” A breathy laugh. “We’d dance out here for the longest time, song after song, and then we’d . . .”

  Her words wait on her lips while she swallows, a telling blush rising on the parchment skin of her cheeks.

  “Those were good times,” she says, her voice softer, reflective.

  “We love this place, Mrs. O’Malley.” Bristol’s voice is quiet and her eyes careful at the obvious emotion in the older woman. “We’d love to lease it, if you’d accept our offer, and we’d love to meet Mr. O’Malley.”r />
  “That won’t be possible.” Tears well in Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes before she blinks and swipes ruthlessly at her wet lashes. “He’s . . . in a facility in Connecticut. Alzheimer’s.”

  Time freezes, and even Bristol’s fingers in mine feel cold, affected by the frigid stasis. Pain saturates Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes again.

  “He chose the facility before . . .” She clears her throat. “Before he couldn’t make those choices for himself anymore. I have an apartment near him, so that’s why we’re leasing our home.”

  Fond memories collect in the watery eyes cataloguing the overstuffed outdoor furniture, the small dining table, the plants lining the periphery of the space.

  “I can’t bear to sell it yet.” The shaky line of her mouth firms, and obstinacy overtakes any sign of weakness. “And I insist on it remaining just as it is, at least until he’s . . .”

  My hand tightens around Bristol’s as Mrs. O’Malley struggles with the word she doesn’t say aloud but that still intrudes on her stubborn silence.

  Gone. Once he’s gone.

  “I’m so sorry.” Bristol touches her hand. “How long have you been together?”

  The pain shifts on Mrs. O’Malley’s face, making room for something younger, fresher, an echo of past hope.

  “Fifty years.” She laughs, passing a glance between my face and Bristol’s. “Longer than you’ve been alive. I knew he was it for me the first day I met him, and he knew, too. We were married a month later.”

  “That’s beautiful.” Bristol leans into me a little deeper, a soft smile on her lips. The tightness of Mrs. O’Malley’s expression eases and she looks back to me.

  “Don’t waste time when you know it’s real,” she says.

  I think back to our discussion before Bristol joined us. There’s nothing stopping me from asking Bristol to marry me, certainly no obstacle in my heart. We haven’t been together that long, but I don’t care about that. I knew Bristol was the one years before she even gave me a shot.

  “Fifty years.” Mrs. O’Malley lowers her lashes, blinking rapidly. “And it still isn’t enough. Anything that ended would never be enough for a love like ours. A love like ours is only satisfied by forever.”