Page 57 of Believe it or Knot

He pushes up, tilting his head to pin me with a look that says I should know. My heart clenches. The words are there on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I’m still… too unsure about what this all means, really. We’ve been friends for years and this, having sex, is a big change from what has been the status quo for a long time.

I’m not ready for more revelations.

If that makes me a coward, then so be it.

He must sense that I will not go there, not yet, because his mouth quirks into a small smile as he circles his hips, grinding his still swollen knot against my clit. “It means, biscuit, that I’ll be hard for at least another half hour, no matter how many times I come.”

I let out a relieved breath that he’s not going to force the issue, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him down to my mouth. “I think we should test that theory.”

Track 14: Little Do You Know

In the week leading up to my foray into the city with the Cordova pack, the deliveries start. Mostly clothes. Elegant pieces with labels that I’ve never even dreamed about owning because… well, I’m just not that fancy. Dress after dress arrives. Everything from cute flirty sundresses to sleek and sexy cocktail styles. There are also skirts and slacks, blouses and cardigans.

A lot of things that I never even thought about trying to wear, but when I gingerly slip the clothes on, they suit my body perfectly. Even the colors are complimentary to my skin tone, making my eyes pop in a way I’ve never seen before.

There’s also an absurd amount of lingerie, everything from matching bra and panty sets to bustiers to lace nighties and teddies. A far cry from my normal mismatched cotton underwear and oversized t-shirts.

Interspersed with the clothes are perfumes, makeup, products specifically for wavy hair, meant to tame my locks.

They also send guitars. So many beautiful instruments that I can’t bring myself to touch them for fear that I’ll ruin them somehow with my clumsy strumming. Logically I know I won’t, but that doesn’t stop me from keeping my distance from the Gibson acoustic with a hummingbird and flowers inlaid on it I know goes for thirty-five hundred. To say nothing of the Martin OM 20th-century Limited Acoustic Guitar that goes for well over twenty-five thousand.

Yeah, I will not touch either of those with my grimy little fast food covered paws. I don’t even know why they sent them. I haven’t told them about my side gig posting videos of my songs and covers on social media.

The last thing I want is for them to think I’m using them to advance my music career. Because that couldn’t be further from the truth. I love singing and playing music, but I hate being the center of attention. So much.

If anything, I would want to write songs for other musicians to sing and happily live in the liner notes.

But they don’t know that about me. Not yet.

I have a feeling they’ll understand a little better after I’ve spent a week with them in the city. If they still want to date me after I’ve proven just how unfit I am for public consumption, then I’ll tell them about the singing, about what I went to school for, about my dreams of being a musician when I was a child, before I realized that I absolutely hated having people’s eyes on me.

Telling them that now might make them second guess wanting to spend time with me. For both reasons.

“This is too much,” I say, face red and sweaty from my bike ride around the lake to their house. I’m standing midway between the kitchen and the living room, hands fisted at my sides, doing my best not to glare at the prime of the Cordova pack.

“What is?” Grayson says absently, not looking up from his laptop perched on the table.

“The… Everything. Everything is too much, Gray.”

At the near panic in my voice, he looks up at me. Whatever he sees has him carefully closing his laptop and pushing to his feet. He stalks around the dining room table toward me and I nearly swallow my tongue at how unfairly good he looks in his jeans and t-shirt.

“I think you’ll have to be more specific than that, sweet thing.” he comes to a stop in front of me and pushes a damp strand of hair out of my face. “I need to know so I can fix it.”

I take a deep breath in through my nose and let it out the same way. “You can’t send me guitars worth twenty-five grand, Gray. You can’t… I don’t need all that stuff.”

His mouth tips up into a smile and he leans forward to run the tip of his nose along mine, not caring one bit that I’m a sweaty mess. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me melt a little. Or a lot.

“Just because you don’t need it doesn’t mean we don’t want to give it to you.”

My fingers curl in the soft fabric of his t-shirt and tug the slightest bit. “But I don’t want you to think I’m… spending time with you because of what you can give me, Gray. It’s important that… That you know I’m here for you, not for guitars that cost a year’s worth of my mortgage payments.”

He frowns and pulls back. “You still have a mortgage?”

“Yes, Gray,” I roll my eyes. “Like millions of Americans, I have a mortgage.” He hums like he’s considering this revelation, and I look up at him sharply before releasing his shirt to poke him in the chest. “No. No. You will not pay off the rest of my mortgage, Grayson Cordova. You’ve already done so much for me. I already owe you so much. My payments are with a bank and I have an excellent interest rate. Please. Don’t.”

He smirks at me before smoothing both his hands over the sides of my head, drifting down to rest his palms on either side of my neck. “Fine. You can keep your mortgage.”

I blow out a breath and nod gratefully. I know it’s weird to be so against it, against them helping me. Thousands of girls would jump at the chance to have this pack take care of them, and maybe in the future I will get to that point, but for now I’m trying like hell to keep my head sensible and my emotions contained.

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