Page 61 of Under One Roof

And it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had. Like being on top of the world.

Which I might as well be when we sit on the Ferris wheel at sunset, admiring the park below us, the neon lights shining around us. Next to me, Grace points out a direction she wants to go in to ride something else. Logan demands to go in the other direction. Across from me, Griffin watches his children bicker with a smile, looking like he has not a care in the entire universe.

Then he faces me, the breeze ruffling his hair, the corners of his mouth kicked up. He lifts his sunglasses off and tucks them in the collar of his shirt before leaning forward to kiss me. Since we have the kids’ blessing, I don’t feel bad about dragging my fingers over the scruff of his jaw and snaking my hand around the back of his neck, although we do keep it PG.

Once we part, he tugs on the end of one of my braids. “Thanks for making us do this.”

“Thanks for letting me tag along.”

“You’re not tagging along. You’re one of us now.”

And almost as if the kids heard it and agree, they both shift over, Gracie leaning into my side, and Logan absently sticking his feet out to bracket mine. It reminds me of something a child might do with their mother, mindlessly wanting to touch her.

That could be my own desire talking, but it’s the first time since leaving Dahlia that I’ve felt part of a family. One I think I might want to stay in forever.

Chapter20

Griffin

By the time we get home, it’s almost midnight, and the kids are passed out in the back of the truck. They’re zombies, walking upstairs to their rooms, and I follow them up only to make sure they make it to their beds. With them both flopped on their mattresses in their respective bedrooms, I tell them I love them even if they can’t hear me and stroke their heads. They’re eleven now, but wasn’t it only yesterday I was figuring out how to feed them both at the same time? Now Logan has a girl he likes and big plans for middle school next year. Grace has posters of female scientists and Taylor Swift all over her walls, along with a scattering of schoolbooks and printouts of music on the floor.

Time flies.

I make my way downstairs, double-checking the locks and that all the lights are turned off, thinking about the day we had. How much fun it was. How I should have been having days like this all along with my kids.

Guess I needed Andi to kick my ass into gear.

It’s silent in the house, save for the quiet hum of the refrigerator, and I pause outside of the door to the basement, leaning my ear against it to hear if there is any sound.

It’s slight, but I can tell she’s moving around down there, and my heart pounds in my chest, remembering her admission to me this morning. I know I’ll have to speak to the kids about it more, but I’m glad Andi and I don’t need to hide what we have. We can figure out what we can be together and do it in the open. As a family.

I pad down the steps to the basement, where she’s in the middle of pulling her shirt off, her back to me, hair out of braids and all crimped, falling below her shoulders, her back bare. She’s so pretty. Too pretty. Like a delicate vase of flowers. Better to be admired than touched, but I can’t help it.

I reach for her waist, and she startles, spinning around with her tank top covering her chest. “Oh Jesus.”

“Not Jesus,” I say, kissing the slope of her neck. “Griff.”

She breathes a laugh and angles her head, allowing me more room to skate my lips up and down the column of her throat. “Mmm. Griff.”

I gently suck on a spot she likes then nip at her earlobe, my teeth catching on her piercings. She sucks in a breath, and I pivot to walk her back toward her bed.

She releases her shirt and winds her arms around my neck as I lay her down, following after, holding myself up so I can mark all my favorite places, leaving red spots on her throat, the swells of her breasts, her stomach. She squirms underneath me, breathing heavy, and I hold her gaze as I pop the button on her denim shorts, quickly ridding her of them so she’s only in a thong.

I exhale harshly, more like a growl, and her answering smile is pure sex. A temptress, she lifts her arms above her head, putting her body on display. As if I need any more of an invitation.

I place my hands on her thighs, admiring her, paying my tithes, offering my appreciation with every slow drag of my fingertips over her soft skin. Her nipples are peaked and begging for my mouth, so I bend, spending a long time praying there too. I don’t stop until she’s mewling and wriggling so much I have to stop to take hold of her hips.

“Settle, sweetheart.”

“I can’t,” she whines, and I can’t stop the smile crawling across my face. The one that makes her pout likeIam the one torturingher.

But she’s got it wrong. She’s got it all wrong.

She is everything good and right in the world. Everything that turns me on. From the way she speaks, how her plump lips form words, to the way her voice lowers an octave and turns raspy when she says my name underneath me.

“Griffin.”

I lower myself over her, my legs between hers, my forearms on either side of her head. I kiss her like I can pour every ounce of gratitude into her. Like she can taste it, feel it, know it in her bones. Her mouth is soft, pliant, opening to me as I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue. She sighs, combing her fingers into my hair, scraping her nails over my neck.

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