Page 73 of Under One Roof

He slips his hands around my waist and tugs me to his lap, adjusting the arms of the chair so they aren’t in my way anymore, allowing me to settle my thighs on either side of his hips.

He licks his lips and plays along. “Miss, you should go inside your house and put something on. You shouldn’t be outside in only a bra and underwear.”

I glance over my shoulder at the closed door. We didn’t lock it, and there are no windows so no one can see anything, but I’m still not comfortable taking off my shirt, like I’m sure he wants me to. With that bra and underwear prompt.

When I face Griffin again, he’s grinning, and the sight of his rare smile never ceases to amaze me. His straight white teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Brackets form deep grooves on either side of his mouth, and I trace them with my fingertips, cupping his stubbly jaw with my palms before leaning in to kiss him.

He grips my waist tighter, his tongue meeting mine with a moan like it’s been a year, as opposed to only a day. But that’s what it feels like. There is never enough time. There will never be enough time.

I’ve known the man for less than two months, but it might as well have been two decades for how I can translate his soft puffs of annoyed breath when something doesn’t go exactly how he’s planned or how he always inclines his head with a furrowed brow, like he’s trying so hard to understand his kids when they talk about their friends. I adore the strained lines across his forehead when he doesn’t grasp the nuance of fifth-grade social hierarchy and he glances at me to help him.

I love everything about him, the way he always smells vaguely of smoke but more prominently of his soap, and how he likes everything just so. How he never fails to take a moment when he finds something new I’ve added to his house—like the woven rug with a Southwestern vibe and small decorative basket I added to the entryway in front of the door—staring at it like it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen, before finding me with a nod and soft smile. Since he has yet to say a word about it, I keep decorating.

Because I think he secretly likes it.

Me in his house. Taking over his house.

Making it more like our house.

Now, I feel his erection growing beneath me, hardening so I can grind against him, rolling my hips with abandon. I’ve always been shy.

No, afraid.

I’ve been afraid to let go with anyone, but Griffin has silenced the voice in the back of my head. He’s made me come alive in a way I never knew I could.

His hands roam my back and sides, pressing and squeezing, like he can. Like I belong to him. And I do. Completely. He doesn’t need to pull on my neck to change the angle of the kiss. I go willingly, following where he leads us, further into this spiral of delicious heat.

My phone buzzes in my purse, a distant annoyance that I choose to ignore as Griffin drags his hands along the underside of my butt, his fingertips delving beneath the fringed hem of my denim shorts.

“I love when you wear these,” he says against my throat. “Such a fucking tease in them.”

To illustrate his point, he pulls me harder against him as he thrusts up, rubbing against my clit. Even through the layers of clothes, I can feel him. Like I’m sure he can feel me.

I’m putty in his hands. A desperate, panting mess, ready to take my clothes off in his office.

What have I become?

I don’t recognize myself, this wanton woman, no longer embarrassed to ask for what she wants.

“Think you can come like this?” Griffin asks, voice low and urgent, skimming his hands up under my shirt, and I nod, my heart racing, pulse throbbing in my wrists and between my legs. When I angle my hips, my zipper hits at the right spot, and I hiss a breath.

“I feel like I’m sixteen,” I whisper against Griffin’s lips, “doing something I’m not supposed to be doing.”

“Yeah, well, I am at work, but I can’t wait till I get home.” He wiggles his fingers under the cups of my bra, brushing his thumbs back and forth over my hard nipples. “And I only have a few minutes left on my break. So get there, sweet thing.”

I grip his shoulders and rock against him, rubbing, working myself up into a lather, the temperature of the room rising.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts almost inaudibly. “Show me you’re not afraid.”

I’m not sure if it’s the illicitness of what we’re doing that’s making this so hot, but I’m already so close, and we’re both still clothed. He’s barely touching me. And yet this…dry humping is getting me off.

I drop my head down, biting into my lower lip as Griffin nips at my earlobe, whispering words likeuse meandfaster, babyandyou know what you do to me?

No, but I can guess. That I tear him to pieces only to put him back together, because that’s what he does to me. Uses his fingers and mouth to dissect me, finding every wound and cut, then bandages them carefully and sews me together with his love. I am stronger, not because of him but because he’s allowed me to see how those hurts and sore places have made me who I am.

And who I am is a girl who can ride her man to orgasm in the middle of his office without taking off a stitch of clothing.

“Oh my god,” I moan into his neck.

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