Chapter 4

The all-black Harley Davidson Breakout parked on my street brings a grin to my face as I pull in behind it. Two months ago I met Griffin Calloway, a Harley Davidson technician and mechanic with tattoos and muscles of a gym rat which my mom assumes come from steroids.

Griffin is clean. The guy owns some high-end blender, a juicer, and he’s always shaking a protein drink in one of those flip-top bottles with the stainless steel blender ball. I’ve gone grocery shopping with him twice, not counting our first encounter. Yep, we met at the grocery store. Over half of everything he buys is produce, and the other half is lean meat, nuts, and protein powder in bulk.

I forgot my wallet the day we met. He handed the cashier a fifty to pay for my bottle of wine, the bag of chipotle lime corn chips, two 55% dark chocolate bars, and a twelve count box of super absorbent tampons.

When I insisted he give me his address so I could send him a check, he wrote his number on the back of my receipt and told me to call him when I was ready to buy him dinner as payback. I was on day three of my five-day cycle. I called him two days later.

“I tried texting you.” Griffin keeps his gaze on the TV. NASCAR.

Eventually, I’ll stop pinching myself at the sight of this man in a sleeveless shirt and jeans as ripped as the body that wears them when I walk into my dinky one-bedroom apartment. He usually has a bandana covering his smooth shaven head, but not today. Griffin Calloway is two-hundred and thirty pounds of raw sex, and he’s mine.

Pinch.

“Sorry. I had my phone silenced, and I forgot to check it before I headed home.” That and an all-too-familiar stranger crashed into my world today, and I haven’t been the same since.

“Another lover?” The corner of his mouth quirks, but his eyes don’t move from the TV.

“Griff, I have many lovers. How do you think I pay for my groceries?” I slip off my shoes and hang my purse on the hook by the door.

He rubs his hand over his mouth, hiding his grin. “Get over here so I can fuck some sense into you.”

“I have to finish a website design by morning.”

“Then you’d better do less talking and more stripping.” Griffin shrugs off his shirt revealing a sea of taut, inked skin. Another pinch-me moment.

I’m an average girl. Average height. Average weight. Average boobs. My hair is just past my shoulders, an average shade of blond. My eyes are blue, not too dark, not too light—average.

Griffin is the opposite of average. I’m still trying to figure out his attraction to me. Maybe I’ll have to discuss my average self-esteem with Dr. Greyson at our next appointment.

“Tell me about your day.” He stands and removes his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion—still watching the race.

I’m not having sex with him while he watches NASCAR. Even this average girl has standards. Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait for him to make eye contact with me. He hasn’t shown me his sable eyes since I walked through the door.

Griffin sits on my black leather sofa. “Swayz, your day. Hop on and tell me about it.” He strokes himself.

Still no eye contact.

It’s not easy to act unaffected by his large hand fisting his thick cock, but who says “hop on?”

“You’re not one of your bikes you work on.” I grab the remote from the arm of the sofa and shut off the TV. “I’m not hopping on.”

Playful brown eyes finally focus on me, accompanied by a cocky grin.

“It looked like you were masturbating to NASCAR.” My teeth trap my grin. I want to be mad at him for this anti-romantic gesture, but he keeps stroking himself, and all I can do is squeeze my legs together.

“I love NASCAR.” White teeth peek out from his full lips. “How was your appointment with the new shrink?”

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

I may need to figure out why he’s attracted to me, but I don’t have to figure out why I’m crazy about him. He’s sexy, comfortable in his skin, and so damn goofy it’s ridiculous.

“Stop!” I grab the yellow blanket from the back of the sofa and toss it over him before tackling him.

“Oof!” He chuckles.

I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my nose into his skin while taking a deep inhale. He’s all cedar wood and spice. Warm and delectable. I feel small pressed to the hard planes of his body. And safe. Griffin makes me feel safe.

“I missed you, hot stuff.” He palms my ass and gives it a firm squeeze, adjusting me over his erection covered by the blanket.

“I missed you too.” His scent is crack to my senses. My nose refuses to move from its lodged position in the crook of his neck.

“Tell me about your day?”

Begrudgingly, I lift my head. “For real? Or just because you like background noise when you’re having sex?”

Griffin sits up, setting me aside like a throw pillow. He has a dragon tattooed on his back, and the tail of it runs down his right butt cheek and ends partway down the back of his leg. When he stands, my eyes go straight to it.

“I love that tattoo.”

“I know you do.”

“So cocky.”

“Nope. I’ve just heard you say it a million times. I love your tattoo too.”

“It’s a birthmark.”

He gets dressed. Such a shame. It should be illegal for Griffin to put on clothes. But I know why he’s doing it, and I kinda love him for it.

“Every detail. You have my undivided attention.” He sits down and pulls me onto his lap so I’m straddling him.

“I don’t deserve you, Grocery Store Guy.” I kiss him.

The day he wrote his number on the back of the receipt, he signed it Grocery Store Guy.

Fisting my hair, he deepens the kiss. It’s sensual, familiar, possessive, and utterly intoxicating. I think I’m falling in love with this man, but I’m still too deep in lust to know for sure.

He pulls back, rubbing his lips together like he’s savoring my taste. “Go.”

I grin. “Coffee with sugar.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sugar with coffee, but go on.”

“Barre class. Shower. A bit of design work. Then Dr. Greyson.”

“Good name.”

My eyes double in size. “I know. Right? And his appearance fits his name too.”

“Bonus.” Griffin gets me. That’s huge. That’s everything.

“I made another appointment.”

“So a good day?” He gathers my hair and moves it away from my neck before ducking down to kiss me. “Didn’t you have an interview too?”

Yep. Totally falling for this man. Griffin may be a grease monkey some days, but he’s smart and attentive when he wants to be, and he remembers stuff that most twenty-three-year-old guys would not remember. Hell, most guys of any age wouldn’t remember the little things that Griffin does.

“Yes.” I stretch my neck to the side to give him better access. “Funny thing … I met this guy in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. I totally recognized him, but he didn’t recognize me. Then I get to the interview, and it’s the same guy. What are the chances?”

His hands rest on my legs, sliding upward until his thumbs brush over the spot I want them most. “One in a million,” he mumbles into my neck. “So how do you know him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He unfastens my pants. The guy is a multi-tasking god. His dick hasn’t lost focus; I can feel it bulged against his jeans. He devours the skin along my neck, but he’s still one hundred percent engaged in this conversation.

We’ve had full conversations during sex. I suck at it; my mind goes blank like too much blood is needed in my girl parts, leaving an inadequate amount in my brain to function properly. But Griffin can fuck me into next week, coming hard—almost violently—without missing a single detail or comment, even if his words are strained, breathy, and grunted out with each thrust.

“I know him and things about …”

His hand slips down the front of my panties. “Keep going.” His finger brushes my clit.

“Um … Griff.” My eyes blink heavily.

“Things about?” He sucks my earlobe, teasing it with his tongue the way his finger teases my clit.

“His past. But I don’t know how because it doesn’t coincide with my past, or at least I can’t make the connection. It’s so … Jesus …”

Griffin slips his middle finger inside of me. “Biblical?” He chuckles.

And the shift has happened. There’s no longer enough blood left in my brain. “Just fuck me, Griff.” I grab his face and pull it away from my neck, smashing my lips to his.

*

“You have to leave.” I block the doorway to my bedroom when naked, insatiable Griffin follows me down the short hall connecting my bedroom and bathroom.

His gaze slides along my naked body, and that’s why he has to leave. “You’ve stopped by the shop, and I’ve kept working. Why can’t you work when I’m here?”

“Because it’s late and my bed is inviting enough without you in it. With you in it … I don’t stand a chance. I need to finish the website so I can pay rent and stop whoring myself out for groceries.”

He drapes his shirt over my head. “Then stop looking at me like you want more.”

I giggle, seeing only his bare feet step into his boxers and jeans. Griffin snags the shirt from my head, a killer grin on his freshly-shaven face. He slips it on as I turn and grab a nightshirt from my dresser. This room could not be any more cramped. I have a full bed, desk, and dresser crammed in here with barely enough space to turn around.

“Congratulations on the job, baby.” He hugs me from behind and nuzzles into my neck.

I close my eyes and ghost my fingers over his arms. “I don’t have the job yet.”

“You’ll get it. Anybody would be a fool not to hire you.”

“You might be biased.” I laugh.

“Slumber party at my place this weekend.”

I turn in his arms. “Slumber party?” This guy puts the best smile on my face. My cheeks hurt when we’re together.

“Ask your mom. Maybe you can ride home with me on the bus after school on Friday.” He winks.

“You have too many sisters.” He does. Three. And they’re all younger and still in school.

He lifts me off my feet and kisses me, one hand sliding to grip my ass. Website? What website?

“Goodnight,” he whispers over my mouth before easing me back onto my feet.

I rub my lips together as I follow him to the door, admiring his backside when he shoves his feet into his black leather boots by the door. “Will there be pillow fights?”

Griffin chuckles while still bent over tying his laces. “Yes.” He stands and turns toward me. “Wear something pink and lacy and put your hair in pigtails.” Biting his lower lip, he nods slowly. “Dear God yes … pink lace and pigtails, baby.”

I laugh and head back toward my room. “Goodnight, Grocery Store Guy.” As soon as I hear the roar of his Harley out front, I sit at my desk and start designing. Two seconds later, I’m on the internet searching up Nathaniel Hunt. “Why are you in my head,” I whisper.