Grip doesn’t move, just keeps staring at Kevin, so I hook my arm through his and lead him out of the restaurant and to the parking lot. Once we reach the spot where his motorcycle is parked, Grip’s hands settle on my hips and he pulls me into his chest, locking us together.
“What’s up, little shawty?” he teases, running his nose along my neck. “What’s your name? You got a man?”
“I do,” I answer huskily. “But I could be persuaded. He’ll never know.”
“The hell.” Grip chuckles, nipping my ear and sliding his hand to the small of my back.
“You don’t really have a session, do you?” I ask abruptly, breaking the spell he’s trying to weave.
; “I’m not dealing with this guy, Bris.” He pulls back to peer down at my face. “And neither are you. He’s trying to have dinner with you? I’m not doing business with that—”
“In his defense,” I cut in before he works himself into a lather. “He didn’t know I’m taken.”
Something flares behind his eyes when I use the word that says I’m his. I knew he’d like that; I’m nothing if not deliberate.
He leans down the few inches separating us until his lips are at my ear. His hands inch up to span my waist, his thumbs subtly, secretively brushing the underside of my breast. My breath hovers in my throat, suspended, and my mouth waters as I remember the taste of him this morning. Me on my knees in the shower, water beating on my shoulders, the long, rigid length of him hitting the back of my throat. His fingers screwed into my hair, holding my head still while he pumped over my tongue, scraped against my lips.
“So you’re taken, huh?” He breathes against my neck. As calm as he looks from the outside, I hear the hitch in his breath, feel him hard and pressed into my belly. “I don’t see a ring.”
I shoot him a sharp glance. We haven’t talked about rings and proposals in a while—it hasn’t mattered. We practically live together, though we both still have our own places. Anything other than together isn’t an option, but his teasing statement makes me wonder if he’s started to think about it the way I have. I find myself holding out my hand a few times a day, studying my ring finger, wondering what he would choose for it . . . wondering when he’ll ask.
Wondering when it started to matter so much to me. The last thing I want is to make him feel pressured. We’ve loved each other for years, true, but we haven’t been official for long at all.
“Grip, I’m not—”
He palms my throat, thumb on one side of my face, fingers on the other, commanding me, coaxing my mouth open. His tongue sweeps the sensitive lining inside my jaw, over my teeth, around my lips. The sun is high in the sky. Patrons walk past us, coming to and leaving the restaurant. A few gawk. I’m not sure if they recognize Grip or if our PDA al fresco just disconcerts them. The kiss slows to mere brushes of our mouths, my lips pulled between his with tiny tugs and hungry bites. The firm hold he has on my chin softens, and his fingers slide into the hair falling around my neck.
“I had to shut you up because every time I mention rings you start stuttering and saying stupid shit.” His eyes smile down at me. “And your mouth kind of hangs open. It’s not a good look for you.”
A laugh breaks free from me. It’s a happy sound, like a caged bird free and singing. That’s how I feel sometimes, like for years I walked around locked up, guarding my heart against this man, and now I’ve been let loose, liberated, kissing in broad daylight on the street and spilling laughter that sounds like a bird’s song.
And not giving a damn what anyone thinks about it.
“Oh really?” My smile widens an inch. “I seem to remember you liked my mouth open this morning in the shower.”
His chuckle rumbles in the small space separating our bodies. “Damn, Bris. What am I gonna do with you?”
“You’ll figure something out.” I prop my forearms on his shoulders, caressing his neck. “You always do.”
He studies me for a few long seconds, something changing in his eyes. They sober, the cocky grin falling into a straight line.
“What’s wrong?” I cup one side of his face, the slight scruff tickling my palm. One minute we’re flirting and teasing, verging on horny, and the next we’re . . . not.
“Nothing.” He sets his hand over mine against his jaw. “I just missed you today. I miss you when we’re apart.”
His words settle over my heart, refreshing like rain falling on dry, thirsty ground. I feel it, too. I’m not sure how I kept him at bay for eight years when eight hours away from him makes my chest ache. The look in his eyes . . . there’s more to it than what’s on the surface, but I’m not sure what. He traces the corner of my mouth.
“You’re just trying to distract me,” I turn my mouth to kiss the hand touching my face, “from getting back to Kevin.”
Grip rolls his eyes, some of the humor returning.
“You seriously think I’m dealing with that dude?” He scoffs a quick rush of air.
“Don’t judge the deal by Kevin. I wish you could meet my friend Charisma. She’d be your editor, but she’s tied up in New York, and Kevin just happened to be here in LA.”
“Maybe we could meet her in New York.” Grip’s tone is careful and his glance is searching, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Am I missing something?