Grip Trilogy Box Set

It’s a statement, not a question. She knows I’m taking every opportunity I can to talk about criminal justice reform and improving relations with law enforcement . . . so yeah, I really want to do the panel, but I don’t want Bristol feeling some type of way about Qwest and me doing this event together.

“I want to, yeah. It’s important.” I link our fingers and dip my head so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “But not more important than you.” I settle our linked fingers over my heart. “Not as important as us, Bris.”

After a moment, she yields a smile.

“I’m fine with you doing the panel—on one condition.” “Name it.”

“Piggyback ride.”

I fake exasperation, allowing her to shift the subject and lighten the air around us.

“Carry you up them steps?”

“Yes, up them steps.”

She turns me around and presses on my shoulder until I’m squat- ting. When she jumps on my back, my hands hook under her long, smooth legs. I pretend to struggle under her weight and she laughs.

She sounds so happy I can’t help but grin thinking of my driven, sarcastic girl describing herself as a bird.

“If I give you a piggyback ride,” I tell her at the bottom of the staircase, “you give me a blow job. We’ll call it even.”

“What’s so special about a blow job?” She tightens her arms around my neck when I start up the stairs. “I give you one like every other day.”

“First of all, I can’t believe you actually just asked me what’s so special about a blow job. You may as well ask what’s so special about the Taj Majal. A blow job is practically an eighth wonder.” I press on as she laughs into my neck. “Second, the operative words there are every other day, so obviously, there’s room for improvement.”

“No, the operative word is blow job.” She lightly smacks the side of my head. “Sounds like work for me.”

“Well you’re employee of the month.”

“I better be the only employee.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me cheating.” I squeeze her thighs. “I like my balls attached.”

Her husky laugh draws an answering chuckle from me. We’ve reached the bedroom and she slides off my back, walks around me to stand at the foot of the bed, mischief in her eyes, and smiles.

“What’s a habitual line stepper?” She tugs at the hem of my shirt, emblazoned with the tagline, flashing black silk panties at the apex of her thighs. My eyes are glued there in case she lifts the shirt again— wouldn’t want to miss that.

“Huh?” I burn a look over her breasts taunting me through the white cotton. “What was the question?”

“Habitual line stepper?” she asks patiently, pointing to the front of the T-shirt.

“Oh, uh . . . it’s from a Dave Chappelle sketch, the one where Prince slaps Charlie Murphy.”

“Prince slaps who?” She shakes her head. “I don’t get it. I watched an episode and wasn’t that impressed. He just makes a bunch of racial jokes.”

“At least he makes fun of all races equally, and religion and politics and everything in between. Nothing and no one is safe. He’s a master of satire and social commentary, and funny as hell. You must have seen a weak episode.”

I take a step closer, lifting the hem to expose the smooth skin of her waist. I pull the shirt over her head and toss it into a corner. Her hair settles back around her shoulders, falling forward so her naked breasts poke through the dark strands.

“Forget Dave Chappelle,” I say huskily.

I could write a sonnet to Bristol’s nipples, the way they tip her breasts, the blend of pink and brown, roses and chocolate, shading her areola. I lean down to hover over them, my eyes snaring hers. Anticipation thickens the air.

“I wanna do to you what spring does to the cherry trees,” I whisper, paraphrasing the Neruda poem before taking one nipple in my mouth and laving it with my tongue. Like a flower waiting for spring, she blossoms. She blooms like sweet fruit ripening between my lips. I pull away, but her hands urge me back to her breast, pleasure tightening her pretty features.

I ghost my lips over the other neglected nipple. Where at first I was sweet, now I’m all teeth and rough suction, stretching my mouth, wide and hungry, over the other breast. Where I laved the other nipple, this one I lash with my tongue. Her nails sink into my shoulders and she fills the room with whimpers. I release her nipple, satisfied by the vivid red marks slashing the delicate skin. Breath fights to free itself from her lungs, laboring past her lips, heaving her breasts. I gently turn her around by the hip to face the bed and almost bite my fist at the sight of her.

Thong.