Or maybe he did. Should I go check? I could tiptoe over to his door and stick my ear up against it to see if I can hear anything. If he heard, he might…
What? Say, “Hey, I heard that!”?
No, no. That isn’t like me. Besides, he doesn’t know I was having an orgasm while I said his name. And if he did hear me, he would’ve come over to see if I needed something.
So I toss and turn instead, wondering. If it was any other guy, I’d just laugh it off, but not with Griffin. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m just too emotionally drained after dealing with Todd’s drunken tantrum.
Despite all the twisting and turning, I do eventually fall asleep.
* * *
I wake up at six o’clock, as usual. Instead of immediately grabbing a shower and going downstairs for a cup of coffee, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening for noise in the hall.
But there’s nothing. Guess Griffin’s still asleep.
I pick up my phone to check the day’s weather and if there are any messages from Heather. It’s Saturday, with no need to rush through my morning routine. And it’s been a while since I lazed around. So I’m going to indulge myself today.
I am not avoiding Griffin.
Several texts from Dad have landed on my phone since I last checked. Since I don’t want to ruin my morning, I ignore them. Knowing how he is, they’re about—and for—Todd. Dad wouldn’t bother to text to see if I’m okay after what happened yesterday. It’s almost like Todd is his child, and I’m just some orphan he found under a bridge and decided to take in out of the goodness of his heart.
But it’s a nice day and I’m not going to be bitter!I check my emails and respond to a couple from Heather that require my attention. After dismissing the notification banner about the texts from Dad, I force myself out of bed and take a long shower. The hot water sluices down, the white suds swirling down the drain, washing away the old resentment Dad’s texts stirred.
Once I’m done showering, I dry my hair and make sure to put on my newly clean and dry bra. I slip on a floral sundress and walk out into the hall.
The door to Griffin’s room is ajar.
So he is up.I wait a little, but there’s no sound of showering. Or anything else.
I go downstairs. There’s no smell of coffee in the kitchen. I peek out the window to see if he went to Starbucks to grab his morning java, but his Prius is still in the driveway.
“Griffin?” I call out.
Silence.
Weird. Where did he go?
Since I need my morning caffeine before I can interact with people, I start the coffee machine and put a sliced bagel into the toaster.
I’m just about to text him when the door to the basement opens and Griffin comes up.
“What were you doing down there?” I say, putting down my phone. Then I glance at him and all the gears in my brain sputter as my hormones cartwheel like unruly, happy children.
Griffin is holding a scrunched T-shirt in one hand. He’s in nothing but black Nike shorts and running shoes.
His chest is carved and thick, his shoulders muscled and more gorgeous than I imagined. It’s gotta be illegal for a man to have a body this scrumptious.
You just want to cuff him to your bed,my dirty mind whispers.
The temperature in the house jumps twenty degrees.
“I found a treadmill in the basement,” he says, barely out of breath.
That’s the treadmill I bought last year on New Year’s Day with every intention of exercising. But that didn’t spare the poor machine the fate most home exercise equipment suffers—it ended up as a clothes rack.
Griffin adds, “So I ran there instead of outside, just in case Beaker decided to make a nuisance of himself early in the morning.”
I vaguely register what he’s saying. My eyes are riveted to the sweat dripping down his bare torso. The clear droplets roll down the powerful neck, the collarbones, the broad pectorals. They pause for a second over his nipples—my fingers itch to flick them off—then resume their downward journey and glide over the deep ridges of his abs. There must be something wrong with me that I want to lick them off his body, starting from the six-pack and sliding up, up, up, running my tongue all over his chest and nipples and collarbones and neck. If any other guy asked me to do that, I’d probably throw up.