This is my new home, at least for the next semester.

It’s not the pictures of Grip and me, of Rhys and Kai, Aria, and our friends sprinkling the mantle and other surfaces here in our temporary Tribeca apartment. It’s not the clothes hanging on my side of our closet. It’s not even my favorite Cookie Dough ice cream that Grip has already stocked in the freezer. These aren’t the things that make this place home.

It’s him.

If I’m in Antarctica, as long as Grip is there shivering beside me, it’s home.

Now where is he?

I wander from room to room, checking both floors, but there’s no sign of him. It’s kind of anti-climactic considering I took an earlier flight to get here. That’s what I get for trying to surprise him. I know his schedule as well as I know my own: he had class today then a session with Qwest’s producers and writing team this afternoon.

Grrrrr.

I refuse to torture myself with thoughts of them working together while I was stuck in LA, although “stuck” isn’t the right word. I was just a little busy making Kai’s debut the freaking number one album in the country. If we thought the offers were pouring in before, now I’m flooded with movie roles, endorsement options, and more opportunities than she’ll be able to handle. If all goes according to plan—mine and Rhyson’s, that is—soon Broadway will be knocking, too.

“Dammit.”

The muffled curse reaches me from the greenhouse, and quiet steps take me toward the outdoor retreat where I’m now sure he is. I wonder if it will always feel like this when I’m about to see him. Anticipation trembles in the air. My mouth dries and then waters with the promise of his kiss. There’s a pillow fight in my belly and feathers float all around. Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes still gloss over when she thinks of her Patrick, of the years they had before his illness. They made this place together. I take in the tinted windowpanes and the space they created for one another.

Great love must be tested.

Is there a greater test than your soul mate no longer knowing you? Than the memories you created together forgotten, lost to an encroaching darkness? I’ve seen Mrs. O’Malley clinging to what they had with all her strength, and it makes me want to cling to Grip harder and as long as I can—especially when he does sweet things like stringing fairy lights and preparing a dinner that even now prompts my stomach to growl. He stands over the table, the width of his shoulders and the strength of his arms confined in a slate-colored button-up, rolled up to his elbows. A black vest molds the power of his chest, and dark jeans fit the flexing muscles of his thighs.

“What the . . .” He trails off, clicking the lighter over the candles and looking baffled when there’s still no fire.

“Need some help?”

He whips around toward the entrance where I stand. His expression shifts from surprise to pleasure and then settles into a slight frown.

“You’re early.”

“Sorry.” I turn on my heel. “I can leave.”

I don’t make it half a step out of the greenhouse before a strong arm wraps around my waist. Grip presses me into his chest, inhales a deep breath of me, and kisses my neck.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” he mumbles into my hair.

I face him, reaching up to rest my elbows on his shoulders.

“Make up your mind. Do you want me?” I dust my lips across his, dropping my head back before he can take command of the kiss. “Or not?”

“Oh, I want you.” Lust roughens his voice. Love makes it soft.

His gaze drops, a lazy, heated sweep over my body, a sweet searing of my skin. The look is as heavy as a stroking hand, but so gentle that I barely feel its tantalizing weight.

“What’s all this?” I gesture over his shoulder to escape this hypnosis of passion. We could stand here all night staring at each other, and after nearly two weeks apart, I want to do more than look.

He takes my hand and walks us over to the table in the corner, the same place it was when we viewed the place a few weeks ago. Now it’s loaded with domed dishes, sparkling glasses, cutlery, wine, and a bottle of champagne chilling in ice.

“Champagne and wine?” I ask.

“One for dinner,” he says with a grin. “And one for a toast.”

I grab the note propped against the wine bottle.

“How thoughtful!” I consider the beautifully set table. “Did Mrs. O’Malley do all this?”

“She sent the champagne to celebrate your first night here.” Grip plucks the note from my fingers and drops it to the table. “The food I ordered from this place up the street that delivers and makes things look fancy.”

The smell of him, the heat of his proximity works on my resistance—never the strongest to begin with—and I tip up to take his lips with my mouth, stroking his tongue with mine until he growls, his hands tight at my hips.

“We are not doing this out of order, Bris,” he says, his breath misting my lips. “You saw the card. First we eat, then we drink. Then we dance.”

“Then we love?” I finish, sliding my hand to his belt. “Are you sure you want to save that for last? Because I don’t mind flipping the script.”

“You’re always so horny.” His husky laugh feathers against my cheek. “It’s one of my favorite things about you actually, but no. Tonight, we’re doing it the right way. We’ll eat.”

I notice for the first time that there is only one chair. My lips twitch with a barely checked smile.

“Where’s the other seat?” I ask.

“I burned it,” he deadpans.

Our laughs tangle between our mouths at his ridiculous statement.

“You did not burn it.”

“Well it’s not here.”

Grip sits down in the lone chair, spreading his thighs and grinning.

“I guess you have to sit with me.” He grasps my wrist and tugs me forward until I’m standing between his legs.

I shake my head, smiling inevitably, and settle onto his lap.

“This could get awkward and messy.” I twist to get my plate and make room for all of our food on one side of the table.

“Think of it as food foreplay.” He pulls me back until I feel him hard and poking in the crease of my ass. “See? It’s working already.”

I wiggle in his lap, drawing a laughing “shit” from him as we dig in, reaching around each other to get to our food, eating from each other’s plates, one feeding the other, spilling food and wine all over the place. It’s a five-course meal with all the courses squeezed onto our little table at one time. It’s an orgy of decadent tastes and consuming conversation, the words flowing as smoothly as the wine. He’s asking for every detail about Kai’s release, about the days we were apart, and I’m demanding everything he can tell me about Dr. Hammond’s class. The name Iz peppers every other sentence, flavoring our discussion with Grip’s admiration and something close to awe.

“I think I’m jealous of Dr. Hammond.” I shift on Grip’s lap, feeding him chicken with greasy fingers. “I hope he hears my name as much as I’m hearing his.”

“More.” Grip eats past the meat to capture my finger in his teeth, tracing my fingerprint with his tongue. “He’s sick of hearing about how wonderful you are.”

“I can’t wait to meet him.” I pierce an asparagus spear on my fork and shove it into his mouth. “I bet your leg has gone to sleep.”

“Not my third leg.” He chews the crisp vegetable, stretching to grab and tear a roll down the middle then work it past my lips, laughing when I choke a little. “It’s wide awake.”

I grind my ass over that third leg, satisfied by and hungry for the stiff readiness behind his zipper.

“You made a mess.” Voice stripped of pretense and body tired of waiting, I tip my glass of wine toward the stain on his vest where the chicken’s rich burgundy sauce has left a splotch.

“Yup,” he agrees, eyes locked with mine. “I should take this off.”

He slips one button and then the others from the holes until his vest falls open.

I scoop up some of the sauce with my spoon, bringing it to my lips, but at the last minute allowing it to dribble on my silk blouse.

“Oops.” I breathe into the small space separating us. “So should I.”

I grab the hem of the stained shirt and pull it over my head.

He swallows loud enough for me to hear it. His jaw tics and his eyes roam over my naked shoulders and stomach, over the breasts barely contained by strips of silk and lace. He takes my glass of wine from me and goes to take a sip, allowing just a few drops to land on his shirt. I reach for it, fingers fumbling at the buttons, laying bare the sculpted plane of abs and pecs.

“Are we ready for love now?” I lick the heady traces of wine from my lips.

“Mrs. O’Malley said we have to dance.” His words are a dark-timbered rumble laced with want as he shifts me off his lap to stand. I press myself against his chest, grabbing his shirt by the lapels and shoving it down his arms to the floor.

“There’s no music.” I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and look up at him through my lashes because I know that drives him crazy.

He reluctantly steps away from the heat our bodies share and crosses over to the wall. With the press of a button, music wafts from the hidden speakers. The music is sensuous and whispers sex before the singer delivers the first lyric.

“Prince?” I ask, surprised. I recognize the iconic voice, but not the song. “What is this?”

“Adore.” Grip lifts my arms around his neck and hooks my wrists there. “One of my favorites.”

“I’ve never heard it,” I murmur, barely aware of saying anything. I’m entranced by the intensity of his stare. He cups my jaw, drawing me closer until all our bare skin presses together and all our covered places strain against our clothes, seeking out naked skin and heat. We sway to the music, our hands moving over each other in a dance of rediscovery. He palms my hip, sliding down to hold my ass through my skirt. My fingers wander over the ridges and dips of his torso, rendered in stone. I run my thumb across the fullness of his bottom lip, tracing the lines that are so precise it’s like an artist drew them.

God, this man’s mouth.

I reach up to kiss him, slowly exploring the warm silk interior of his mouth, our tongues like the tide, pushing in and flowing out. We trade moans, our mouths sharing the soft, needy sounds. Our hands pick up pace, mine urgent at his waist, undoing his belt, his fumbling at my back, unsnapping my bra. It’s a quick, thorough disrobing that leaves us naked in the moonlight, half-drunk on the stars with Prince on repeat.

“Now?” I pant at the right angle of his jaw, dragging my lips over his neck and licking at the saltiness of his clavicle. “Time for love now?”

He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, but his body betrays how much self-control he’s exerting when his dick twitches against me.

“We have to drink,” he says sternly, stepping back and leaving me chilled, bereft.

“We’ve been drinking,” I whine, every cell of my body pouting because he’s denying me.

“But we haven’t toasted.” With a devilish glint in his eyes, he walks naked over to the table, the high, round arch of his ass flexing with every step. He pours two glasses of champagne from the bucket that has been chilling all night. My eyes drop between his legs and I force myself to stay standing when he hands me the flute instead of dropping to my knees and taking him in my mouth. Carnality courses through my veins, feral desire possessing every part of me. I want him occupying every empty space. I want to lick his sweat and bite chunks from him, swallow him whole. I grit my teeth and accept the fragile glass filled to the top with exhilaration and bubbles.

“This is a lot of champagne,” I say, letting the bubbles tickle my nose. “I’ll be too drunk for . . .”

I clear my throat, leaving wild thoughts unspoken and bucking in my mind.

“I think you’ll manage.” He lifts his glass and quirks a smile at me, even as his eyes lose some of the humor. “A toast to our first night in our first home together.”

He gently tucks strands of hair behind my ear, rubbing the texture between his fingers before looking back to me.

“You didn’t have to do this, Bristol,” he says softly. “Move here, disrupt your life, your career for me like this, but I’m glad you did.”

“No, I did have to,” I disagree, surprised to find myself blinking back tears. “What I feel for you is not optional, Grip. It’s a mandate, a demand I have no problem meeting. I have to be wherever you are.”

He studies me a moment longer, and the intimacy and openness are almost too much, but I force myself not to look away. I’ve never been more vulnerable to anyone, and I’ve never trusted anyone else the way I trust Grip—with my life, with my heart.

“A toast then, to wherever we are.” He clinks our glasses together, raising his to his lips, but at the last minute and with a wicked grin, pouring just a little onto my chest. I gasp as the cold liquid trickles over my flesh, streaming between my breasts. Before I have time to recover, Grip pours more over my nipples, which immediately bud and lift as if they’re drinking in the potent liquid. Not done, he pours the rest of his champagne over my belly, wrenching a whimper from me when it drifts between my legs, sluicing into my naked folds, seeking out my core, the parts of me that silently beg to be filled.

“Grip.” My voice emerges on a need-broken whisper. “What are you—”

With his lips, he answers the question I didn’t get to voice, licking the champagne from my shoulders and flattening his tongue between my breasts, soaking up every drop in greedy swipes. His hands clamp around my hips and he sinks to his knees, his mouth venturing across the flat surface of my stomach like a sojourner, lost and searching. His tongue delves into my belly button then he nibbles the skin at my hips and above my pubic bone, the bristle on his chin abrading even as he withholds his mouth from me. Over and over, he kisses closer and closer, but never spreads me, never tastes me in the deeper places. The champagne boils between my legs as my body heats.

“Grip, please.” His lips, torture and promise, keep relief and release at bay.

“What, baby?” His heated whisper lands on me, but he won’t give me what my body is weeping for. He runs his nose over the slit dividing me, and with a deep inhale, draws in my scent. From his knees on the floor at my feet, he lifts his eyes, burning a trail of possession over my limbs. “Tell me what you want, Bris.”

I swallow the words, holding out as long as I can in a sensual battle of wills I won’t win.

He feathers kisses over my hips, runs his wide palms over my legs, kneading the muscles of my thighs, sliding his finger between the cheeks of my butt.

“Grip, you know,” I whisper. “Just do it.”

“I wanna hear.” The measured control of his words is at odds with the rampage of his eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

“My pussy.” Tears adorn the corners of my eyes, the need is so strong. “Eat my pussy.”

“Fuck yes,” he growls, his fingers separating me and his tongue unleashed to spear inside. He pulls my leg over his shoulder, opening me up, and bites my clit, a double-edged sword of pleasure and pain slicing through me.

“Oh . . . oh, God.” I dig my nails into his shoulders—it’s the only way I can stay upright.

He takes his time, sucking the lips, biting me, licking and slurping until the champagne is gone and he’s binging only on my juices, moaning at the juncture of my body. He springs to standing, grabbing me by my nape, pulling me into a kiss fierce enough, ferocious enough that my teeth cut into my lips. He’s feeding me the taste of my body, rich and tangy on his lips. It’s carnal and addictive. I grab his neck, too, sucking on his tongue and biting his lips until the metallic sting of our mingled blood christens the kiss.

With a growl, he lifts me up, and I lock my legs at the cleft of his ass. He walks us to the padded bench in the middle of the greenhouse, sinking down and fitting my thighs over his in a loose straddle.

“I’m gonna let you be on top the first time we fuck in our new house,” he rasps, setting the words on fire in my ears.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice desperate with the need to vise the length of him with my body.

“But if you don’t ride me hard enough, I’m flipping you over and tearing that ass up. Got it?”

“That sounds fair.” I nod frantically, no breath left for banter. I’m just ready to impale myself on him.

With one quick motion, I rise up, knees on either side of his thighs, and scramble onto him like his dick might get away from me, like he’s the last train and I might miss my ride. Every time, it feels like he’s too much, the blunt intrusion of his cock, but then my body remembers I was made for him. I allow myself one second to feel the pinch and then roll my hips once, slowly, letting him feel me again, the undulation of my body a promise. Each time he goes deeper, crossing any barriers my body, my heart would erect—only there’s no barrier, nothing between us. I grip his knee behind me for leverage to grind deeper, roll harder. My breasts bounce in his face and he bobs his head, his mouth open and seeking until he has one in his mouth. He suckles me hard, zipping electricity from my chest to my core. It’s a direct line, and with every thrust, every stroke, my heart contracts.

“I missed you so much,” I say, looking him in his eyes, letting him see the ache I’ve carried around while we were apart. I withhold nothing from him. Not my body—he can have it any way he wants it. Not my heart—flung open like a door for him to walk through. Not my soul—twisting around his every time he hammers up into me, possessing me from the inside out.

“God, Bris,” he says at my neck, scorching the skin with his breath. “I was going crazy. We can’t be apart like that. We just . . . we just can’t.”

Words of love and devotion tumble between us, swirling around us, cocooning us in the greenhouse. We are hothouse flowers, growing in plain sight, blossoming under tinted glass. Beyond the roof, stars burn light-years away, bright and already dying, but here, between us, brews a solar storm, a stellar explosion behind my eyes, a constellation of love and lust, dots connecting inside as I clench and squeeze through my orgasm. He stiffens beneath me, his fingers clutching tightly enough to bruise. I’ll bear marks in the shape of his hands, bites on my nipples, stubble burns inside my thighs, sensual mementos I’ll carry with me. I’ll wear his touch tomorrow under my clothes. The marks he’ll leave on my body will fade, but the way he’s marked me as his, the way he’s carved himself into my heart, that’s forever.