“This will go better than I think it will.”

I’ve recited this mantra to myself all morning, hoping it’s like one of those affirmations you just keep putting into the universe until it comes true. If that’s the case, I’ll chant it all the way to Compton for the going away party Grip’s mother is hosting for him. I’ve been back a few times since that first disastrous Sunday dinner, and Ms. James has warmed considerably toward me.

I think she actually likes me now.

Jade, on the other hand, continues to give me a bit of a cold shoulder every time we meet. A few weeks ago, I ran into her at the studio where Grip was recording. He passed some of her songs on to a few artists, and now she’s actually writing for several of them. I congratulated her, but she still looked at me like I was something she stepped in—or maybe something she wanted to step on, like a bug . . . a white girl bug who has no business being with her cousin. She hasn’t said that outright lately, but every roll of her eyes and suck of her teeth tells me she wants to, and Jade isn’t one to hold back for long. I just hope that today at this party, when I’m surrounded by strangers and already feeling like I don’t fit in, she can refrain from saying what her body finds a dozen other ways to tell me.

“This will go better than I think it will,” I say again when the cage door of the elevator lifts on Grip’s floor—just in case the universe is listening.

I had an early meeting with an event organizer this morning. Grip hates it when I take meetings on the weekends, but with me leaving for New York soon, I have a lot to get settled in a short amount of time. It was so hard to drag myself out of the warm bed with Grip naked and at half-mast in his sleep. The white sheet, stark against his roasted caramel skin, had dipped so low I could see the muscled slashes at his hips. A little restless when I left the bed, he flipped onto his stomach, and I wanted to lick up the wide smooth expanse of his back, nip the firm rounded cheeks of his ass when the sheet slipped even more, hid even less.

I check my watch to see if we have time to make good on that morning wood he was sporting before we leave for the party, and my key is still in hand when the loft door swings open. The last person I expect to see standing there is Angela Gray.

“Mother?” Surprise quickly congeals into suspicion. “Why are you here?”

Guilt clouds her expression before she reassembles her features into the lovely indifference I’ve been accustomed to my entire life.

“Just stopping by.” She digs around in her bag until she finds her keys.

Grip steps into view just behind her, and I’m distracted by the worry in his eyes.

“What’s going on?” I ask him over her shoulder.

“I’ll tell you inside.” He glances down at my mother. “Thanks for coming by, Angela.”

She sketches a curt nod without glancing up at him.

“I’ll keep you posted,” she says easily before turning her eyes to me. “We need to have lunch before you go to New York, Bristol.”

I stiffen at her words. She’s already told me what she thinks of me leaving LA to “chase” Grip. Apparently it’s anti-feminist to be with the man you love even when your job allows the flexibility to do so. I thought feminism was supposed to be about the power of our choices, and yet when I choose Grip, when I put him ahead of my career and convenience because I love him, that choice is denigrated. If women truly understood feminism, they would see the power of knowing what you want more than anything and pursuing it.

And I want Grip more than anything.

“You are still going, right?” she asks when I’m silent.

“Definitely.” I cross the threshold and tuck under Grip’s arm, pressing into the faded scent of yesterday’s cologne and the pure, raw maleness of him. “I’ll call about lunch. I have a lot to get done.”

She nods and walks over to the elevator, holding my stare until the doors close.

“She’ll miss you.” Grip kisses my forehead and closes the door. Once we’re inside, he cages me against it with his elbows and forearms pressed alongside my head. “That’s why she’s salty, not any of that pseudo-feminist crap she spouts about you adjusting your plans to come with me.”

“Why was she here?” I won’t be distracted by the hard body crowding me, by the delicious shape of his shoulders straining against his T-shirt.

“Hmmm?” Grip licks at the curve of my neck and shoulder, his tongue like rough velvet.

“Don’t ‘hmmm’ me, Grip.” I slide away from his warm body, putting some space between us. “It’s like being in the Twilight Zone for me to come home and find you with my mother, so cut the crap. What did she want? Was it about me going to New York?”

I don’t wait for his response.

“Dammit.” I drop my bag by the couch and flop down, eyes trained on the ceiling. “Why can’t she just let me live my life?”

Grip slides his hands into the pockets of the loose lounge pants that hint at the sleek musculature of his legs. He settles on the couch beside me and captures my hand, kissing the knuckles.

“She wasn’t here about New York.” His words emerge reluctant, low, sober.

I glance at his sharply hewn profile, noting the muscle ticking in his jaw.

“What’s going on?”

His chest rises and falls with the deep breath he draws and expels before beginning.

“It’s Parker.”

I only have to hear that bastard’s name to feel Parker’s fingers probing roughly between my legs again. I chew on my bottom lip and can almost feel the sting of him biting me there, of him making me bleed. I ration a slow breath through my nose, steadying myself as much for Grip’s peace of mind as my own pride. I don’t want him to worry, though I know him well enough to see concern in his dark eyes already.

“What about him?” I drop my head to Grip’s shoulder and wait for his response.

After a beat of silence, he speaks.

“He’s getting out.”

My body tenses involuntarily and I turn my head to search his face.

“When?”

He gathers both my hands in his and turns slightly on the couch so he can see me, pushing my hair back and cupping my neck.

“Next week or so.” Grip watches me closely. “We knew this would happen, babe. He’s got too much money and too many corrupt people in his pocket to hold him for long.”

I swallow, my muscles tautened with tension.

“I guess I hoped for a little more time to figure out a plan.”

“You ain’t figuring out nothing.” One brow lifts over Grip’s icy glance. “Son of a bitch is handled.”

“Handled?” A frown gathers on my face. “Handled how?”

“Apparently, his father has his own plans. He needs Parker free to make some merger happen. Shipping his ass off to Russia.”

“Russia? Merger?” I shake my head, but all the pieces still don’t make sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ever heard of SiberTech?”

“Yeah.” I nod, mentally rehearsing what I know, trying to make the pieces fit. “Natasha Sukolov’s family owns SiberTech. She went to high school with us in New York, but their interests still lie mainly in Russia. What does SiberTech have to do with Parker getting out?”

“They’re using a marriage between Parker and Natasha to seal the deal.” Grip shrugs. “His dad found the right strings, pulled them, got Parker off.”

My fingers clench in my lap, anxiety twisting them. What if Parker comes after Grip again? My mind is already seeking out solutions, loopholes, anything to insulate Grip from whatever Parker might pull.

“Hey.” Grip covers my balled fists with one big hand. “He’s not touching you.”

My eyes fly to meet his. God, we’re a pair. We’d both do stupid shit to protect each other. I hadn’t thought of myself, only him, and he’s only thinking of me.

“We’ve been in constant communication with Parker’s mom. She’s pretty badass,” Grip says, admiration filtering into his expression. “With her help, we got it all figured out.”

“We?” I interject stiffly.

“Yeah, your mother and I,” Grip continues smoothly, but no way he doesn’t consider how un-cool it was to do all of this without me. “Mrs. Parker assures us her son is no threat. Her husband’s sick of cleaning up after him. He’s got his foot so far up Parker’s ass, he won’t piss without it being tracked. Parker will marry this Natasha chick, fly away to Russia, run their business there, and leave us the hell alone.”

The tense line of Grip’s lips relaxes momentarily.

“And Mrs. Parker’s got so much shit on her husband, it’s in his interest to keep Parker in check. We have layers of protection, babe. We’ve been monitoring it for a few weeks. Now we know Parker’s getting out of prison, but also out of our lives for good.”

“Why am I just now hearing about it?” I ask, irritation crowding out concern or even relief. This is all good, but they were meeting without me, discussing something that is completely my business behind my back. “Why was my mother telling you and not me? Talking with you, not me?”

“Because I asked her to.” Grip’s voice brooks no argument, and the arrogant brow he cocks dares me to say something. He must have forgotten who he’s dealing with—I always have something to say.

“You asked her to cut me out of something that so obviously concerns me?”

“I just wanted to know first, Bris.” He pulls in that patient breath, the one that says he’s preparing himself in case I want to fight. “And see what we were dealing with. I was gonna tell you once everything was settled. Now it’s settled.”

“But—”

“I just needed to be sure. I wanted to be the first line of defense.”

“In this situation or . . . ?” I let my raised eyebrows finish the question.

“In everything,” he says decisively. “Do you have any idea how it felt to be locked up knowing you were even considering . . .”

His words thin to nothing, like he can’t bring himself to voice what I had planned to go through with. A deep swallow bobs the Adam’s apple in his throat.

Yes, I was going to fuck Parker to get Grip out of jail, and I would have done it had he and my mother not intervened. It would have gutted my soul, and maybe I would never have forgiven myself, but if I have to choose between my pride, my supposed virtue, and Grip’s freedom, well that’s not a choice at all.

“Don’t think I’ll let you wrap me in cotton, Grip,” I assert. “I can take care of myself.”

A scowl contracts the sharp lines of Grip’s face.

“Fucking Parker for all the world to see? That’s how you would take care of yourself? And you think I’d want you to do something like that to protect me?”

He pulls away to fold his arms across his chest, the muscles straining against the sleeves of his plain white T-shirt. I feel the distance instantly, not just between our bodies, but separating our perspectives. This is a fight we never had. We talked some after he left jail, but we were just so relieved to get rid of Parker, too happy to have dodged the bullet and we didn’t air this. Now it’s in the air, and it’s a cold front that makes me shiver.

“I didn’t have a lot of options.” I lay my palms flat against my bare legs. “I won’t apologize for being willing to do whatever it took to protect you.”

“Then don’t ask me to apologize for doing the same. Look, just be glad it’s handled. It’s over.” He stands and heads toward the stairs. “I’m gonna shower.”

“We aren’t done.” I rush up the steps, close on his heels.

“Bris, later. We don’t want to be late for our own party.”

Your party. I don’t correct him, but we both know this party could go on without me. There are probably several people there who wish Grip would go on without me.

He grabs his T-shirt from the back and yanks it over his head, tossing it into the bathroom hamper. My steps stutter to a halt. My eyes cling to his skin, stretched like dark velvet over the balletic play of muscles in his back. He shucks the bottoms and drops those in the hamper, too, unaware that my mouth has gone dry.

I know I had a point, but the flare of his powerful thighs, the tight curve of his ass from a tapered waist—it scrambles my thoughts. When he turns to the side to start the shower, his dick juts from the flat, ridged topography of chest and abs. I lick my lips, lips that have more than once been doused with the spicy-sweet taste of him in my mouth.

Why is he so damn fine? It’s not fair.

“It’s not fair,” I mumble faintly. That jars me, reminds me I wasn’t done with this argument. “Parker manipulated me, Grip. It wasn’t fair to keep me out of it, and I want to make sure you don’t do this again.”

“Fuck fair.” Grip steps into the shower. “I don’t care if it’s fair—I care if you’re safe. We can fight about this every day if you want. You aren’t leaving me over it, and I’m not leaving you, so what the fuck ever. Agree to disagree. I’m done talking about it, Bris.”

With that, he turns his back to me, reaching for the shower gel.

He’s right. I’m not leaving him over it, but I don’t want to resent him. I want to trust him. I want him to trust me. That’s what we have, and I won’t let him ruin it with his irrational overprotectiveness.

I stand at the shower threshold and prop my shoulder against the wall. His head snaps around, the dark eyes narrowed and connecting with mine. He’s braced for a fight I’m not giving him.

“Thank you,” I say, wanting to ease things between us, even though it probably won’t be our last clash over this issue.

Grip’s wide palms slow in soaping his biceps. The tight line of his mouth loosens some and he sighs.

“Don’t thank me.” He braces one hand in front of him against the tile, eyes dropped to the water rushing down the drain. “It’s my responsibility to take care of you.”

He slants a look at me through the steam, a groove between his thick brows.

“That’s all I want, Bris.” He pierces me with the intensity of his eyes. “I want you safe. I didn’t get the chance to personally protect you before. All I’m asking is that you let me do it now. I didn’t want you anywhere near that motherfucker, and now you won’t be.”

Anger, concern, and sincerity knot in his deep voice, as tangled as the emotions twisting in my belly and coiling up tightly in my chest. Even when I’m driving him crazy, there’s a fathomless affection for me in his eyes. It was there all those years when he was fucking other people and I was doing the same. It’s there now, as clear to me as the water flowing in rivulets down the shower door.

There’s something helpless about truly being in love, the kind of love they write songs about, that inspires poetry and launches ships and wreaks havoc. It leaves you slightly off balance, controlling when you mean to cherish, smothering when you mean to hold close. Maybe it takes a while to find the just right. I saw that in Rhyson when he and Kai first got together, and now I see it in Grip, too.

Hell, if I’m honest, I see it in myself.

Grip loves me desperately. I recognize that in him because it mirrors my own heart. I love him desperately enough to debase myself with Parker in broad daylight if that was what it had taken. How can I be angry at Grip for reciprocating that love? For feeling as helpless and off kilter as I do sometimes?

“Okay, Grip.” I draw a deep breath that’s scented and steamy from the shower. “I’ll give you this one, but you need to give me something, too.”

He ducks his head under the water streaming over him, licking along that body the way I want to.

“This isn’t a negotiation. I will protect you every time as I see fit,” he says. “But what do you think you want?”

“Amir moves to New York with us.”

“Hell no.” He glowers at me. “I don’t need him.”

“And I didn’t need you running interference with Parker, but I understand why you did that. For your own peace of mind. I need Amir in New York with you for mine.”

He’s quiet, staring at the tiles under his feet for a few seconds.

“Grip, I know you think you’re all straight outta Compton . . .” I pause for his chuckle, which I know is coming. “But you’re famous now—like really famous, and you cannot assume everyone has good intentions.”

“I know that, but I can take care of myself.” He looks at me, the conflict of wanting to please me and needing to maintain his pride clear on his face. “I always have.”

“Well you haven’t always been this version of yourself,” I counter. “And you’ll be in situations with factors you can’t control all the time. You need another set of eyes, someone you can trust.”

He considers me, the stubbornness in his eyes yielding a little.

“Rhyson’s had stalkers,” I remind him. “And he always resisted having a lot of security, but that taught him how vulnerable he is because of what he’s chosen to do. Now that he has Kai and Aria, security is tight and everywhere all the time.”

Grip just nods.

“Doing this for a living, it makes the stakes high,” I say. “But when you love someone, it raises them even more. You have more to lose, and I don’t want to lose you, Grip.”

Just the thought of something happening to him is like a hot poker through my heart. I know he can see the fear in my eyes. I don’t even try to hide it, and I am not above exploiting his love for me to get what I want it if means keeping him safe.

“Besides,” I say, struck with sudden inspiration I can’t believe I didn’t use earlier. “If Amir is there protecting you, he’s there to protect me, too, right?”

Grip’s eyes narrow and his hands go still as he considers this.

Bingo.

“Okay, he can come,” he finally says, but sets his face in stone. “But no way is he living in the same apartment. I don’t care how many floors it’s got.”

“I thought you might say that, which is why I already called about another apartment up for lease in the building.”

“You already . . .” He shakes his head, exasperation and grudging admiration in his eyes. “Okay, Bris.”

I turn to go before I feel less magnanimous, glad I’ve found at least enough peace with the situation not to ruin what was already going to be a difficult day.

“We’re good?” he asks, soaping the heavier muscles of his shoulders and his ink-splattered arms. Water skids over his chest and between the stacks of muscled abs. A trail of suds migrates south, catching in the hair nesting around his cock.

I lick suddenly dry lips and subtly squeeze my thighs together to suppress the involuntary pussy clench the sight of him incites. While I was negotiating, I could block out the absolute perfection of him, but now I can’t look away from the wide head that still feels like it’s splitting me open every time even after months together. I don’t know if my body will ever fully adjust—I hope not, because the almost-too-much-ness reflects my emotions, like this love is almost too much, straining the seams of my heart until I think I may burst from what I feel.

“Yeah . . .” I clear the huskiness—and hussy-ness—from my voice and try again. “Yeah, we’re good.”

A strong hand vices my wrist and tugs me forward until I’m just beyond the shower threshold, close enough for steam to slip under my dress, but not close enough to get wet—except I am wet. I may not be in the shower, but my panties are soaked. Then it only gets worse when, with his other hand, he strokes himself languorously, lazy flicks of his wrist that lengthen him into a thickly veined, rigid column.

“Bristol.”

My name on his lips pulls my attention from the steady pull between his thighs to the dark stare trained on me, his eyes narrowed with water droplets clinging to the thick lashes tangled at the corners.

“Tell me what you want.”

Those are my words, the ones I used to probe about New York. I knew what he wanted then, and he knows what I want now. I grit my teeth against all my wanton urges, but the words spill out.

“You.” My breath comes short and quick. “I want you.”

In a quick motion, he jerks me into the shower, fully clothed. My dress plasters my skin, and water seeps into my shoes. It will infuriate me later that he has ruined a perfectly good pair of Jimmy Choos.