Chapter Eighteen

Porch Swing

Mandee

I spent the day at the bar, but not behind it. I stood in the kitchen and helped Pearl and Janice prep for the week. The number of dishes they created from the wedding leftovers blew my mind. I made sure to make one of each for the Falcons, since it was their money that paid for the food, as well as the addition to our bar. One hundred and fifty people can be seated in that new room.

Dad put his big, old foot down to the addition of bathrooms. I wanted to find a way to make sure we could actually make that happen someday, as well as a possible coat check room.

Janice thought the menu needed diversity. Monday through Friday specials have pretty much been the same since I can remember, and weekends were strictly bar menu foods until ten o’clock. Honestly, we never had much call for food on the weekend nights. Phoenix and I could cover that easily.

Mondays, we are closed. Tuesday, fish tacos; Wednesday, build-a-burger or meatloaf; Thursday, pulled pork or chicken; and Fridays, Pearl’s homemade potpies, using the leftovers from the week.

Janice thought we needed a lighter menu. They bickered and decided they would give it a trial period, with Janice using all leftovers for those great dishes.

Night and day, but already they seem as close as close could be. I wonder how long Janice will be with us. She handled Pearl and my father well. I know why she and Mom were friends. I already dread the thought of her possibly leaving when Dad returns.

I let them “talk me” into leaving at seven, telling me I should take the food up to Falcon’s Landing. I told them I would tomorrow, thinking seven was too late.

The first hour I was home, I cleaned. When I finished, I was covered in sweat, so naturally, I needed another shower. And I took care of some detail with a couple swipes of a razor, leaving just the “landing strip.”

Now standing in the hallway mirror, I examine myself. I have already changed five times in the past hour. A sundress was my first choice, but it was almost too desperate and quite chilly this evening, so it would seem even more desperate. Next was a romper, but that seemed like a lot of work. Then a long skirt and a light cardigan, which made me look like a librarian. Then a shorter skirt, which I decided made me appear to possibly be expecting him to take me out. Now I am in leggings, a tank top, and the lightweight librarian cardigan, and have decided to stick to that look. Casual, cute, and not looking to be taken out.

I made sweet tea and brought home a bottle of sweet red wine that would pair with the cake that I also brought home. The tea, less romantic. The wine, more so. And if he liked neither, there was milk and water.

“Exhausting,” I say, bending down and scratching between Tritt’s ears. “Absolutely exhausting.”

He does a figure eight through my ankles as I let my hand trail down his back then up his tail. Satisfied, he trots off, purring loudly as he goes.

I look at my watch and see it’s nine o’clock. I grab a glass of wine, and not because I want to appear the sexy, sophisticated wine type, but because I am hoping it will relax me a bit while I sit on the porch, with a magazine, waiting for him, Grayson Falcon.

By nine thirty, I have a buzz going and am forcing myself to not message him, although the more I drink, the more hesitant I am to delete what I almost sent.

Then I hear the recognizable sound of an engine from a distance and my stomach knots. When I see him cresting the hill, the sun setting behind him, I swear the orange clouds are shaped like wings.

“Oh, man,” I whisper.

As he pulls into the driveway then sets his feet down, I point to the garage that’s open and waiting for him. He nods as I get off the porch swing, pushing my feet into my flip flops, and head down the stairs.

I walk down the driveway toward him as he kills the engine then pulls off his helmet and runs his hands through his hair, which appears damp.

When he steps off the bike and sets the helmet down, I am reminded of how freaking tall, big, and manly he is. That knot tightens.

He turns around and looks to the left then the right and walks in that direction. He reaches up and hits the button to close the door then ducks as he comes out under it. He then walks toward me as he lifts his glasses, pushing them through his hair until they rest on top of his head.

Stunning. Absolutely stunning.

“I’m a little late,” are the first words he says.

“I didn’t notice.” I shrug and look down.

When we are toe-to-toe, he lifts my chin with one of his fingers. “No?”

Looking at him, I shrug again.

“Sorry I am late,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You hungry?” comes out of my mouth.

His lips quirk up in the corner. “You bring cake?”

I smile.” Yeah.”

“Then I’m starving.” His voice has that growl to it, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand in appreciation of the promise of that sound.

I turn around and start toward the back door, and he immediately grips my hips, sinking his fingers into the part of my body I never liked. I walk slower now as he runs his thumbs under the cardigan, then my shirt, and land on my lower back.

I hear a hum of appreciation—I hope it is—as we walk up the stairs, bodies close, his thumbs circling a place I am sure has never been paid attention to before this moment. Now...now every place he touches seems to crave more of his attention.

Once I step inside the house, I feel his nose brush against my hair, pushing it aside as he inhales. His lips touch my neck next, sending shivers down my spine. I lean back against him, and he shifts slightly. Then I hear the door slam shut.

The hand still on my back circles around me and pushes under my shirt as he groans against my neck and squeezes my breast. I lift my arm up and behind me, my fingers itching for the feel of his soft, silky hair.

He squeezes my breast, and I mimic his move by fisting his hair. He groans and pushes me forward until I am against the granite island. He bends forward, my body following his silent instruction until I am leaning against the counter. Then he pulls his hand away and I feel him hook his thumbs in the waistband of my leggings before he pulls them down.

Without the weight of his body against mine, I am able to look back over my shoulder, just in time to see him pull his charcoal gray, long-sleeved tee-shirt over his head one-handed, toss it aside, and then sink to his knees. I feel him grip my ass hard with both hands, and then he spreads my cheeks.

“Fucking sexy ass. So fucking sexy.”

He nips at one cheek, then the next, as he glances up. He pulls one of my feet free from my pants. Then he grips just behind my knee and lifts it, spreading me wider.

He looks down between my legs and, for a moment, I feel embarrassed that this beautiful man is looking at me in such a vulnerable position. Then he licks his lips, looks up at me, closes his eyes, and blows out a breath before mumbling, “Fucking killing me.” His eyes narrow, his nose flares, and then his mouth is on me.

My knees buckles, and I grip the edge of the counter as his grip on my ass tightens, as his tongue enters me.

He moans, sending a vibration through me and causing me to cry out his name. “Grayson.”

He pushes his face against me, pulling my hips closer as he rubs his tongue up and down, in and out, groaning, sucking, licking.

I feel as if every nerve in my body is in that one part of my body, the one he is now avoiding as he sweeps his tongue around it.

I’m on fire. Completely and totally on fire.

“Please,” I beg, arching my back.

He pulls away.

I quickly look back, confused as to why he stopped, what I did wrong.

He stands as he rubs up my inner thigh then pushes his finger into me as he leans over and takes my earlobe between his teeth. “Where’s the cake?”

I start to answer when he pushes another finger inside me while watching my eyes intently and biting his lower lip. I try my best to answer.

“It’s in...oh, oh, oh,” I moan as he moves his fingers in and out of me faster.

“In where?” he asks, staring at my mouth, still thrusting his fingers in and out of my soaked center.

“Grayson,” I pant.

“Fucking love this sweet, little pussy of yours, especially when it’s this fucking wet,” he says through clenched teeth as his lips descend upon mine. He rubs them across mine. “Tastes so good.” He licks my lips. “Never ate pussy before you. Not gonna be able to see you and not wanna taste it every damn time.”

“You can,” I say, nipping at his lips.

“Whenever I want?” he asks, pulling his lips away from mine.

“Yes,” I say as he curls his fingers inside me.

“Wherever I want?”

I whimper out, “Yes,” as I clench around him.

He pulls his hand away and licks his fingers. “Good. Now where is that cake?”

When he steps back, I rest my face against the cool countertop and try to catch my breath. “Fridge,” I answer on a sigh. “In the fridge.”

He shakes his head and bites his bottom lip as he looks down at my bare ass. “Phenomenal ass, Mandee Carlin. Fucking phenomenal.”

I push myself up then tug my sweater down as I turn around and try not to trip over my leggings that are still on one leg. I shuffle toward the fridge, watching him out of the corner of my eyes as he smirks.

The awkward silence forces me to awkwardly break it.

“Did you have a good day?”

“Did you have a good day?”

I look back to see his eyes are narrowed slightly.

I shrug. “I suppose I did. I went to work this morning and—”

“No shit,” he interrupts.

I look back and see my cat has jumped up on the counter, and very unlike himself, he rubs against Grayson’s hand.

“Tritt,” I scold, “get down.”

“Tritt?” Grayson laughs as he starts to pick him up.

“He’ll bite,” I warn as I pull the plated slice of cake from the refrigerator.

He doesn’t listen, and shockingly, Tritt doesn’t bite him.

Grayson holds him up and looks at his belly. “No fucking shit.”

“Is something wrong with him?” I ask as I bump the door closed with my hip then carry the cake to the counter.

“Looks just like the kitten who used to end up in the treehouse.” He holds him up under his front arms and looks closer.

“Be careful. He’s not really friendly.”

“Same marking on his belly, too.” He sets him down on the stool next to him, and Tritt rolls to his side, seeking a belly rub. “Where’d you get him?”

“Saved him from drowning in the lake, the he followed me to my car one day,” I say, looking down at Tritt and rubbing his belly.

“One day?” Grayson asks as I look up at him.

“The day my mom passed,” I say with a shrug.

“The day you...” He pauses and looks down.

“The day I heard you singing the song. The day...” I pause, too, suddenly feeling like this conversation is too...intimate.

Grayson looks up. “Tritt?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Tritt.”

After a few more moments of silence, he shakes his head. “I need a drink.”

“Tea? Wine? Water? Milk?” I ask as I start to turn around.

He grips my hip. “Beer?”

I look back and nod. “I think Dad has some in here.”

“That would be great. Even better would be a bottle of something to take the edge off.”

“The edge?” I ask.

He nods.

“Okay.”

“Music?” he asks.

I nod as I walk to the cupboard and turn on the under-the-counter radio Dad and Mom used to listen to. “Porch Swing Angel” starts to play.

I open the cupboard above it and grab a bottle of Jack Daniels then turn around. “Will this work?”

He glances up as he rubs Tritt’s belly. “Yeah, sure will.”