Transcend

“Bonus.” Griffin gets me. That’s huge. That’s everything.

“I made another appointment.”

“So a good day?” He gathers my hair and moves it away from my neck before ducking down to kiss me. “Didn’t you have an interview too?”

Yep. Totally falling for this man. Griffin may be a grease monkey some days, but he’s smart and attentive when he wants to be, and he remembers stuff that most twenty-three-year-old guys would not remember. Hell, most guys of any age wouldn’t remember the little things that Griffin does.

“Yes.” I stretch my neck to the side to give him better access. “Funny thing … I met this guy in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. I totally recognized him, but he didn’t recognize me. Then I get to the interview, and it’s the same guy. What are the chances?”

His hands rest on my legs, sliding upward until his thumbs brush over the spot I want them most. “One in a million,” he mumbles into my neck. “So how do you know him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He unfastens my pants. The guy is a multi-tasking god. His dick hasn’t lost focus; I can feel it bulged against his jeans. He devours the skin along my neck, but he’s still one hundred percent engaged in this conversation.

We’ve had full conversations during sex. I suck at it; my mind goes blank like too much blood is needed in my girl parts, leaving an inadequate amount in my brain to function properly. But Griffin can fuck me into next week, coming hard—almost violently—without missing a single detail or comment, even if his words are strained, breathy, and grunted out with each thrust.

“I know him and things about …”

His hand slips down the front of my panties. “Keep going.” His finger brushes my clit.

“Um … Griff.” My eyes blink heavily.

“Things about?” He sucks my earlobe, teasing it with his tongue the way his finger teases my clit.

“His past. But I don’t know how because it doesn’t coincide with my past, or at least I can’t make the connection. It’s so … Jesus …”

Griffin slips his middle finger inside of me. “Biblical?” He chuckles.

And the shift has happened. There’s no longer enough blood left in my brain. “Just fuck me, Griff.” I grab his face and pull it away from my neck, smashing my lips to his.

*

“You have to leave.” I block the doorway to my bedroom when naked, insatiable Griffin follows me down the short hall connecting my bedroom and bathroom.

His gaze slides along my naked body, and that’s why he has to leave. “You’ve stopped by the shop, and I’ve kept working. Why can’t you work when I’m here?”

“Because it’s late and my bed is inviting enough without you in it. With you in it … I don’t stand a chance. I need to finish the website so I can pay rent and stop whoring myself out for groceries.”

He drapes his shirt over my head. “Then stop looking at me like you want more.”

I giggle, seeing only his bare feet step into his boxers and jeans. Griffin snags the shirt from my head, a killer grin on his freshly-shaven face. He slips it on as I turn and grab a nightshirt from my dresser. This room could not be any more cramped. I have a full bed, desk, and dresser crammed in here with barely enough space to turn around.

“Congratulations on the job, baby.” He hugs me from behind and nuzzles into my neck.

I close my eyes and ghost my fingers over his arms. “I don’t have the job yet.”

“You’ll get it. Anybody would be a fool not to hire you.”

“You might be biased.” I laugh.

“Slumber party at my place this weekend.”

I turn in his arms. “Slumber party?” This guy puts the best smile on my face. My cheeks hurt when we’re together.

“Ask your mom. Maybe you can ride home with me on the bus after school on Friday.” He winks.

“You have too many sisters.” He does. Three. And they’re all younger and still in school.

He lifts me off my feet and kisses me, one hand sliding to grip my ass. Website? What website?

“Goodnight,” he whispers over my mouth before easing me back onto my feet.

I rub my lips together as I follow him to the door, admiring his backside when he shoves his feet into his black leather boots by the door. “Will there be pillow fights?”

Griffin chuckles while still bent over tying his laces. “Yes.” He stands and turns toward me. “Wear something pink and lacy and put your hair in pigtails.” Biting his lower lip, he nods slowly. “Dear God yes … pink lace and pigtails, baby.”

I laugh and head back toward my room. “Goodnight, Grocery Store Guy.” As soon as I hear the roar of his Harley out front, I sit at my desk and start designing. Two seconds later, I’m on the internet searching up Nathaniel Hunt. “Why are you in my head,” I whisper.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Where are you off to so early?”

Halfway down the stairs I pause, glancing up at my neighbor bent over the railing. A loose ponytail corrals her black curls as she scrutinizes me. Her lips hug the red handle of a toothbrush.

“Erica, are you spying on me?”

“Nope,” she mumbles around foam. “Just keeping an eye on things.” Her gaze flits between me and the door across the hall from her apartment.

“Dougly at it again?”

Erica holds up a finger before dashing back into her apartment. Doug Mann, her new sixty-something playboy neighbor with orangish hair plugs—that elicit a cringe every time I see him—possesses a hidden sex appeal that we can’t figure out. And his nose … let’s just say it should have its own zip code. Since he moved in a month ago, he’s had a steady trail of women pass through his revolving door. Young women. Pretty women. Hookers? We’re not sure. It seems like the only plausible explanation for the old and ugly (Dougly) man (Mann) entertaining that many women.

“Two. There were two of them willingly following him into his place when I got home last night around eleven.” Erica hoists her backpack on her shoulder as she scuttles down the stairs toward me.

“Ew …” I wrinkle my nose and swallow the bile crawling up my throat. “Maybe he’s rich.”

“I don’t think rich people live in this building.”

Our footsteps echo in sync as we approach the main floor. “You’re a cardiologist and you live here.”

“Second year resident. Dirt poor. Buried in school loans. I’m not rich. Nor do I have a ridiculously hot boyfriend who rides a Harley.”

Musings of Griffin and his overabundance of hotness elicit something between a chuckle and a dreamy sigh.

“In fact…” her blue Saab parked behind my car beeps when she unlocks it “…I’m quite certain I’m the only one in the building not getting any.”

“But you’re saving lives.” I hop off the curb, riding my Griffin high.

She tosses her backpack in her car and leans on the top of the open door. “When your inked god is in your bed, do you wish you were saving lives instead of …” Her eyebrows waggle.

I open my door. “Are you asking me if I’d rather have sex with Griffin or save the world?”

“Yes.”

“No brainer. Griff all the way.”

Erica shoots me the bird and slips into her car. “You never said what has you out and about so early.” Her head pokes back out before she shuts the door.

“I got a callback for a nanny job. So I’m off to meet the baby today.”

“Oh, good luck!”

*

My teeth chatter, fed by a bad case of nerves. Nate’s sister-in-law, Rachael, called me Friday to set up a time to meet Morgan. Her father, this familiar stranger, resides in my head, entangled in my thoughts and dreams. Hours of online research led me to repeated dead ends. He’s listed under the university website. I found his wife’s obituary. The county assessor’s website gave me the value of his home—with a dizzying seven-digit value.

My gut tells me to proceed with caution. Especially when I know I’m of sound mind. Nate has to be the crazy one. After all, he, too, is a patient of Dr. Greyson’s. The poor guy’s wife died. Maybe he’s had a breakdown. Memory loss or something like that.

My knuckles rap three times on the rich wooden door, hard enough to be heard but hopefully soft enough to not wake a sleeping baby.

“Swayze?”

My gaze lands on the swaddled baby hidden in the white blanket dotted with pink bunnies. A tiny patch of dark hair peeks out from the top. The woman holding the baby looks like a statue. Why do people get so stiff the moment they pick up a baby? Her earthy-toned eyes blink. Okay, she’s alive. A constipated smile creeps up her face, marring her natural beauty accented by strands of chestnut silk sweeping along her chin in a reverse bob.

“Yes,” I say with muted enthusiasm. If I scare her, she could crack and send the baby tumbling to the floor.

“Come in.” She grimaces at the baby without moving the ridged cradle of her arms.

If the baby wakes, the world will end. That much I can deduce from this situation.